Thursday, August 14, 2008
Harvard blues
In exactly ten days' time I will be embarking on a life-altering journey, one that will take me thousands of miles away in pursuit of higher education. I will be going to the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University for a two-year Master degree in public policy, and that too on a full scholarship.
Since this appears quite fancy on paper (or on screen, to be correct), one would expect me to be extremely excited. And yet, I am not looking forward to going at all. I am, instead, feeling scared, nervous, edgy and dreading the last ten days which I count down in my head. Things are so bad, I regret waking up every morning because it brings me all that more close to my departure date.
So why am I feeling this way, when I should be looking forward to, what a friend says, is the land of free pussy. Well, I have short-listed the following reasons:
Unclear future and career shift
I don't know what I will do with this degree when return home. I have so little information about its future prospects that whenever someone asks me what I'll do when I come back after two years, I shrug and reply "Well, I don't know. Let's see. Any ideas?" I also can't seem to recall exactly why I applied for it. You see, I just filled out my scholarship application because everyone in my university was doing it, and for pretty much the same degree. So, I thought, why not. And I got the scholarship. And then I got into Harvard. Well, heh, didn't really expect that, you know. Since then I've been trying to convince myself this is the coolest thing that could happen, but it's not working that well.
It also doesn't help that it's a big career shift for me. I was always under the impression I will end up selling soaps at a multinational alongside some pretty chicks, or analyzing stocks like most of my other fellow university graduates are doing. They get great money and seem to have a lot of fun. And here I am, going to study public policy when I don't even know what it means!
This uncertainty is one of the major reasons for my nervousness. They say you should only go for a masters degree when you are fully ready, and if you know exactly how it will benefit you professionally. I am totally blank in that respect. I envy those who are sure and confident. You lucky bastards.
New housing
For my first week at Harvard, I will be without housing and will be staying with random people, sleeping on their couches or on the floor with my trusty sleeping bag. This is a bad, bad way to start a new life: being unsettled and not getting into a routine from the very start. This is not helping me mentally and causing much anxiety.
Soon, though, I will move into my own apartment. Now this particular lodging comes completely unfurnished. Which means the only place to sit in the damn thing is the toilet seat! So, all furniture has to be purchased/borrowed/stolen for my use. There are two problems with this:
One, I don't know jack about filling a house up with things of use, especially furniture. I think I should make a list or something. Hell, I probably need to search for decorative paintings as well to make the house look more livable and welcome.
Two, my apartment is on the 3rd floor with no elevator. I wonder how I will move everything from cupboards to mattresses to couches up three floors. I could barely carry my suitcase the same height in myKarachi
Away from home
I grew up in a completely sheltered and protected life, and am a complete failure when it comes to being independent and managing on my own. This will be the first time I will living on my own, alone. I spent a year living inKarachi
This is also the first time I will be going out ofPakistan Asia , and have thus rarely experienced how life in Western countries is like or what I am supposed to do.
Being away from family (a set of parents that do everything for me), friends (people who I have much in common with) and a someone who I will be unable to see for ages is not something I am looking forward to. Add to this my general incompetence in social situations, and inability to make new friends, and I predict a very quick attack of anxiety, homesickness and finally depression.
Scared of small things
A friend once said, "Sohaib is a genius at the most complicated of things, but completely inept at the most basic ones." Now I will not be pompous enough to assume he's correct about the genius bit, but concede that he's spot on about the latter part. I can barely accomplish basic tasks without either screwing up a few times, or repeatedly asking for assistance from sheepish onlookers.
This has done my anxiety no favors, and has completely mind-fucked me. To get a drift of things, just look at the questions and concerns circling in my head before departure:
How do I change planes after stopovers? How do I go from one terminal to the other? What if I fall asleep at the stopover? How do I check-in at counters?
How do I buy things online with credit cards? How do I use a credit card number? How the fuck do I even get a credit card? How do I settle credit card bills?
How do I ride a subway? Is it claustrophobic or suffocating underground? How do I pay for subways if they don't accept cash?
How do I download things inAmerica
So yea, you get the drift.
Scared of winter
I have never seen a live snowfall. I have only twice seen snow lying on the ground, which was in Murree both times and a few days old and thus slushy and icky both times. I do not know what waterproof boots are supposed to do or what they look like. Problem is, I'm going toBoston
What will I do? And to top that, unlike all Lahoris, I hate winters. Leaves me fucking shivering all the time. I am a summer man through and through. Sweat makes one feel like a man. Hehe.
In conclusion
So these are just some of the reasons I could figure out as being the cause of my anxiety and nervousness. Some of you might (rightfully) point out that I am acting like an ungrateful brat who's got a lucky break and an ideal scenario and is intent upon whining his ass off to get even more attention than he has already received and deserves. Well, that's definitely true to some extent. :)
But my concerns are genuine and real, peepz. So any help or assistance will be greatly appreciated. And no sissy pep-talk lines like "Oh don't worry, once you settle in it'll all be fine." Fuck you, it won't.
Since this appears quite fancy on paper (or on screen, to be correct), one would expect me to be extremely excited. And yet, I am not looking forward to going at all. I am, instead, feeling scared, nervous, edgy and dreading the last ten days which I count down in my head. Things are so bad, I regret waking up every morning because it brings me all that more close to my departure date.
So why am I feeling this way, when I should be looking forward to, what a friend says, is the land of free pussy. Well, I have short-listed the following reasons:
Unclear future and career shift
I don't know what I will do with this degree when return home. I have so little information about its future prospects that whenever someone asks me what I'll do when I come back after two years, I shrug and reply "Well, I don't know. Let's see. Any ideas?" I also can't seem to recall exactly why I applied for it. You see, I just filled out my scholarship application because everyone in my university was doing it, and for pretty much the same degree. So, I thought, why not. And I got the scholarship. And then I got into Harvard. Well, heh, didn't really expect that, you know. Since then I've been trying to convince myself this is the coolest thing that could happen, but it's not working that well.
It also doesn't help that it's a big career shift for me. I was always under the impression I will end up selling soaps at a multinational alongside some pretty chicks, or analyzing stocks like most of my other fellow university graduates are doing. They get great money and seem to have a lot of fun. And here I am, going to study public policy when I don't even know what it means!
This uncertainty is one of the major reasons for my nervousness. They say you should only go for a masters degree when you are fully ready, and if you know exactly how it will benefit you professionally. I am totally blank in that respect. I envy those who are sure and confident. You lucky bastards.
New housing
For my first week at Harvard, I will be without housing and will be staying with random people, sleeping on their couches or on the floor with my trusty sleeping bag. This is a bad, bad way to start a new life: being unsettled and not getting into a routine from the very start. This is not helping me mentally and causing much anxiety.
Soon, though, I will move into my own apartment. Now this particular lodging comes completely unfurnished. Which means the only place to sit in the damn thing is the toilet seat! So, all furniture has to be purchased/borrowed/stolen for my use. There are two problems with this:
One, I don't know jack about filling a house up with things of use, especially furniture. I think I should make a list or something. Hell, I probably need to search for decorative paintings as well to make the house look more livable and welcome.
Two, my apartment is on the 3rd floor with no elevator. I wonder how I will move everything from cupboards to mattresses to couches up three floors. I could barely carry my suitcase the same height in my
Away from home
I grew up in a completely sheltered and protected life, and am a complete failure when it comes to being independent and managing on my own. This will be the first time I will living on my own, alone. I spent a year living in
This is also the first time I will be going out of
Being away from family (a set of parents that do everything for me), friends (people who I have much in common with) and a someone who I will be unable to see for ages is not something I am looking forward to. Add to this my general incompetence in social situations, and inability to make new friends, and I predict a very quick attack of anxiety, homesickness and finally depression.
Scared of small things
A friend once said, "Sohaib is a genius at the most complicated of things, but completely inept at the most basic ones." Now I will not be pompous enough to assume he's correct about the genius bit, but concede that he's spot on about the latter part. I can barely accomplish basic tasks without either screwing up a few times, or repeatedly asking for assistance from sheepish onlookers.
This has done my anxiety no favors, and has completely mind-fucked me. To get a drift of things, just look at the questions and concerns circling in my head before departure:
How do I change planes after stopovers? How do I go from one terminal to the other? What if I fall asleep at the stopover? How do I check-in at counters?
How do I buy things online with credit cards? How do I use a credit card number? How the fuck do I even get a credit card? How do I settle credit card bills?
How do I ride a subway? Is it claustrophobic or suffocating underground? How do I pay for subways if they don't accept cash?
How do I download things in
So yea, you get the drift.
Scared of winter
I have never seen a live snowfall. I have only twice seen snow lying on the ground, which was in Murree both times and a few days old and thus slushy and icky both times. I do not know what waterproof boots are supposed to do or what they look like. Problem is, I'm going to
What will I do? And to top that, unlike all Lahoris, I hate winters. Leaves me fucking shivering all the time. I am a summer man through and through. Sweat makes one feel like a man. Hehe.
In conclusion
So these are just some of the reasons I could figure out as being the cause of my anxiety and nervousness. Some of you might (rightfully) point out that I am acting like an ungrateful brat who's got a lucky break and an ideal scenario and is intent upon whining his ass off to get even more attention than he has already received and deserves. Well, that's definitely true to some extent. :)
But my concerns are genuine and real, peepz. So any help or assistance will be greatly appreciated. And no sissy pep-talk lines like "Oh don't worry, once you settle in it'll all be fine." Fuck you, it won't.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Public Buses
For those of you who don't know, my job entails changing the world. One person at a time. Sadly that job's coming to an end. Which means, essentially, that I will stop changing the world at exactly midnight July 1, 2008. Instead, I will start preparing to expend another nation's taxpayers' money that I will be receiving by virtue of pure, dumb luck to visit a leading university to pursue a graduate degree that is quite useless so that I return to my country for many years to do a job that will benefit or cause the the well-being of no one, myself included. (Wow, that was a long sentence. Most people struggle with constructing long sentences. I don't. All because of some good, solid preparation back in the day for an SAT II Writing exam, one that wasn't even mine! Oh, that's dark on so many levels.)
For those of you who don't know, my world-changing job pays peanuts. That's okay - most world-changers were used to noble and glorious poverty. Abraham Lincoln grew up in a log cabin. Superman lived on a barn. Etcetera etcetera. Add to my peanuts-paying job the fact that I recently lost some money in poker (that's a sign of the beginning of my ultimate renunciation of faith and slide into the sexy world of sin.), this meant that some serious cost-saving measures needed to be implemented.
And that is exactly what I have been doing. Cost-saving. Which brings me to the real point behind this rant. Public buses. Too broke to travel on rickshaws (this is the first time economic conditions of the country hit a sheltered and protected soul like me - richskaw prices have increased by at least 50% due to stupid oil and gas things going on, which I don't even understand!), I thought I'd try out some public buses.
Now Karachi is very different from Lahore. It is not blessed with a nice and efficient bus service run by a private Korean firm that provides the luxury of airconditioning to people used to standing up in buses. No sirree, Karachi has those good, old-fashioned colorful, ramshackle buses that pseudo-intellectuals like gawk at and guffaw at the pop "art" inherently contained in them. Foreigners do the same, the gawking and guffawing I mean. At the trucks and buses.
Unfortunately, my experience on these works of art has been rather unpleasant. Once you get over being impressed by the sheer volume of color plastered over every square inch of the wretched machine, you realize that they're not all that:
Firstly, they're fucking suffocating. Now you would expect a vehicle with open windows and no AC to be a natural conduit for Karachi's cool sea breeze, but no. The smell of sweat, rust and god-knows-what, coupled with the cramped space within the bus, ensures that there is no regular breeze ruffling your hair (not that my hair are the kind that ruffle, but well).
Secondly, the buses never stop for you. They merely slow down. Which means you need to run and jump to get on and run and jump to get off. Normally that would be quite a fun exercise, but you're forgetting it's me. Me - the chicken-hearted scaredy-cat who doesn't even go to amusement parks because he's afraid of the rides. And heights. And fast cars. And lizards. And cockroaches. And eagles. And dogs. Etcetera etcetera. So getting on the bus, and getting off, is an activity of heart-stopping proportions for me. I also do not, as my gut and general demeanor should imply, posses any acrobatic or athletic skills to assist me in my bus-hopping, or at least make me look graceful while doing that. Instead, I'm a stumbling wreck jumping up and down with my big blue bag on my back.
(Oh, hehe, notice the four B's in the last six words of the last sentence. That's LOLZZZ for you!)
Thirdly, they are extremely uncomfortable. The buses look like they are thirty years old, which is probably because they are. The entire structure seems so ramshackle that it threatens to collapse on every large bump. Which means there is a lot of discomfort that your butt is subjected to during random braking, swerving, successfully avoiding potholes, unsuccessfully avoiding potholes, etcetera etcetera. In general, they are only marginally better comfort-wise than that wretched creation called a rickshaw (another one of those fancy little colorful contraptions that foreigners love to gawk and guffaw at but in reality is a monster of a creature that consumes any sort of comfort or good feeling you might want to have).
Thus, I hate public buses. You should to. The colorful paint and drawings are a facade that hide evil beneath. Kind of like the Nawaz Sharif-Asif Zardari coalition. Anyway, have a good day.
For those of you who don't know, my world-changing job pays peanuts. That's okay - most world-changers were used to noble and glorious poverty. Abraham Lincoln grew up in a log cabin. Superman lived on a barn. Etcetera etcetera. Add to my peanuts-paying job the fact that I recently lost some money in poker (that's a sign of the beginning of my ultimate renunciation of faith and slide into the sexy world of sin.), this meant that some serious cost-saving measures needed to be implemented.
And that is exactly what I have been doing. Cost-saving. Which brings me to the real point behind this rant. Public buses. Too broke to travel on rickshaws (this is the first time economic conditions of the country hit a sheltered and protected soul like me - richskaw prices have increased by at least 50% due to stupid oil and gas things going on, which I don't even understand!), I thought I'd try out some public buses.
Now Karachi is very different from Lahore. It is not blessed with a nice and efficient bus service run by a private Korean firm that provides the luxury of airconditioning to people used to standing up in buses. No sirree, Karachi has those good, old-fashioned colorful, ramshackle buses that pseudo-intellectuals like gawk at and guffaw at the pop "art" inherently contained in them. Foreigners do the same, the gawking and guffawing I mean. At the trucks and buses.Unfortunately, my experience on these works of art has been rather unpleasant. Once you get over being impressed by the sheer volume of color plastered over every square inch of the wretched machine, you realize that they're not all that:
Firstly, they're fucking suffocating. Now you would expect a vehicle with open windows and no AC to be a natural conduit for Karachi's cool sea breeze, but no. The smell of sweat, rust and god-knows-what, coupled with the cramped space within the bus, ensures that there is no regular breeze ruffling your hair (not that my hair are the kind that ruffle, but well).
Secondly, the buses never stop for you. They merely slow down. Which means you need to run and jump to get on and run and jump to get off. Normally that would be quite a fun exercise, but you're forgetting it's me. Me - the chicken-hearted scaredy-cat who doesn't even go to amusement parks because he's afraid of the rides. And heights. And fast cars. And lizards. And cockroaches. And eagles. And dogs. Etcetera etcetera. So getting on the bus, and getting off, is an activity of heart-stopping proportions for me. I also do not, as my gut and general demeanor should imply, posses any acrobatic or athletic skills to assist me in my bus-hopping, or at least make me look graceful while doing that. Instead, I'm a stumbling wreck jumping up and down with my big blue bag on my back.
(Oh, hehe, notice the four B's in the last six words of the last sentence. That's LOLZZZ for you!)
Thirdly, they are extremely uncomfortable. The buses look like they are thirty years old, which is probably because they are. The entire structure seems so ramshackle that it threatens to collapse on every large bump. Which means there is a lot of discomfort that your butt is subjected to during random braking, swerving, successfully avoiding potholes, unsuccessfully avoiding potholes, etcetera etcetera. In general, they are only marginally better comfort-wise than that wretched creation called a rickshaw (another one of those fancy little colorful contraptions that foreigners love to gawk and guffaw at but in reality is a monster of a creature that consumes any sort of comfort or good feeling you might want to have).
Thus, I hate public buses. You should to. The colorful paint and drawings are a facade that hide evil beneath. Kind of like the Nawaz Sharif-Asif Zardari coalition. Anyway, have a good day.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Emergency and me
Right, so I haven't shared my thoughts with the world for many months now. It has not been because of any dry spell that befell my infinite wit or acerbic tongue, but simply because of a shift in priorities. See, I was too busy changing the world (ask me in private about that, if you want to) to care about writing on a random page on the world wide web about issues that matter to no one for an audience that numbers a total of seven people. But, as like some other people in my circle of associates, I have been awoken from my slumber (excuse the grandiosity) by, naturally, the single most disgusting act of injustice I have ever witnessed in my entire twenty-three years of dignified existence. Yep, that's right...the fuckin' Emergency, baby!
So there I was on the 3rd of November in a random resort far outside the city of Karachi minding my own merry business and enjoying an AIESEC conference that was going rather well when bang! comes the news that Captain Planet and the Planeteers have been sent packing from the Supreme Court and life is going to be one hell of a mess from this point onward. Now, while I can take such things in my stride, I had a wonderful troupe of foreigners with me who had come here through AIESEC and were living and working in our country. (For those of you who don't know, wherever you see something AIESEC, you will see some international people in all shapes and sizes not far behind...unless, of course, it is AIESEC Lahore, which happens to be just a bunch of testosterone-plus horny young men from LUMS! :p)
Naturally, some of my gora/kala mates begin freaking out. Calls start coming from home, and confusion reigns supreme. Add to that the fact that I'm personally not the best motivator around and generally tend to make people less at ease with my not-so-positive comments and am thus probably a nuisance to have hanging around in such times of crises, and you can pretty much imagine the stress levels shooting up.
Thankfully, the day and night pass off without incident, and our conference continues along its merry course. I, though, being the politically-inclined and extremely well-informed little bugger that I happen to be, realize that these are important times for our poor country and begin considering my options as a noble citizen. A quick call to a politically-active friend (future PM of this country he is, so he likes to claim) informs me that I am now liable to be arrested and held without charges for creating 'disturbances,' and that criticizing the Armed Forces can lead to a treason charge which obviously is one easy way to get yourself placed on a table and have your head chopped off with a sword. (At least that's how they do it in Saudi Arabia. We, thankfully, are more merciful).
"Oh fuck" was my natural reaction, in short. Personally, army-bashing has been a well-liked sport of mine for a few years (or ever since I grew up mentally, which sadly wasn't many years ago) and I was/am severely offended by the fact that my right to whine about and diss those in hideously-colored uniforms wearing a plethora of unnecessary badges and running the country into the ground and then dolloping truckloads of shit on it has been taking away by a single swipe. My objections are quite logical and easy to comprehend: if I do not indulge in this whining while sitting comfortably on my sofa or at a khokha smoking cheap Gold Leafs, then not only do I lose a valuable source of release and casual entertainment, but, more importantly, how the fuckety fuck am I exercise my right to free speech, enshrined as it is in the (ass-raped) Constitution of this country? Eh? I, sir, am not impressed at all!
Adding on to that, I am also not very pleased at this blatant assault on democratic practices. Save your PTV-rhetoric and your logic for doing so; I cannot be made a fool of this easily! I am a fucking Fulbright scholar, for God's sake yar! I am sick and tired of seeing these bozo-lotas parading around as elected representatives of my countrymen and competent administrators of this glorious nation. Give me a chance to vote, darn it, and I shall prove to you that I deserve and am fully capable of democracy.
I have, after all, inspiring leadership to choose from: on one side I have my lady friend who has milked both her father's name and this country's resources dry, while on the other I have my lion (nay, 'Sher' is more like it!) from Lahore who has made by far the most productive investment we've seen since the hydrogen bomb invention: the gleaming, shining motorway connecting his two houses. If bored by those, I will have to make the difficult choice between our most valuable export to London, the butcher Bhai from nine-zero and the "say-Allahu-akbar-and-then-blow-up-ten-children" maulana from Swat. I am spoiled for choice, if I do say so myself. Alas, just when I was flexing my muscles to exercise my democratic right as a civilized citizen and vote this crap into power, Mr President you betrayed me again. So close and yet so far. Such travesty must never befall a man else his heart breaks!
Well, at least someone's taking a stand. It's extremely, extremely heartening to see my alma mater, LUMS, taking off its sissy-Giordano-pants for a change and standing up for what's right. This is truly the beginning of something new and big, and when I run for public office many years down the road, I shall proudly lie to a gullible crowd that I was there at LUMS every day leading these protests shana-bashana with my other brave fellows, and was a harbinger of social change via the revival of political spirit amongst the youth!
I have only one request for my LUMS friends and colleagues: I am a lonely man in this lonely city by the sea, and miss LUMS poondi terribly. So can you, to comply with a feeble man's wishes, please stop blackening out women's faces in those wretched photographs you are uploading everywhere? It is honestly my only source of checking out some fresh maal and admiring what I left behind and sorely miss! Have pity, fellas!
Thanking you immensely in advance,
aap ka pyara bhai
So there I was on the 3rd of November in a random resort far outside the city of Karachi minding my own merry business and enjoying an AIESEC conference that was going rather well when bang! comes the news that Captain Planet and the Planeteers have been sent packing from the Supreme Court and life is going to be one hell of a mess from this point onward. Now, while I can take such things in my stride, I had a wonderful troupe of foreigners with me who had come here through AIESEC and were living and working in our country. (For those of you who don't know, wherever you see something AIESEC, you will see some international people in all shapes and sizes not far behind...unless, of course, it is AIESEC Lahore, which happens to be just a bunch of testosterone-plus horny young men from LUMS! :p)
Naturally, some of my gora/kala mates begin freaking out. Calls start coming from home, and confusion reigns supreme. Add to that the fact that I'm personally not the best motivator around and generally tend to make people less at ease with my not-so-positive comments and am thus probably a nuisance to have hanging around in such times of crises, and you can pretty much imagine the stress levels shooting up.
Thankfully, the day and night pass off without incident, and our conference continues along its merry course. I, though, being the politically-inclined and extremely well-informed little bugger that I happen to be, realize that these are important times for our poor country and begin considering my options as a noble citizen. A quick call to a politically-active friend (future PM of this country he is, so he likes to claim) informs me that I am now liable to be arrested and held without charges for creating 'disturbances,' and that criticizing the Armed Forces can lead to a treason charge which obviously is one easy way to get yourself placed on a table and have your head chopped off with a sword. (At least that's how they do it in Saudi Arabia. We, thankfully, are more merciful).
"Oh fuck" was my natural reaction, in short. Personally, army-bashing has been a well-liked sport of mine for a few years (or ever since I grew up mentally, which sadly wasn't many years ago) and I was/am severely offended by the fact that my right to whine about and diss those in hideously-colored uniforms wearing a plethora of unnecessary badges and running the country into the ground and then dolloping truckloads of shit on it has been taking away by a single swipe. My objections are quite logical and easy to comprehend: if I do not indulge in this whining while sitting comfortably on my sofa or at a khokha smoking cheap Gold Leafs, then not only do I lose a valuable source of release and casual entertainment, but, more importantly, how the fuckety fuck am I exercise my right to free speech, enshrined as it is in the (ass-raped) Constitution of this country? Eh? I, sir, am not impressed at all!
Adding on to that, I am also not very pleased at this blatant assault on democratic practices. Save your PTV-rhetoric and your logic for doing so; I cannot be made a fool of this easily! I am a fucking Fulbright scholar, for God's sake yar! I am sick and tired of seeing these bozo-lotas parading around as elected representatives of my countrymen and competent administrators of this glorious nation. Give me a chance to vote, darn it, and I shall prove to you that I deserve and am fully capable of democracy.
I have, after all, inspiring leadership to choose from: on one side I have my lady friend who has milked both her father's name and this country's resources dry, while on the other I have my lion (nay, 'Sher' is more like it!) from Lahore who has made by far the most productive investment we've seen since the hydrogen bomb invention: the gleaming, shining motorway connecting his two houses. If bored by those, I will have to make the difficult choice between our most valuable export to London, the butcher Bhai from nine-zero and the "say-Allahu-akbar-and-then-blow-up-ten-children" maulana from Swat. I am spoiled for choice, if I do say so myself. Alas, just when I was flexing my muscles to exercise my democratic right as a civilized citizen and vote this crap into power, Mr President you betrayed me again. So close and yet so far. Such travesty must never befall a man else his heart breaks!
Well, at least someone's taking a stand. It's extremely, extremely heartening to see my alma mater, LUMS, taking off its sissy-Giordano-pants for a change and standing up for what's right. This is truly the beginning of something new and big, and when I run for public office many years down the road, I shall proudly lie to a gullible crowd that I was there at LUMS every day leading these protests shana-bashana with my other brave fellows, and was a harbinger of social change via the revival of political spirit amongst the youth!
I have only one request for my LUMS friends and colleagues: I am a lonely man in this lonely city by the sea, and miss LUMS poondi terribly. So can you, to comply with a feeble man's wishes, please stop blackening out women's faces in those wretched photographs you are uploading everywhere? It is honestly my only source of checking out some fresh maal and admiring what I left behind and sorely miss! Have pity, fellas!
Thanking you immensely in advance,
aap ka pyara bhai
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Karachi, baby!
So I've finally moved to Karachi and started my one-year term as blah-blah for AIESEC in Pakistan. I have a super-cool apartment in Zamzama, right above Gunsmoke (if you call sharing one with eight other people whose stuff is lying in suitcases all over the floor supercool). And for those of you who thought I was doing shitty, meaningless, from-home work, fuck you all: we have an office, and at a pretty neat location too! It's in the SIEMENS building somewhere in Saddar (it's actually right next to Zainab Market, from where my gora colleague has somehow managed to purchase the same tshirt twice!).So, anyway, allow me to present an account of my time in this city so far:
The train was on time. Yep, fucking amazing. I am now in love with Karakoram Express. Karachi Express Night Coach can kiss my naala good-bye!
I made aloo bhujia on my first night. Unfortunately due to a slight miscalculation in the quantity of ingredients it turned out to be a bit more spicy and discolored than I hoped for (picture shows the horrid color), but was an overall worthy accomplishment all things said and done. My first hurdle in the way of becoming a master chef in the next one year has been crossed. Baby steps, I say.
The breeze simply doesn't stop! It's the coolest darned thing ever! Everywhere you go, you feel like there's a big pedestal fan following you! Utilizing this to my advantage, I have been sleeping on the roof of my apartment building ever since I arrived. Yep, charpai and all. You see, even though the breeze is cool and all, there is still the bloody humidity to contend with, which turns you into a cucumber in ten minutes. Add to that the fact that we sadly have not been blessed with airconditioning in our apartment (on a 10k salary, you can hardly afford such luxuries), and sleeping inside becomes difficult for a spoilt brat like me used to water coolers and Russian ACs and the like.
Water. It runs out. Often. We have 2 backup tanks, but still. My boss theorizes that the Gunsmoke people below are stealing t. What with their cowboy hats and mean playacting, they might just be crooked enough to do that. Bastards. In conclusion, most of the time there's no water. So the dishes lie unwashed, shit remains unflushed, and roomies continue to stink. I have discovered the magic of using buckets all over again. In your face, stupid running water!
The beach. So the other day an old friend invited us over for BBQ at a fancy beach hut far far away. In getting there I saw some interesting areas (read: low income neighborhoods that are a far-cry from the uptight snotty luxuries of Zamzama). The fun, though, only started when we got there. We indulged in the usual hanky panky that kids indulge in at such times, and a miserably failed attack on Emad and a small confrontation with Klepo later, I had tasted salt water and sand twice, was completely inundated, had almost been washed away by the powerful high-tide waves (random fat guy saved me - I don't know swimming :p), was covered head-to-toe in sand, and realized only later that I had forgotten to empty my pockets. The results were obviously not pretty: daddy's business cards, currency and my ATM shit in the wallet got damaged slightlycell phone got permanently screwed, and sand had reached every single angle and crevice of my pristine body (there was even sand on my testicles somehow!). Considering the above-mentioned events, I henceforth hate the beach.
Finally, I.I.Chundrigar Road was a massive disappointment. Fucked up, dirty, dug-up, messy, down-market, congested, you name it. Such high expectations, so badly let down. How can a self-respecting corporate whore work there is beyond me. Leaving that and heading to Pakistan Chowk (for some work-related stuff), I observed a view that was quite ironic: in the foreground, an expansive, congested street with overflowing sewage water; downtrodden and closely-built residential buildings; random MQM monuments, flags and markings along the whole route; rude and impatient shopkeepers; while the tall and handsome MCB Tower rising magnificently in the backdrop. Quite the contrast between the rich and gleaming and the poor and stinking. I wanted to whip out some cell-phone camera shit and take some pictures, but have been advised not to show such cool gadgetry in public :p
Plus I miss my mommy. But don't let her know :)
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Leaving LUMS
So on June 5th, 2007, I ended my association with LUMS by giving my last final exam. It was quite an interesting experience, as having spent four long (and sadly rather uninteresting) years at the place, I felt a great tinge of sadness at leaving it. This was quite surprising for a number of reasons: first, I am normally a tight-ass who considers showing emotions a weakness that only those unworthy souls display who are pansies (this is probably the reason why Bellatrix Lestrange is my favourite Harry Potter character - I wonder who'll play her in the movie. They said Elizabeth Hurley was supposed to, but that didn't work out. Cinema lost a few cool moments because of that, I can tell you!) and second, it was not as if my LUMS journey was a rollercoaster ride of memorable moments. On the contrary, most of my time was either spent in class, or bunking class to go to the nearby market for food, or, most of the time, sitting in one of the labs playing one obnoxiously addictive video game or another. And yet, everything felt extremely sad. The labs area smelt unnecessarily sweet, the scant plantation around campus appeared greener, the few chicks braving the blazing sun appeared chikni-er. Everything, thus, appeared rosier and nicer.
The last exam went really well. I had the choice of preparing for it really well, or indulging for one last time with my newly crowned favourite person in the world, who was most generously treating me to some extremely valuable liquid costing 3 fucking rupees per millilitre! Ably supported by him and two old buddies, I spent the night indulging in the most banal of conversations that normally accompany such occassions, and went to give the paper at an insanely early 8.30 am next morning with a strong headache and half-shut eyes. Thought I'd use the grand effect on my last ever activity at LUMS. Kher, the paper went fine, but when Aqeel called time (bastard was my TA), I continued to write one last line of my brilliantly crafted answer and he, in all his audacity, came and snatched the paper away from me! Saala! I could not believe my eyes as he walked off clutching my unfinished paper. Not a memory I wanted to take to the grave!
Of course, studying with the ACF group over three years was most fun. Some teachers were excellent, and taught a lot. The learning and self-discovery was good. Being involved with AIESEC was a fascinating experience, something which will continue for some time in the near future, no matter how much fun my friends make of that.
I now begin the next stage of my life, which involves me heading to Karachi for one full year to work full-time for AIESEC. It's scary, exciting and extremely challenging at the same time, and one of the things I am most looking forward to is how it will make me become truly independent and self-sufficient. Now, if only I was better at washing my own underwear and cooking aloo bhujia!
The last exam went really well. I had the choice of preparing for it really well, or indulging for one last time with my newly crowned favourite person in the world, who was most generously treating me to some extremely valuable liquid costing 3 fucking rupees per millilitre! Ably supported by him and two old buddies, I spent the night indulging in the most banal of conversations that normally accompany such occassions, and went to give the paper at an insanely early 8.30 am next morning with a strong headache and half-shut eyes. Thought I'd use the grand effect on my last ever activity at LUMS. Kher, the paper went fine, but when Aqeel called time (bastard was my TA), I continued to write one last line of my brilliantly crafted answer and he, in all his audacity, came and snatched the paper away from me! Saala! I could not believe my eyes as he walked off clutching my unfinished paper. Not a memory I wanted to take to the grave!
Of course, studying with the ACF group over three years was most fun. Some teachers were excellent, and taught a lot. The learning and self-discovery was good. Being involved with AIESEC was a fascinating experience, something which will continue for some time in the near future, no matter how much fun my friends make of that.
I now begin the next stage of my life, which involves me heading to Karachi for one full year to work full-time for AIESEC. It's scary, exciting and extremely challenging at the same time, and one of the things I am most looking forward to is how it will make me become truly independent and self-sufficient. Now, if only I was better at washing my own underwear and cooking aloo bhujia!
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
MTV Pakistan
I’ve become such a bitter, jealous old hag, reduced to staying at home on weekends watching MTV Pakistan.
Ah, yes, MTV Pakistan, another welcome addition to an array of repetitive, mind-numbingly mundane, unproductive and hollow entertainment outlets for our overly-westernized, urbanized, elitist youth living in a self-contained bubble and spoiled by a steady diet of excessive carbohydrates and Friends. Criticism aside, the arrival of MTV is a welcome addition to the Pakistani landscape by all means. It creates jobs (where else will those video jockeys take their baggy pants and blow-dried hair), it stimulates the economy (the more Josh you play on MTV, the more their CDs will sell, hence making sure that those poor souls who live off piracy continue to feed their seven children with halal ki rozi), it boosts our exports (how else will Ali Zafar, our most exportable commodity – besides, of course, footballs stitched by the delicate fingers of a twelve-year-old Sialkoti - being all chikna and dashing, be able to lip-sync at the MTV Asia Awards with his gelled hair and white top) and it promotes the emancipation of women (after all, women are free in a society where they can take live calls on television from obsessive callers and not have bhaijaan beat them up). Plus, who cares about the one-dollar poverty line and most of the nation being below it when you can get a fancy billboard on Liberty Roundabout smack in the middle of Lahore announcing your arrival and preparation to conquer the market that has produced some of the greatest and most formulaic pop singers in all of Asia!
Daily Times Sunday
An acquaintance of mine who works in the Daily Times Sunday magazine asked me to write an article for the magazine. Realizing that it'll be my first ticket to fame and glory, I obviously complied, and resultantly came up with a masterpiece. Unfortunately, they refused to publish it, saying it was not in tune with their magazine. Well, since I've put in so much effort to rake my thoughts and type that bloody thing out once, why not use it somewhere? So, find below the article in its entirety. It is as random, self-obsessed, and pretentious as anything else on this pointless blog.
I have always been intrigued by the Sunday magazine that’s printed by Daily Times. When it started, I used to go to my maamu’s place every weekend specifically to read it. Since I’m not much of a family man, it came as quite a pleasant surprise to my mother that I had suddenly taken an interest in my uncle and his family, so much so that I engage with them in that ultimate family affair – the Sunday lunch. Sadly, though, those visits didn’t last long as I soon discovered the online edition of this magazine, which allowed me to sit on my lazy posterior on my hard and uncomfortable cane chair (with a weird O-shaped orange seat cushion on it, recommended to me by an incompetent doctor for my incessant tailbone pain) and simply download all the pictures from the website for future viewing.
Ah yes, the pictures. Like all hot-blooded, immature, freshly-out-of-their-teens boys, the only reason I used to regularly view the magazine was because of the fashion column and its nice, funky pictures of pretty models looking, well, very pretty. Actually, ignore the past tense in the previous sentence…it’s still the only reason. Being a massive fan of Pakistani models like Tooba Siddiqui has its disadvantages. There aren’t enough websites out there where pretty pictures of them are uploaded for the general entertainment of tharki men across the urban landscape of our pure country, which is why the Sunday magazine website is a rare treasure (and which is also why whenever there is a male model featured in the fashion segment people like me always, always, let out a disgruntled groan, simply heartbroken at the great travesty of having to wait another week for someone like Tooba to grace these pages. (Or Neha, as is now the trend.)
Of course, then there are those society pages, where pretty people pose wearing pretty dresses and holding prettier drinks. I normally browse through them in a bored manner, commenting on how it’s the same people week in and week out (so much so that I’ve even begun to memorize their names as a pastime - Aamir Mazhar, you are one busy social kitten, whoever the fuck you are!) and bemoaning how I, despite having a personality that oozes eloquence, pure charm and quick wit beyond measure, am never invited to these get-togethers at all, hence depriving me of my God-given right to enjoy a feeling of sheer liberation and abandon dancing the night away completely inebriated.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
1996 World Cup
NOTHING OFFICIAL ABOUT IT
This time the World Cup came home. The final was to be held in my city, and what a cool stadium the guys had come up with (though to be honest anything would have been an improvement from its previous shape which I had confused with a jail cell as a kid numerous times. Don't ask.).
The round robins, or whatever they are called, were rather boring, and the usual useless teams were disposed off. I remember going to see Pak vs Holland at Gaddafi and enjoying Waqar making mince-meat out of the poor souls. Pakistan, naturally, qualified for the quarters, and we heard we're going to Bangalore to play India. Ooh, fun!
Obviously, the excitement was unparalleled. But Wasim bhai decided to back out at the last minute due to the 'injury' (yea, try convincing the guy who stoned your house :p). Oh well, the match began, and well enough, as Ata-ur-Rehman, of all unlikely fucktards, removed Tendulkar. In fact everything went pretty smoothly till Jadeja decided to go berserk on Waqar, and all the good work was ruined in 2 evil overs. And then we batted, and oh what a start. Saeed bhai and Aamir bondi at their sublime bests. And then, oh, what comedy. What sheer, utter comedy. As any self-respecting Pakistani cricket fan would like to forget, Aamir was made to look like a complete baffoon by Prasad, and the only fetching he did was of his bails rather than the ball from the fence. After that of course, it all went downhill, and we crashed out. Half the people blame Wasim bhai, the others blame Aamir. I blame Miandad for making a mockery of his career by still insisting on playing.
Of course, every Pakistani fell in love with a random island nation called Sri Lanka when it ended up beating India in the semi-final. Divine vengeance or something, we reckoned. And Indian fans burning their stadium in disgust, to boot. Yes, yes, we were having a field day here.
And then we welcomed the Sri Lankans to our home town for the final. Naturally, being India-beaters and challengers to the perennially-constipated-and-stuck-up Australians, they got our full support. I still can't believe I ended up going to the final. Being a social outcast, I never get passes to the cool events. (I guess it helps having resourceful uncles.) Oh, how magnificent the stadium looked, and how passionate the crowd was. It was a dream for me. Notwithstanding the fact that I had horrible seats and couldn't see half the pitch.
De Silva batted on and on, and we cheered. The crowd star ted commenting on how the Aussies are overloading on chewing-gums due to the tension. And when it was all over, everyone was happy that the underdog had slayed the constipated giant.
This time the World Cup came home. The final was to be held in my city, and what a cool stadium the guys had come up with (though to be honest anything would have been an improvement from its previous shape which I had confused with a jail cell as a kid numerous times. Don't ask.).
The round robins, or whatever they are called, were rather boring, and the usual useless teams were disposed off. I remember going to see Pak vs Holland at Gaddafi and enjoying Waqar making mince-meat out of the poor souls. Pakistan, naturally, qualified for the quarters, and we heard we're going to Bangalore to play India. Ooh, fun!
Obviously, the excitement was unparalleled. But Wasim bhai decided to back out at the last minute due to the 'injury' (yea, try convincing the guy who stoned your house :p). Oh well, the match began, and well enough, as Ata-ur-Rehman, of all unlikely fucktards, removed Tendulkar. In fact everything went pretty smoothly till Jadeja decided to go berserk on Waqar, and all the good work was ruined in 2 evil overs. And then we batted, and oh what a start. Saeed bhai and Aamir bondi at their sublime bests. And then, oh, what comedy. What sheer, utter comedy. As any self-respecting Pakistani cricket fan would like to forget, Aamir was made to look like a complete baffoon by Prasad, and the only fetching he did was of his bails rather than the ball from the fence. After that of course, it all went downhill, and we crashed out. Half the people blame Wasim bhai, the others blame Aamir. I blame Miandad for making a mockery of his career by still insisting on playing.
Of course, every Pakistani fell in love with a random island nation called Sri Lanka when it ended up beating India in the semi-final. Divine vengeance or something, we reckoned. And Indian fans burning their stadium in disgust, to boot. Yes, yes, we were having a field day here.
And then we welcomed the Sri Lankans to our home town for the final. Naturally, being India-beaters and challengers to the perennially-constipated-and-stuck-up Australians, they got our full support. I still can't believe I ended up going to the final. Being a social outcast, I never get passes to the cool events. (I guess it helps having resourceful uncles.) Oh, how magnificent the stadium looked, and how passionate the crowd was. It was a dream for me. Notwithstanding the fact that I had horrible seats and couldn't see half the pitch.
De Silva batted on and on, and we cheered. The crowd star ted commenting on how the Aussies are overloading on chewing-gums due to the tension. And when it was all over, everyone was happy that the underdog had slayed the constipated giant.
1992 World Cup
WE RULE THE WORLD
The cricket world cup is fast approaching, and will naturally become the centre of my universe for the one month or so it continues (or at least till the day Pakistan is eliminated). So I thought why not build some anticipation by going down memory lane and remembering past world cups, or those that I had the opportunity of seeing (clearly I haven't seen all of them as I am not yet a dinosaur).
So it all started in 1992. I was an eight-year old living in Faisalabad, and remember waking up one morning and finding out that Pakistan was winning the semi-final. The only match I had previously seen was Pakistan being bowled out against England for 70-odd, and remembering I bat better in the lawn outside than this Rameez Raja fucker. Hehe. So I turn the TV on, watch a few big hits via Inzi, then see Moin Khan hit "that" six, and soon Miandad is jumping like a crazy retard, arms up in the air, and a quaint ground on the edge of the world is flooded with Pakistani flags and a couple of thousand really depressed white-boys.
Then comes the final. Imran Khan looks silly wearing a t-shirt to the toss. Some 'cornered tigers' symbolic statement, apparently. We bat. Openers useless. (I guess some things never change.) Imran hits a massive six, bats on and on. Miandad gets out playing reverse sweep (!). And then, wow, two lanky awkward boys make chicken qeema of the English. What massive amounts of fun! Innings closes with Salim Malik being run out in comical fashion.
Aamir Sohail gives Botham and his mother-in-law appropriate invitations to visit the country (get the joke, get the joke!), Mushtaq is a little, adorable genius! Aaqib grabs the catch of his lifetime, and does the coolest possible celebration! Wasim bhai swings one out, and then brings one back in, and the entire nation realizes the day is special! Moin grabs one running, Rameez takes his first skier, Salim Malik proves useful for once and gets a wicked throw in from the ropes, and (in a surprisingly consistent display of fielding prowess) Rameez grabs his second skier. Arms go aloft, heads are bowed, flags flood the MCG, we rule the world!
After the match I went out, got together with about 5-6 friends from the neighborhood, and carried out a few victory laps of the community playground, complete with flags, whistles and frying pans for sound effects. Also donated 100 rupees to Imran Khan's fund when he came to collect donations for his cancer hospital.
:D
The cricket world cup is fast approaching, and will naturally become the centre of my universe for the one month or so it continues (or at least till the day Pakistan is eliminated). So I thought why not build some anticipation by going down memory lane and remembering past world cups, or those that I had the opportunity of seeing (clearly I haven't seen all of them as I am not yet a dinosaur).So it all started in 1992. I was an eight-year old living in Faisalabad, and remember waking up one morning and finding out that Pakistan was winning the semi-final. The only match I had previously seen was Pakistan being bowled out against England for 70-odd, and remembering I bat better in the lawn outside than this Rameez Raja fucker. Hehe. So I turn the TV on, watch a few big hits via Inzi, then see Moin Khan hit "that" six, and soon Miandad is jumping like a crazy retard, arms up in the air, and a quaint ground on the edge of the world is flooded with Pakistani flags and a couple of thousand really depressed white-boys.
Then comes the final. Imran Khan looks silly wearing a t-shirt to the toss. Some 'cornered tigers' symbolic statement, apparently. We bat. Openers useless. (I guess some things never change.) Imran hits a massive six, bats on and on. Miandad gets out playing reverse sweep (!). And then, wow, two lanky awkward boys make chicken qeema of the English. What massive amounts of fun! Innings closes with Salim Malik being run out in comical fashion.
Aamir Sohail gives Botham and his mother-in-law appropriate invitations to visit the country (get the joke, get the joke!), Mushtaq is a little, adorable genius! Aaqib grabs the catch of his lifetime, and does the coolest possible celebration! Wasim bhai swings one out, and then brings one back in, and the entire nation realizes the day is special! Moin grabs one running, Rameez takes his first skier, Salim Malik proves useful for once and gets a wicked throw in from the ropes, and (in a surprisingly consistent display of fielding prowess) Rameez grabs his second skier. Arms go aloft, heads are bowed, flags flood the MCG, we rule the world!
After the match I went out, got together with about 5-6 friends from the neighborhood, and carried out a few victory laps of the community playground, complete with flags, whistles and frying pans for sound effects. Also donated 100 rupees to Imran Khan's fund when he came to collect donations for his cancer hospital.
:D
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Raast-goi part 1
So my four years in LUMS are almost drawing to a close. I joined the institution with great hopes and aspirations. Most of them included me impressing numerous women with my superior intellect and wit and making them swoon left right and center, spending my time surrounded by them and abandoning londa pursuits once and for all. Sadly that never materialized and most of my time here was spent enjoying (begrudgingly of course) the sausage fest that happens to be my posse of friends. There were instances here and there that broke the norm, but mostly I was a social outcast playing video games in a loud computer lab surrounding by a rather motley crew of londay.
Having said that, I’ve now decided to chronicle my time at this esteemed institution year-by-year, and will be doing so in two parts (it's too taxing to write an account of all four years in one go). First part follows (covering years one and two):
First year:
Being the ungrateful twit that I am, started out sullen and glum that I wasn’t admitted to any sexy American university and will now have to spend my time in this hell-hole.
Was impressed by the amount of poondi on show. Fantasized about getting it on with most of them.
Life’s first interaction with so many Karachi-people, of which LUMS was flooded with, was rather shocking. Naturally, made fun of their accent. Ironic that will be spending first year out of college with them. Heh.
Spent more time wasting money at Neomatrix playing games than at college. Realized country’s upper-class youth is going to the dogs.
Started doing Accounting & Finance major. Thoughts at the time: oh, this is rather easy and straightforward and I seem to be doing pretty well in it - appears to be something I can do for a living. How fucking wrong was I on all counts.
Developed strong hatred with resident Islam expert Dr.Khalid Zaheer. Reasons were purely personal: he used to have a morning class and a quiz in the beginning, and since I was always lazy I never made it on time and missed most quizzes, resultantly getting my worst grade ever (till date at least).
Closed year in love with a history teacher who never showed up again. Oh what charisma his ponytail had.
Second year:
Made out outside music room. The miffed sound of a drum beat gave a nice, rhythmic flow to proceedings.
Went to
Got together with bunch of idealistic, ambitious boys and girls and started AIESEC in
Realized ACF major had no poondi. One student was nice “overall”, while one had a pretty face. Wished for some kind of genetic incubator that would combine the two and come up with a more saleable product.
Doped for first time. Felt disappointed at lack of buzz. Got weird shivering sensation instead that scared the living daylights out of me.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Shameless promotion
My friend complains his writings don't get him enough credit and respect. Now, that would change if he would move off his ass and for once abandon that bed he spends his days on and actually do something about it. Like, I don't know, kidnap the editor of The Friday Times and force him to publish his stuff in the 'respected' magazine.
I can do my bit though (short of providing a rope to be used in the kidnapping, that is). Here is my friend, in all his friendly glory:
On King Musharraf
On Leonardo Di Caprio and party
On degradation of Urdu/Punjabi by burger kids in LUMS
And other stuff at:
http://pkblogs.com/uaral
Enjoy. And tell us where we can find the above-mentioned editor.
I can do my bit though (short of providing a rope to be used in the kidnapping, that is). Here is my friend, in all his friendly glory:
On King Musharraf
On Leonardo Di Caprio and party
On degradation of Urdu/Punjabi by burger kids in LUMS
And other stuff at:
http://pkblogs.com/uaral
Enjoy. And tell us where we can find the above-mentioned editor.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Aitchison College
Aitchison College in Lahore is considered to be by far the most prestigious high school in the country (yes, I know it is called "college," I really don't know why that is). For the past 120+ years nobles, princes, bureaucrats, soldiers, landlords, industrialists et al have all been sending their sons to this place to get an education (nay, a life-style) that will set them apart from their worthless contemporaries (read: non-Aitchisonians) in their future endeavors. It is hence not surprising that Aitchisonians are also the most proud, uptight arses in the country (though, to their credit, they are less burger than those produced by Aitchison's perennial rival in prestige, that other nursery churning out elitist turd, Karachi Grammar School).I spent two years of my life at Aitchison, deciding to set foot in its hallowed halls and on its manicured lawns for my GCE A'Levels, after having spent all my school life in measly old Beaconhouse (first Faisalabad, then Pindi, then finally Garden Town, Lahore). And I must say those were two of the most disturbing years of my life. For starters, I was almost a complete loner when I went there. I had a handful of friends, and was looked down upon by the other kids as nothing more than a half-breed, a parasite encroaching upon their grand traditions and looking to mooch off the school's prestige to get a nice thappa (stamp). For these blue-bloods, us newcomers were worthless, disposable, alien beings who have nothing better to do in their lives than to sink their noses in Physics textbooks, while they themselves enjoy life in the fast lane, driving the fancy cars (and kill passersby, and then regularly get caned by the principal for sitting behind the wheel - a story worth telling on its on), smoking those fancy joints in the toilet, and getting it on with the hot chicks from Lahore Grammar.
Ah yes, those hot chicks from Lahore Grammar, with their formal sparkling white shalwar kameezes and those dark-blue dupatta like things.
Sorry, got distracted there for a second. Yes, gaining acceptance in Aitchison is very difficult. You must either be rich, or cool, or rebellious, or beat them at their own game. (I kind of managed the last bit in my second year when I got a nice SAT score, and was suddenly being talked to by people who had never even acknowledged my existence. Funny.) But otherwise, one has no chance, and is relegated to the second tier of students who can never hope to get those yellow stripes on their ties signifying that they have joined the most upper echelon of Aitchisonian society and become a prefect (whose duties include, besides other things, making juniors bend down. Honestly.)
Of course, having gained confidence from my good SAT score, I decided to do what all Aitchisonians do, and apply to universities abroad (since naturally they consider the Pakistani ones below them). And oh my god, was that a demoralizing experience that was. Not only was I not accepted in any university I applied to (despite having stellar grades and all, mind you) but some people also say that the student counsellor sent incorrect transcripts to make sure a boy he liked (an old Aitchisonian, of course) got preference over me at these universities. And I had to suffer the sheer the indignity and shame of attending a worthless Pakistani institution (in the mind of an Aitchisonian, it is irrelevant that LUMS is considered one of the best places to study in Pakistan.)
At least one thing I enjoyed thoroughly during my stay there was the truly beautiful campus (there is nothing like it in the country, I must admit). The large fancy trees were heaven to a closet environmentalist like myself, while the old colonial-era buildings really reinforced the point that you, as a student here, are better than the average Pakistani. It's the perfect closed-up, self-sustaining, better-than-the-rest environment suited for the perfect closed-up, self-sustaining, better-than-the-rest lifestyle.
It is quite ironic that the people I used to hang out with on a regular basis during my stay there, for some reason I have not had a decent conversation with them for the past three years. While in university I regularly interact with, on extremely friendly terms, people who in Aitchison never acknowleged my presence (yes, Mosa I am talking about you :p) or mocked my non-Aitchisonian heritage (yes, Areeb I am talking about you :p). And despite my rantings against the place, I will still advise you to send your son there. There is simply no better ladder for upward social mobility in the entire country. Just make sure he joins way before A'levels. :p
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Ufone and underwear
Ufone and underwear are, despite what you might think when you read the title, not really related in any plausible way, except the fact that I have been thinking about them, among many other things, recently.
I am quite frankly sick and tired of Ufone invading the LUMS campus with their sexy, sleek, glazed and black post-pay packages that they have been giving away to students for free. FREE!! While I am never one not to admire a sexy looking man (and believe me, this Abdullah dude, the model they have in their ad campaign, is looking simply delectable in the pictures inside the user manual that comes with the connection), what has annoyed me beyond measure is messages I get from assorted numbers going something like 0332-8400xxx, saying "hello, I am your falan-falan-friend, this is my new number, please save it, thanks and god bless." Or something like that. It seems half the LUMS population has switched to Ufone. Well, at least they can say their campaign was successful, for when I met their corporate sales rep a few months back (for reasons I shall of course keep top secret for no reason whatsoever), he said "I want people like you to become brand ambassadors of Ufone, so that other students who look up to you as "cool guys" will buy Ufone connections simply because you have them too."
If nothing else, we should all pause for a moment and laugh at the ludicrous nature of this guy's statement referring to me as a 'cool guy who people look up to.' Quite obviously, though, they found more willing salesmen who, for a healthy commission I'm sure, arranged this cellular giveaway that (unsatisfied but god-knows-why loyal) Warid users like myself failed to take advantage of.
Moving on. We as a nation take pride in a lot of time-tested and noble traditions...traditions that set our glorious culture apart from the mass of nonsense that pervades us. Wearing underwear, though, is clearly not one of them. When donning a shalwar or a dhoti beneath a standard kameez, one simply is not supposed to wear underwear (unless, of course, the shalwar has an elastic in it making it susceptible to being pulled down by those naughty people). It is just not Pakistani. You see, the standard naala, that magnificent creation of the attire-savvy, works as an ingenious belt that you can tie up and secure your shalwars with, while the long kameez provides the necessary 'cover' (for lack of a better word).
Thus, when wearing a national/local dress, one really needs to get in character by abandoning this Western colonial legacy that restricts both movement and ventilation and acts as nothing more than a nuisance really. And as any self respecting individual will tell you, comfort only comes when one is commando. Indeed, the two are synonymous.
In this spirit, I shall be burning my new blue chequered boxers next weekend. So, those of you daring enough to want to join me in this cathartic moment symbolizing the breaking free from imposed shackles and the spitting in the face of all-pervasive westernization, please get in touch. We shall be christened the Commando Force! For others who are too meek to realize the fetters that restrict the freeing up of their minds, there is a sale at PACE (the Link Road, Model Town branch) on all kinds of undies: boxers, briefs and that fascinating hybrid variety, the boxer-brief.
I am quite frankly sick and tired of Ufone invading the LUMS campus with their sexy, sleek, glazed and black post-pay packages that they have been giving away to students for free. FREE!! While I am never one not to admire a sexy looking man (and believe me, this Abdullah dude, the model they have in their ad campaign, is looking simply delectable in the pictures inside the user manual that comes with the connection), what has annoyed me beyond measure is messages I get from assorted numbers going something like 0332-8400xxx, saying "hello, I am your falan-falan-friend, this is my new number, please save it, thanks and god bless." Or something like that. It seems half the LUMS population has switched to Ufone. Well, at least they can say their campaign was successful, for when I met their corporate sales rep a few months back (for reasons I shall of course keep top secret for no reason whatsoever), he said "I want people like you to become brand ambassadors of Ufone, so that other students who look up to you as "cool guys" will buy Ufone connections simply because you have them too."
If nothing else, we should all pause for a moment and laugh at the ludicrous nature of this guy's statement referring to me as a 'cool guy who people look up to.' Quite obviously, though, they found more willing salesmen who, for a healthy commission I'm sure, arranged this cellular giveaway that (unsatisfied but god-knows-why loyal) Warid users like myself failed to take advantage of.
Moving on. We as a nation take pride in a lot of time-tested and noble traditions...traditions that set our glorious culture apart from the mass of nonsense that pervades us. Wearing underwear, though, is clearly not one of them. When donning a shalwar or a dhoti beneath a standard kameez, one simply is not supposed to wear underwear (unless, of course, the shalwar has an elastic in it making it susceptible to being pulled down by those naughty people). It is just not Pakistani. You see, the standard naala, that magnificent creation of the attire-savvy, works as an ingenious belt that you can tie up and secure your shalwars with, while the long kameez provides the necessary 'cover' (for lack of a better word).
Thus, when wearing a national/local dress, one really needs to get in character by abandoning this Western colonial legacy that restricts both movement and ventilation and acts as nothing more than a nuisance really. And as any self respecting individual will tell you, comfort only comes when one is commando. Indeed, the two are synonymous.
In this spirit, I shall be burning my new blue chequered boxers next weekend. So, those of you daring enough to want to join me in this cathartic moment symbolizing the breaking free from imposed shackles and the spitting in the face of all-pervasive westernization, please get in touch. We shall be christened the Commando Force! For others who are too meek to realize the fetters that restrict the freeing up of their minds, there is a sale at PACE (the Link Road, Model Town branch) on all kinds of undies: boxers, briefs and that fascinating hybrid variety, the boxer-brief.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
What she calls "fair and phony"
So yesterday I was engaging in my favourite hobby of reading the daily newspaper (it is a ritual I have had since ages, sitting on the breakfast table reading the paper while munching my toast/paratha and chugging down my big cup of stale chai), and I came across an interesting piece in the The News by a lady called Afiya Shehrbano. Now I must admit the only reason I actually bothered to read the piece was because the author's picture was posted next to it, and she was one cute piece of pie. The article, though, turned out to be rather funny, especially when it mentioned terms relevant to me and my areas of study and interest: profit maximization, corporate social responsibility and Unilever (one of those typical companies who might give me a job entailing the usual soap-and-shampoo-counting).
I quote from her article:
"The trick is to sell it as a nicely packaged 'meaningful' social engagement. Step in, the corporate sector - the biggest phony. Another kind of 'scheme' has been featuring recently under the guise of corporate social responsibility. Unilever has been running a front page assault eulogising its Fair and Lovely scholarship program. Several feminist critiques have pointed out how companies are...promoting new oppressions by disguising them as empowerment. In this case, the social values that a modern woman should aspire for would include a good education and good looking fair skin."
Information about this particular program can be found here. Interestingly, this is not just a Pakistan specific project, but involves Unilever in India and Bangladesh as well.
Hmm, I wonder if they have something in store related to their Fair and Handsome product for really, really dark boys like myself. Because we all know how being dark is detrimental to upward social mobility and getting good marriage proposals. Shit.
I quote from her article:
"The trick is to sell it as a nicely packaged 'meaningful' social engagement. Step in, the corporate sector - the biggest phony. Another kind of 'scheme' has been featuring recently under the guise of corporate social responsibility. Unilever has been running a front page assault eulogising its Fair and Lovely scholarship program. Several feminist critiques have pointed out how companies are...promoting new oppressions by disguising them as empowerment. In this case, the social values that a modern woman should aspire for would include a good education and good looking fair skin."
Information about this particular program can be found here. Interestingly, this is not just a Pakistan specific project, but involves Unilever in India and Bangladesh as well.
Hmm, I wonder if they have something in store related to their Fair and Handsome product for really, really dark boys like myself. Because we all know how being dark is detrimental to upward social mobility and getting good marriage proposals. Shit.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Nirala Sweets
As most of you probably know, Nirala Sweets is the premier mithai brand in Pakistan, and is widely regarded (at least amongst posh upperclass burgers like you and me) as the best.
As some of you also probably know, Nirala's CEO and heir apparent of the empire built by dadajee Taj Din, the other day killed a little baby and put his parents in the hospital courtesy a pleasurable and relaxing drive on his fancy sports car. And then, as expected, he threatened the police with his own goons to register the case, which consequently hasn't been registered so far.
Now two of this guy's brothers were in the same school as me, and let me assure you, cars was all they cared about. :p
Anyway, I have been getting random sms's from people saying that Nirala products should be boycotted by us, to make sure the company is made to suffer for such blatant disregard of law and order. What is boggling my mind is that, assuming the boycott is implemented successfully, where will we get shaadi ke ladoo from in the wedding season that is upon us!
I was perusing Nirala's website, and I came across something very interesting:
"The core values, known as the Spirit of Nirala, have not changed over the generations. These values were and still are what makes Nirala the market leader.
1. Integrity
2. Innovation
3. Continuous improvement
4. Team Work
5. Social Responsibility"
Haha. Too good. Anyway, I am thankful that at least my intake of and passion for gulaab jamuns will remain unaffected, as I never went to Nirala for those in any case. Nirala's gulaab jamuns suck people!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Humored
So the other day I was watching my favourite news channel, Fox News. I must say, that brunette newscaster with the short skirt needs to go into the television hall of fame for the immense amount of cuteness she possesses.
Hmm, now that I've finished objectifying her and satisfied my carnal side, let me come to the matter at hand. So the channel was promoting a documentary made in the US about, what else, Islamic fundamentalism, our favourite topic of discussion. In the documentary (whose name I have unfortunately and sadly forgotten) they were showing real clippings from television channels in the Middle East, trying to prove the point that Muslims are inherently hateful and vile (ooh, shit, that's quite an assertion). Out of the few clips they showed, I remember two:
1. Iraqi television. Religious gathering being addressed by a bearded, clad-in-white maulvi. He suddenly takes out a sword (yep, a real, sexy, flashing, gold-encased sword!!) and says (and I rely on the subtitled translation in English since my knowledge of Arabic is as good as a fish's knowledge of the desert): "with this sword, we must go forward and cut the heads of the invading infidels." Loud cheers. I am left laughing my posterior off. Talk about excellent dramatic effect. (Yes I am purposefully finding humor in the situation. You can comment on its gravity as much as you like. I don't care about that.)
2. Palestinian television. Woman interviewing six year old child:
(again, sadly, I am relying on the provided subtitled translation)
Woman: Do you know who Jews are?
Child: Yes. They are descendants of pigs.
Woman: And how do you know that, son?
Child: It is written in the Quran.
Seriously, he actually said that! Actually, he's not alone in thinking that. An excellent, excellent discussion on the topic can be found here.
I have also been smiling to myself for the past two days because of a banner hanging next to a mosque near my house that, apparently, comments on the recent passing of the Women's Protection Bill as law in the Senate:
Azadi-e-nuswaan: ikisween saddi ka sab se bara fitna!
(Emancipation of women: the biggest curse of the twenty-first century!)
Lecture by Dr. Israr Ahmed
As I am currently struggling to control my laughter, I will depart, but with another gem I read on some website brought forward by some dude called Kashif:
kal jo be-parda nazar aain chand bibian
akbar zameen main ghairat-e-qaumi say ghar gaya
poocha jo un say woh aap ka parda kya hua
kehnay lageen aqal pay mardon ki parh gaya
Translating it will simply spoil its fun, so I apologize for the inconvenience.
Hmm, now that I've finished objectifying her and satisfied my carnal side, let me come to the matter at hand. So the channel was promoting a documentary made in the US about, what else, Islamic fundamentalism, our favourite topic of discussion. In the documentary (whose name I have unfortunately and sadly forgotten) they were showing real clippings from television channels in the Middle East, trying to prove the point that Muslims are inherently hateful and vile (ooh, shit, that's quite an assertion). Out of the few clips they showed, I remember two:
1. Iraqi television. Religious gathering being addressed by a bearded, clad-in-white maulvi. He suddenly takes out a sword (yep, a real, sexy, flashing, gold-encased sword!!) and says (and I rely on the subtitled translation in English since my knowledge of Arabic is as good as a fish's knowledge of the desert): "with this sword, we must go forward and cut the heads of the invading infidels." Loud cheers. I am left laughing my posterior off. Talk about excellent dramatic effect. (Yes I am purposefully finding humor in the situation. You can comment on its gravity as much as you like. I don't care about that.)
2. Palestinian television. Woman interviewing six year old child:
(again, sadly, I am relying on the provided subtitled translation)
Woman: Do you know who Jews are?
Child: Yes. They are descendants of pigs.
Woman: And how do you know that, son?
Child: It is written in the Quran.
Seriously, he actually said that! Actually, he's not alone in thinking that. An excellent, excellent discussion on the topic can be found here.
I have also been smiling to myself for the past two days because of a banner hanging next to a mosque near my house that, apparently, comments on the recent passing of the Women's Protection Bill as law in the Senate:
Azadi-e-nuswaan: ikisween saddi ka sab se bara fitna!
(Emancipation of women: the biggest curse of the twenty-first century!)
Lecture by Dr. Israr Ahmed
As I am currently struggling to control my laughter, I will depart, but with another gem I read on some website brought forward by some dude called Kashif:
kal jo be-parda nazar aain chand bibian
akbar zameen main ghairat-e-qaumi say ghar gaya
poocha jo un say woh aap ka parda kya hua
kehnay lageen aqal pay mardon ki parh gaya
Translating it will simply spoil its fun, so I apologize for the inconvenience.
Friday, December 01, 2006
AIESEC conference
Some of my friends have asked me in disbelief what I was doing holed up in a hotel on Davis Road for four whole days. Not that they'd care, but here's an explanation:
AIESEC Pakistan's National Youth Development Seminar, 2006
AIESEC Pakistan's National Youth Development Seminar, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Accounting and Finance major
So I've written previously as well about the glorious time I spend in LUMS doing an Accounting and Finance major. Now to set things in perspective, let me tell you a little bit about this thing. It is, at the same, both the most coveted as well as despised discipline any poor chap can ever hope to enroll in. Coveted it is by those impressionable freshmen and sophomores who come to LUMS with the hopes of graduating with a fancy degree and earning big bucks for the rest of their lives in a luxurious, air-conditioned corporate office while being completely and comfortably detached from the hassles and downright nonsense of everyday lives of the general population of this great country. Despised it is by those jaded social science majors (most of whom happen to be extremely attractive and/or hippyish ladies) and quasi-Marxist instructors who take it to task and ridicule it for training students to become blood-sucking corporate sellouts with no knowledge or skill that is relevant for the social development and uplift of this nation. All fun stuff, I must tell you.
Now that we have the general viewpoints out of way, let me delight you with my own thoughts (which are always cheerful and merry to the extreme): the ACF major (Accounting and Finance for short, you imbecile) happens to be the most useless, boring, pretentious, nonsensical, inept major one can ever have the misfortune of doing. Not only are most instructors incompetent and banal (on my fingers I can count only 4 instructors I have enjoyed studying under, out of which one has been kicked out for sexual harrassment no less, hah!), but the content of the courses, and this I admit with a heavy heart as those turd-y Marxists have been proven right, teaches us nothing of great relevance to even Pakistani capital markets and corporate suck-ass-dom, let alone about practical social development! The same, repetitive thing has now been taught to me in 3 courses! Some courses, moreover, have been bordering on torturous. No wonder no one doing the major knows what the point of it is, and half are now taking a Amreekan exam (that wretched CFA) to get a supplementary degree to better improve their prospects of working in a thankless, meaningless job.
So, after careful deliberation and extensive research, I've concluded that only two career and livelihood opportunities are available to the average ACF major graduating from LUMS (Actually, by extending this analysis only a little, one can also apply the same conclusions to that other godforsaken place churning out similar, corporate-minded-and-otherwise-useless drones, IBA in Karachi). They are:
1. Working in a place like Jahangir Siddiqui or some other random "investment banking" company, trying to justify and analyze the behaviours of habitual gamblers operating in the wretched and corrupt Karachi Stock Exchange
2. Counting soaps and shampoos at Procter and bloody Gamble. (No offense to two brilliant and dashing batchmates of mine who are looking forward to a thriving and illustrious career there. Actually, even my mother and a few other people want me to go work there and count soaps for a living, so I might as well be writing this damn thing from a desk there in a year or so)
At least the interesting bit is that both prospects involve me living in Karachi and consequently waiting for a bomb to rip my insides open in the middle of Saddar. Nice.
Now that we have the general viewpoints out of way, let me delight you with my own thoughts (which are always cheerful and merry to the extreme): the ACF major (Accounting and Finance for short, you imbecile) happens to be the most useless, boring, pretentious, nonsensical, inept major one can ever have the misfortune of doing. Not only are most instructors incompetent and banal (on my fingers I can count only 4 instructors I have enjoyed studying under, out of which one has been kicked out for sexual harrassment no less, hah!), but the content of the courses, and this I admit with a heavy heart as those turd-y Marxists have been proven right, teaches us nothing of great relevance to even Pakistani capital markets and corporate suck-ass-dom, let alone about practical social development! The same, repetitive thing has now been taught to me in 3 courses! Some courses, moreover, have been bordering on torturous. No wonder no one doing the major knows what the point of it is, and half are now taking a Amreekan exam (that wretched CFA) to get a supplementary degree to better improve their prospects of working in a thankless, meaningless job.
So, after careful deliberation and extensive research, I've concluded that only two career and livelihood opportunities are available to the average ACF major graduating from LUMS (Actually, by extending this analysis only a little, one can also apply the same conclusions to that other godforsaken place churning out similar, corporate-minded-and-otherwise-useless drones, IBA in Karachi). They are:
1. Working in a place like Jahangir Siddiqui or some other random "investment banking" company, trying to justify and analyze the behaviours of habitual gamblers operating in the wretched and corrupt Karachi Stock Exchange
2. Counting soaps and shampoos at Procter and bloody Gamble. (No offense to two brilliant and dashing batchmates of mine who are looking forward to a thriving and illustrious career there. Actually, even my mother and a few other people want me to go work there and count soaps for a living, so I might as well be writing this damn thing from a desk there in a year or so)
At least the interesting bit is that both prospects involve me living in Karachi and consequently waiting for a bomb to rip my insides open in the middle of Saddar. Nice.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Ramazan!! Yippee!
So, as you with your great observation skills must have noticed, the holy month of Ramazan is drawing to a close. And what an exciting, eventful, exhilirating and joyful ride it has (not) been. Now that it is almost over and done and dusted, I can freely crib about it without causing offence or anything. (Actually, offence will still be caused, as it always is in this great nation of religious intolerance, but who gives a flying french connection anyway.) The point I am trying to make is that for one whole month, the entire nation suspends its activity and gets a ready excuse to be completely and utterly lazy and unproductive. Nothing gets done, and no one is willing to do it. During daytime, people are constantly whining about how tired and hungry they are to get anything done, while during evening-time they are too busy praying and eating to, well, get anything done. :p
Let me back up my ludicrous and outlandish claim of the sheer unproductiveness of this nation by giving an example. This happened when I was making a call to a public sector banking official to set up a meeting for my usual, boring, monotonous, mind-numbing AIESEC work:
Me: Hello, can I talk to Mr. yadayada?
Someone: I'm his personal assistant speaking. He's gone home, why don't you call tomorrow morning?
me: Gone home? Oh. Alright. What time does the office close during Ramazan?
him: Office closes at 2 pm, sir.
me (looking at my clock, which says 1.30 pm): 2 pm? But it's 1.30....why has he left so early?
him: Oh, he usually leaves this at this time.
me: Very well. When does office open in the morning? I'll call early tomorrow.
him: Office opens at 9 am sharp, sir.
So, at 9.30 am, I give them a call again (I give a half hour leeway to make sure the guy is in and well-adjusted)
me: blah blah blah. Can I talk to him?
him: Oh, he usually comes around 10 am sir. Why don't you call then and check?
me: Yeah, sure. Have a nice day.
Moving on. A couple of years ago when I was a slightly more impressionable kid (don't get me wrong, I'm still pretty impressionable), I read in my O'Levels Islamiat book that one of the reasons we fast is to discipline ourselves and deny ourselves the pleasures of worldly life, so that we can observe and experience a more simple, spiritual method of living. While that is all excellent reasoning, it sadly does not apply to the average Pakistani male who first stuffs himself crazy with various assortments of high-cholesterol eatables at sunrise, and then stuffs himself crazy with similar items (with even more cholesterol) at sunset, and spends the entire day thinking about how much he's looking forward to having obscenely tasty food and drink, smoking like a chimney all evening and banging his wife for good measure (or so says my friend, not me). To top it off, he spends Chaand Raat, or the night before Eid, going out, ogling at women, and getting drunk to celebrate the end of the chaste and holy month. Superb.
Anyway, in the spirit of utter randomness, here is a picture of a man sleeping on a rickshaw in front of the Lahore Railway Station.
Let me back up my ludicrous and outlandish claim of the sheer unproductiveness of this nation by giving an example. This happened when I was making a call to a public sector banking official to set up a meeting for my usual, boring, monotonous, mind-numbing AIESEC work:
Me: Hello, can I talk to Mr. yadayada?
Someone: I'm his personal assistant speaking. He's gone home, why don't you call tomorrow morning?
me: Gone home? Oh. Alright. What time does the office close during Ramazan?
him: Office closes at 2 pm, sir.
me (looking at my clock, which says 1.30 pm): 2 pm? But it's 1.30....why has he left so early?
him: Oh, he usually leaves this at this time.
me: Very well. When does office open in the morning? I'll call early tomorrow.
him: Office opens at 9 am sharp, sir.
So, at 9.30 am, I give them a call again (I give a half hour leeway to make sure the guy is in and well-adjusted)
me: blah blah blah. Can I talk to him?
him: Oh, he usually comes around 10 am sir. Why don't you call then and check?
me: Yeah, sure. Have a nice day.
Moving on. A couple of years ago when I was a slightly more impressionable kid (don't get me wrong, I'm still pretty impressionable), I read in my O'Levels Islamiat book that one of the reasons we fast is to discipline ourselves and deny ourselves the pleasures of worldly life, so that we can observe and experience a more simple, spiritual method of living. While that is all excellent reasoning, it sadly does not apply to the average Pakistani male who first stuffs himself crazy with various assortments of high-cholesterol eatables at sunrise, and then stuffs himself crazy with similar items (with even more cholesterol) at sunset, and spends the entire day thinking about how much he's looking forward to having obscenely tasty food and drink, smoking like a chimney all evening and banging his wife for good measure (or so says my friend, not me). To top it off, he spends Chaand Raat, or the night before Eid, going out, ogling at women, and getting drunk to celebrate the end of the chaste and holy month. Superb.
Anyway, in the spirit of utter randomness, here is a picture of a man sleeping on a rickshaw in front of the Lahore Railway Station.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Amreeki Fauj Zindabad
The other day I came across something very interesting. That is, something very interesting besides steamy scenes of Scarlett Johannson making out in the film Match Point or a downloadable clip of the Kareena Kapoor song yeh mera dil pyar ka deewana from the Indian movie Don. (For those of you who do not know, I consider Kareena Kapoor to be the hottest, most delectable Indian film actress, one who always, without exception, sets my heart racing and gets little Johnny to work for his dues. At this point in time I will willfully ignore certain of you who must be crying "ewww, she is such a fat cow," or "ewww she is a horrendous-looking worthless actress," or "eww Sohaib you have such a sick demented mind.")
Coming back to my point: the other day I came across a certain map that was posted on an American Armed Forces military journal, alongwith an article explaining the darned thing, that argued for the forced changing of borders in the Islamic World. The article said that borders in the Middle East are artificial, that they breed discontent and terrorism, and hence must be forcibly altered to take into consideration the concerns of various affected minorities in the region, and give them some semblance of autonomy finally. This, they said, will solve most of the US' problems and make the region more stable and less of a fuck-up than it currently is.
I post both before and after maps below, and find them to be quite interesting. Please take a look and marvel at them. I am obviously too lazy and indifferent to look for and quote relevant sources and links, but just be assured that none of this as ridiculous and made-up as it sounds. Because, as you should know, I, Sohaib Athar - a wise and enlightened moderate of twenty-first century Pakistan, son of an honest and hardworking civil servant, grandson of a one-off failed film producer and suck-up of the British Empire, and direct descendant of a certain social class who mastered the art of onion farming in the rural heartland of the Punjab - never talk out of my ass. Hence everything I say is verifiable, accurate and relevant. :D
Some comments on the map:
1. Notice the little thing called Free Balochistan, with Gwadar as its shining port-metropolis. Good idea, I say.
2. Apparently they want the entire of NWFP to go with Afghanistan. It's a natural linkage, to be honest. And I must say I know quite a few Pathans who'd be happy with that arrangement, and quite a few non-Pathan Pakistanis who'd be happy with it too. :p
3. Free Kurdistan! Holy shit, the idea of giving a free country to the largest ethnic minority in the world not to have a free country is simply mind-boggling! Who came up with that piece of insanity?
4. Sunni Iraq and Shia Iraq as two separate states. Hmm, I bet the Iranian black-turbans will have something to say about the latter. And Baghdad as a city-state, ala classical Athens or Sparta. Cool!
5. Israel, pre-1967 borders. Hah, so much for the dream of Greater Israel. In. Your. Face. Ben-Gurion!
6. Islamic Sacred State, comprising the two holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Imagine the Vatican City, with twice the holiness, twice the imposing architecture, and twice the archaic medieval laws!
Coming back to my point: the other day I came across a certain map that was posted on an American Armed Forces military journal, alongwith an article explaining the darned thing, that argued for the forced changing of borders in the Islamic World. The article said that borders in the Middle East are artificial, that they breed discontent and terrorism, and hence must be forcibly altered to take into consideration the concerns of various affected minorities in the region, and give them some semblance of autonomy finally. This, they said, will solve most of the US' problems and make the region more stable and less of a fuck-up than it currently is.
I post both before and after maps below, and find them to be quite interesting. Please take a look and marvel at them. I am obviously too lazy and indifferent to look for and quote relevant sources and links, but just be assured that none of this as ridiculous and made-up as it sounds. Because, as you should know, I, Sohaib Athar - a wise and enlightened moderate of twenty-first century Pakistan, son of an honest and hardworking civil servant, grandson of a one-off failed film producer and suck-up of the British Empire, and direct descendant of a certain social class who mastered the art of onion farming in the rural heartland of the Punjab - never talk out of my ass. Hence everything I say is verifiable, accurate and relevant. :D
Some comments on the map:
1. Notice the little thing called Free Balochistan, with Gwadar as its shining port-metropolis. Good idea, I say.
2. Apparently they want the entire of NWFP to go with Afghanistan. It's a natural linkage, to be honest. And I must say I know quite a few Pathans who'd be happy with that arrangement, and quite a few non-Pathan Pakistanis who'd be happy with it too. :p
3. Free Kurdistan! Holy shit, the idea of giving a free country to the largest ethnic minority in the world not to have a free country is simply mind-boggling! Who came up with that piece of insanity?
4. Sunni Iraq and Shia Iraq as two separate states. Hmm, I bet the Iranian black-turbans will have something to say about the latter. And Baghdad as a city-state, ala classical Athens or Sparta. Cool!
5. Israel, pre-1967 borders. Hah, so much for the dream of Greater Israel. In. Your. Face. Ben-Gurion!
6. Islamic Sacred State, comprising the two holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Imagine the Vatican City, with twice the holiness, twice the imposing architecture, and twice the archaic medieval laws!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Maharaja jaani
“Remember, every man must pay his full attention first to his work, then to his horses, and then to his women, and strictly in that order.”
Words of wisdom from one of Lahore's greatest ever rulers, the Sikh big-brotha, defender of the Punjabi heartland, defier of the British might, crusher of the Afghan pansies, patron of bhang all over, Maharaja Ranjit Singh. *brass band sound*
Clearly Mr Singh had his priorities in order. Would've made for a fun interaction though, a tryst with a feminism proponent from Britain. Most interesting part is that no less than eleven women of his harem jumped on his funeral pyre. Eleven, goddamit! Eleven women ready to die after you. And the first one did so with a smile. Sher-e-Punjab must be a sher in the sack too, I can only assume. Heh.
Source: Majid Sheikh, best columnist ever.
Words of wisdom from one of Lahore's greatest ever rulers, the Sikh big-brotha, defender of the Punjabi heartland, defier of the British might, crusher of the Afghan pansies, patron of bhang all over, Maharaja Ranjit Singh. *brass band sound*
Clearly Mr Singh had his priorities in order. Would've made for a fun interaction though, a tryst with a feminism proponent from Britain. Most interesting part is that no less than eleven women of his harem jumped on his funeral pyre. Eleven, goddamit! Eleven women ready to die after you. And the first one did so with a smile. Sher-e-Punjab must be a sher in the sack too, I can only assume. Heh.
Source: Majid Sheikh, best columnist ever.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
The cry baby and his kalabazi
The recently concluded test series between Pakistan and England will sadly be remembered for all the wrong reasons. And I say this not because I have any sympathies with any side about the events of the last test, or that I feel offended and humiliated as a Pakistani, or that I feel cricket as a game has suffered and a bad example has been set for all stakeholders. Heck no, that's all bullocks. The only reason why I'm sad, and why you should be so too, is that now another incident of equally magnificent and dramatic proportions, and having a thousand times more comic potential, will now be ignored and put to the sidelines while the rather mundane, repetitive, as-old-as-Pakistan's-pace-dominance issue of ball tampering and all that jazz will forever remain in the limelight as far as this fascinating series is concerned.
The incident, of course, is Inzamam's hit-wicket dismissal in the third test at Leeds. Now, for all those who know even a little bit about cricket, and watch it for what it is (an entertaining game), this particlar five-second spectacle ranks right up there as one of the career-defining moments of Inzamam's long and illustrious career, one that is thankfully filled with events of similar, or slightly lesser comedy.
For those of you who were unlucky enough to miss it, let me try and replay it for you to the best of my narrative abilities. For those who witnessed the moment of glory, read on and play it in your head all over again. You know and I know that it's worth it. Hah.
So it all started when the bowler decided to pitch the ball a little short. Sadly the bowler was a spinner, so when he pitches it short you expect Inzamam to get on his backfoot and smash it. This time, sadly, his bearings were screwed up, his hand-eye coordination absent, his attempted sweep a pathetic miscalculation. He ended up receiving the ball on his chest. This, as we all know, is a blow to kill all blows, ranking almost right up there on the pain threshold with the mythic kick in the nether regions. What followed was utterly spell-binding! Inzamam twisted and swiveled nimbly, as if having been wrapped by an electric eel, and realized that he was going to fall on his stumps. Since he is a smart man, he obviously figured out that that wasn't the best course of action, and hence decided to somehow avoid that calamity. To do so, he displayed levels of flexibility and skill that were on par with and reminiscent of legendary Olympic gymnast Nadia Comaneci, and actually attempted a summersault so as to hurl his magnificent body over the stumps and avoid dismantling their perfect arrangement. The plan would've worked to perfection, but for his measly hands, for while he was engaged in his acrobatics, his hands clipped the bails. So, while the rest of his body sailed over the stumps in a wonderful display of dolphin-style showmanship, it all amounted to nought because of his measly pesky meddling pair of gloved hands. It was sad from a certain angle, and comical from all others.
Funnily enough, Inzamam and his bro Mullah Yousaf have been involved, over the years, in a rather large number of comical dismissals, never disappointing the casual cricket viewer with some top-notch entertainment and an odd story or two for their grandkids. This, though, takes the cake. And the whole bakery, for that matter.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Jashan e Azadi
So today Pakistan turns 59. Or 60, according to GEO. Heh. Which one is it? Hmm...well, 2006 - 1947 = 59 according to my calculations. Oh well, maybe they have a super computer that knows some advanced arithmetic that I sadly was not taught in class four in Beaconhouse Garden Town Campus, Lahore.
At any rate, it is Pakistan's birthday today. And hence the phrase jashan-e-azadi mubarak, congralutations on the celebration of freedom. Well, aapko mubarak. I'm good without that. As my dead uncle used to say with great poignancy, "celebrate what?" There is only one reason to celebrate, and that is hope for the future. A better one, it is implied.
Being a closet single-minded patriot, I would like to draw your attention to a fascinating website/blog that I came across yesterday. All Things Pakistan is a must-read, for it is insightful, thought-provoking, moving, and also quite relevant. What they are trying to do with that site deserves respect and support.
Mobilink, by the way, has become my favourite cellular phone service, even though I do not use it nor do I plan to in the near future. And this I say without any sarcasm and with a completely straight face. Honest. My affection for them is related purely to what they have done recently with 'Yeh Watan Tumhara Hai, Tum Ho Pasbaan Iske', one of my favourite patriotic songs, and sung by Mehdi Hassan. They've made a new video of it, with Mehdi Hassan himself in it, frail and weak but with intense emotions in his eyes, and tons of kids. Something about the transferring of responsibilities to the new generation, as implied in the song even. Fascinating stuff.
You should listen to that song today. Another song you should listen to today is 'Hum Dekheingay', sung by Iqbal Bano and written by Faiz. If you want it, let me know. I shall burn a cd for you, free of cost. I'm feeling generous today. :)
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Dating Adeel Naeem
Adeel Naeem wrote something about a date he and I went on a couple of days back. It is delightfully embarrassing, and since I'm never one to shy away from my own embarrassment, I reproduce in entirety the whole damn thing below. I obviously am not asking for his permission, because of my firm belief that copyright laws are for pansies. (This obviously is expected from a person who actually remained depressed one whole day when news reached him that the piracy factories churning out film DVD's in Karachi have been shut down). Also notice how Adeel has spelt rendezvous incorrectly. :)
Sohaib: "there is not enough sex in the sandwhich today!"
Me: "maybe you need to take it the other way to enjoy the way you wanty it too!"
Sohaib: "No i think its beacuse I got a double meat and somewhat the sauces aren't balancing it!"
Me: "Or may be because you ordered a 6 inches?"
Silence....
Sohaib: "Adeel the other day i had chicken Karahi at this place in Laxmi chowk. (a very popular eating place in lahore) It was so orgasmic!"
Adeel: "Dude explain to me, how was it orgasmic? why are all your food experiences related to sex?"
Sohaib: "You have to think the way I do!"
Silence.....
Rezendevous
Today I met up with a friend who i had been trying to meet for the past 7 days now. The irony of the situation is that he lives 5 minutes away from my house and for some odd reason we never got a chance to meet! Today, however I picked him up while i was going to get my sister's cell phone fixed. We grabbed a subway sandwhich on our way back, parked our car at a small khokha and enjoyed the meal in silence. The only few words that were uttered during the hoovering of the sandwhiches were:Sohaib: "there is not enough sex in the sandwhich today!"
Me: "maybe you need to take it the other way to enjoy the way you wanty it too!"
Sohaib: "No i think its beacuse I got a double meat and somewhat the sauces aren't balancing it!"
Me: "Or may be because you ordered a 6 inches?"
Silence....
Sohaib: "Adeel the other day i had chicken Karahi at this place in Laxmi chowk. (a very popular eating place in lahore) It was so orgasmic!"
Adeel: "Dude explain to me, how was it orgasmic? why are all your food experiences related to sex?"
Sohaib: "You have to think the way I do!"
Silence.....
Monday, August 07, 2006
Be proud
Obviously, not everything is bad and shitty about our lovely country. There are some things that are truly intriguing, fascinating, and breath-taking. Just two of these things are: this country's natural beauty and the colorful truck art that embellishes our favourite mode of transport.
In your spare time, kindly peruse the following sites:
Some pictures of our breathtakingly beautiful country taken by a gora tourist
Pictures of truck art taken by same gora tourist
Products based around Pakistani truck art
And these are just a humble few.
In your spare time, kindly peruse the following sites:
Some pictures of our breathtakingly beautiful country taken by a gora tourist
Pictures of truck art taken by same gora tourist
Products based around Pakistani truck art
And these are just a humble few.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
I am cow, hear me moo
The first time I heard this song from the Arrogant Worms at a friend's house in the city of Multan, it changed my perspective forever. Both for the good and bad.
For the good: it made me realize the importance of udders in the bovine biological system, and the fascinating yet useless factual tidbit that the gas we so fondly excrete from time to time happens to be methane, the same one that lights our heaters and stoves.
For the bad: since I made her hear it, my sexy ex-girlfriend starting permanently calling me 'cow' after this. Yep, that's right, 'cow.' Every time and all the time. In sickness and in health. I believe that was the beginning of the end of a perfectly normal, healthy, horny relationship. How can a woman take you seriously when she incessantly calls you cow, and that too with a straight face.
I am cow, hear me moo
I weigh twice as much as you
And I look good on the barbecue
Yogurt, curd, cream cheese and butters
Made from liquid from my udders
I am cow, I am cow, hear me moo (moo)
I am cow, eating grass
Methane gas comes out my ass
And out my muzzle when I belch
Oh, the ozone layer is thinner
From the outcome of my dinner
I am cow, I am cow, Ive got gas
I am cow, here I stand
Far and wide upon this land
And I am living everywhere
From b.c. to newfoundland
You can squeeze my teats by hand
I am cow, I am cow, I am cow
I am cow, I am cow, I am cow!
For the good: it made me realize the importance of udders in the bovine biological system, and the fascinating yet useless factual tidbit that the gas we so fondly excrete from time to time happens to be methane, the same one that lights our heaters and stoves.
For the bad: since I made her hear it, my sexy ex-girlfriend starting permanently calling me 'cow' after this. Yep, that's right, 'cow.' Every time and all the time. In sickness and in health. I believe that was the beginning of the end of a perfectly normal, healthy, horny relationship. How can a woman take you seriously when she incessantly calls you cow, and that too with a straight face.
I am cow, hear me moo
I weigh twice as much as you
And I look good on the barbecue
Yogurt, curd, cream cheese and butters
Made from liquid from my udders
I am cow, I am cow, hear me moo (moo)
I am cow, eating grass
Methane gas comes out my ass
And out my muzzle when I belch
Oh, the ozone layer is thinner
From the outcome of my dinner
I am cow, I am cow, Ive got gas
I am cow, here I stand
Far and wide upon this land
And I am living everywhere
From b.c. to newfoundland
You can squeeze my teats by hand
I am cow, I am cow, I am cow
I am cow, I am cow, I am cow!
Useless Habib Jalib
Habib Jalib was an Urdu poet who got into a lot of shit. The guy wrote verses against each and every Pakistani government from Ayub Khan's to Nawaz Ganja's. Being a leftist, the poor chap was arrested numerous times for his ideas. Now this quite frankly is an extremely weird situation to begin with: getting arrested for your ideas.
People normally get arrested for, amongst numerous things, raping the twelve year old coming back from school, snatching cars from Iqbal Town here in Lahore, giving safe haven to Lashkar-e-Taiba militiamen from Jhang, burning down Pizza Hut during a protest on the mall, and killing that bastard guy who threw a copy of the Quran in the garbage. Actually, no, you never get arrested for that bit here in Pakistan, because according to my limited and inadequate legal knowledge, blasphemy laws here permit the execution of any sorry individual who defiles the name of Islam's holiest symbols and icons. Wow, another win for human rights and religious tolerance. Score for The Land of the Pure! Come to think of it, this is mighty convenient. The next time you piss me off, I will proclaim to your neighbourhood that I saw you tearing up the Holy Book and throwing it in the canal. Oh baby, then you're done for! Try and fend off that hockey-and-gandasa-carrying mob outside your house.
Anyway, we were talking about Habib Jalib. Oh screw it, he's dead anyway. And no one cares about him besides the commies. Plus he's too ugly/funny-looking to be taken seriously. Case in point: picture below
People normally get arrested for, amongst numerous things, raping the twelve year old coming back from school, snatching cars from Iqbal Town here in Lahore, giving safe haven to Lashkar-e-Taiba militiamen from Jhang, burning down Pizza Hut during a protest on the mall, and killing that bastard guy who threw a copy of the Quran in the garbage. Actually, no, you never get arrested for that bit here in Pakistan, because according to my limited and inadequate legal knowledge, blasphemy laws here permit the execution of any sorry individual who defiles the name of Islam's holiest symbols and icons. Wow, another win for human rights and religious tolerance. Score for The Land of the Pure! Come to think of it, this is mighty convenient. The next time you piss me off, I will proclaim to your neighbourhood that I saw you tearing up the Holy Book and throwing it in the canal. Oh baby, then you're done for! Try and fend off that hockey-and-gandasa-carrying mob outside your house.
Anyway, we were talking about Habib Jalib. Oh screw it, he's dead anyway. And no one cares about him besides the commies. Plus he's too ugly/funny-looking to be taken seriously. Case in point: picture below
Sunday, July 23, 2006
People of the book, and a ballsy Pathan poet
So then, World War III appears to have been set in motion, since we're fast reaching the point of no return, and Muslims worldwide are mega-pissed. And you all know what happens Muslims get mega-pissed, now don't you. It all sounds really fascinating, and I have my popcorn and Coke ready, and shall remain glued to the television set watching Fox News and their hot presenters in formal skirts discussing how to best reduce the next random Lebanese city to rubble.
The other day some US ambassador made the delightful comment that the deaths of Lebanese civilians in Israeli strikes is not morally equivalent to the deaths of Israeli civilians in suicide terrorist attacks. How cute.
In other, completely unrelated news, Ahmed Faraz, an ethnic Pathan who has become one of Pakistan's great poets of the modern era and the guy who penned the rather famous ranjish hee sahi dil hee dukhanay ke liye aa, has decided to return the Hilal e Imtiaz that was awarded to him by the government in 2004. The Hilal e Imtiaz, if my calculations are correct, is the third highest civilian honour that can be given to a Pakistani. It probably comes after the Nishan e Imtiaz and the Sitara e Imtiaz. Now excuse me for my pettiness but the government really needs to come up with better, more original names. This simply does not cut it. Medal of Honor, now that sounds grand. Anyway, the reason Mr.Faraz's gives for his ignoble actions? He feels that the government, led by our lovely President, has abused the rights of the people, has failed in its duties to protect them and uplift their condition, and has generally done a piss-assed job of running the darned country. Now that's what I call a man with some real balls!
The other day some US ambassador made the delightful comment that the deaths of Lebanese civilians in Israeli strikes is not morally equivalent to the deaths of Israeli civilians in suicide terrorist attacks. How cute.
In other, completely unrelated news, Ahmed Faraz, an ethnic Pathan who has become one of Pakistan's great poets of the modern era and the guy who penned the rather famous ranjish hee sahi dil hee dukhanay ke liye aa, has decided to return the Hilal e Imtiaz that was awarded to him by the government in 2004. The Hilal e Imtiaz, if my calculations are correct, is the third highest civilian honour that can be given to a Pakistani. It probably comes after the Nishan e Imtiaz and the Sitara e Imtiaz. Now excuse me for my pettiness but the government really needs to come up with better, more original names. This simply does not cut it. Medal of Honor, now that sounds grand. Anyway, the reason Mr.Faraz's gives for his ignoble actions? He feels that the government, led by our lovely President, has abused the rights of the people, has failed in its duties to protect them and uplift their condition, and has generally done a piss-assed job of running the darned country. Now that's what I call a man with some real balls!
Masjid Wazir Khan
Tucked away between tall crumbling structures that line the winding narrow alleys of Lahore's probably-a-millenium-old walled city is a small little jewel called Mosque Wazir Khan. It was built in the late 17th century, I believe, by the Mughal governor of Lahore. I read somewhere that it is on UNESCO's World Heritage List, and so it should be, for it requires some immediate preservation and restoration. Not as grand as the Badshahi Mosque (which leaves almost every visitor to Lahore spellbound, especially with the night-time view from that expensive elitist Cucoo's), this is one for those who appreciate not grand monuments, but subtlety and craft. The inner walls are so full of colour they almost make the mosque come alive, and the paintwork is one of the highest class.
