Thursday, July 24, 2014

Everybody wants to rule the world

I did. For a moment that ended too soon to really remember but too late to really forget. And those lingering memoirs, the little indentations left standing after the dust settled on the mantle of my memories can sometimes make it hard to breath. 

My hands remember your back. The suppleness of your flesh, the crude but unforgivably magnetic troughs at the edges of your skin. They remember learning to tell how much to press, and where, by the subtle changes in the way you drew breath. 

Assumptions were made. Induced by the not-immature-but-rather-not-mature-enough hubris afforded by the placidity with which I have spend much more of my life than I care to admit. The waiting was a simpler kind of pain, you see, it was like we didn't have a choice. But this is new. In the context of you. And that is important, as you will soon see, because in many ways, you are new too. Newer, at the very least, newest even. And by the virtue of the lord's decree, the last, perhaps, too. The longest, at the very least, you are already over half way there. But assumptions were made, yes, erroneous ones. And plans too, like no-yet-mature-enough people tend to do, me and you had a plan or two that couldn't coincide. I've seen people give in for lesser excuses than the ones we had. But giving in never was an option. Not even an assumed one.

My eyes miss yours. They miss how expressive yours can be. Especially in anger, tear stained and afire! They would melt my heart and stoke my ego at the same time, which is why I never backed down but always  apologized. I don't like hurting you, but healing you I crave. 

This will mean very little to anyone. But not to you. Because you will understand in this action there is a promise being broken. This was someone else's shrine, one not to be shared, repeated or replicated. But now you are up here too. I was not meant to write for you, but now I don't know what else to do when I miss you this desperately. There is a great deal of romance in loving someone you cannot have, sure, but the profundity inherent and loving someone who will have you and love you right back with just as much ferocity is far more valuable and far more worthy of being cast in words. 

I miss folding your fresh out of the dryer clothes. And smelling the mixture of clean laundry and the irrepressible scent of your skin. I miss watching you eat my experiments and pretend to like even the disastrous ones. I miss you lying curled up on the chaise that we built together and you came to claim as yours alone. I miss how territorial you can be and how forgiving at times. How demanding and how giving and how selfish and how selfless. I miss how much of a conundrum you are still to me, a jigsaw puzzle I have only just begun to fathom. I miss the your presence, more so than anything else. How reassuring and life affirming it can be just to have you there, within reach, so I can touch and prove to my palpitating heart that you are real, this has happened, we are together and that there is nothing more worthwhile in life than being loved.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Cease, cows, life is short!

It is difficult for me to put in to words what Marquez has meant to me. More than a writer i admire, though, is the least I can say in honor of the man who, without even really trying, taught me how to give voice to the melancholy that has always both defined and destroyed me. 
Every word I have ever written has been written in an attempt to emulate the effect his words have had on me. I have never quite managed, of course, that genius was his alone to claim, but I have come close. And in doing so have justified to myself that the yearning within is not a curse. Its not a waste, its not delusion but a strength. Perhaps my only one but even so, enough. 
I wished to have met him, and although it may seem impossible now, he has taught me that to believe in the fantastic is to realize it and so I shall believe that we will meet some day so I can display my reverence to him. 
As a writer, I know that what really drives us to write is immortality. Through our words, through the elaborate half truths we tell under the guise of stories, what we strive for is to live on beyond what our bodies are capable of. I think there can be no doubt that Marquez has achieved this goal rather spectacularly and therefore, even though his mortal coil has snapped, he will never cease to be. We will know him, introduce him to the generations to follow and we will never ever forget. 

And so, a man with more quotable quotes than all other men combined, for me must be remembered for the following paragraph that I have read a hundred times and have wept at, been terrified/seduced/exhilarated/made to tremble by, every single time:

“Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

What a way to end a book! 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Seven years, to the day, since my father passed away. And it still feels raw, the wound, still bleeds stifled tears and chokes me every time, all the time I want to hug him. That warm papabear hug which could always/never save me.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Independence 2.0

Now this is funny! 

So funny in fact that it has somehow made me relent long enough to let me rise up, up, up to the surface again. 

It’s also somewhat… weird, to be honest. And not the good kind of weird that makes you raise an eyebrow in wonderment. It’s the other kind, the almost unpleasant one. The one that makes your ears ring and your heart sink and your throat go dry. 

But, it’s also familiar. Very, familiar. Like an ex who was more a friend than a lover. The one who knew you and who you still know. Like a memory .The best one.  

And perhaps it’s that last bit right there which is why I am here after longer than it would seem to most... because here is still where I come to feel. 

The weather outside is delightful. Its autumn in Lahore and from the third story window of my new ‘home’ it could almost pass for Houston; that is, if one were to stab his/her eyes, one by one, with an ice pick and look through the blood and mutilated membrane. But as gruesome as that may sound, understand that it’s the closest that Lahore has EVER been to passing for Houston, and it’s enough.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

One could, for the most part, be forgiven for thinking that Love would be enough to guarantee happiness. One could, technically. But only for the most part. For the rest of it, however, the minor part, the more clandestine part, the less tangible but far more insidious part, there is no one else to blame.


Its a far heavier title to bear than the mere seven letter constitution suggests. There are dimensions within dimensions within dimensions that no one can foresee and no one can issue warnings about. There are hidden potholes that are so devious that in order to be discovered you must fall in them. But once you do fall, and frankly, there is no way will not, it will hurt far more than you would have dared imagine.

Thursday, May 19, 2011


It was the autumn of my discontent. A time when the ghost of Midas, condemned to forever roam the living world, had come to roost in me. The eternity of aimlessness has mutated him, I can assure you, and instead of gold, which despite the moral of the story would actually have been rather nice, everything I touched during those beknighted months would turn instead to shit. And not regular shit either, massive Mastadonion shit. Shit so voluminous and so smelly that even though it was only allegorical it still managed to drive all the sources of happiness right on out of my life. They were dark days, desperate days. Days so heavy with the burden of despondence that waking up was more unpleasant than dreams of having died.

I have never fully recovered, to be honest. Life is probably better than it has ever been, in strictly socially viable terms, at least, but the sense of invulnerability is never coming back. This is a good thing, I’m sure I’ll be told, and in all earnestness too, I know we are basically helpless shapes just floating aimlessly within our own illusions of control, but it’s not. Not really. Not even for a minute. Invincibility is the greatest of all highs, you see. It’s the best of feelings. It’s top of the charts and will never ever be displaced. When you feel invincible you look at the world like it’s a puzzle you can solve, as opposed to one that you can’t even begin to understand. You know shit, when the feeling of invincibility is upon you, you believe shit. And belief, my god, is the strongest of all temptations. Belief, ultimately, is the root cause of all good and evil in the world, and the feeling of invincibility, both good and evil, much like the perfect woman, is ultimately a product of belief. But whatever it is, it was quite clearly upon me just when the mutated ghost of Midas the cursed king chose to hole up where my soul used to live.

Arguably, it was gods way, or the world’s way, or fate’s way of setting me straight and/or extracting the pomposity out of me. But one would have to believe in all those fancy things to subscribe to such an easy interpretation. I don’t know why it happened or to what end… I just know that it did come to pass and almost a decade later I’m still reeling from the assault.

There were lessons learnt… for better or worse… lessons that define whatthefuck I now am. I have no way of knowing whether I drew the right conclusions or not, because the lessons don’t really ever stop coming as long as you live, but one of the lessons itself is to make a fucking decision and then fucking stick to it because whether it works or not is not really up to you anyway and indecision is one of the worst weaknesses a person can be afflicted with. Also learnt that love mustMUSTmust always be embraced with your eyes open wider than your heart. And also that you can’t really help but be blinded by love. How the two can go hand in hand is a mystery to me, but believe me when I tell you, they can. And although even then love is 70 parts pain to 30 parts pleasure, once its chosen rather than assumed, it’s a lot more meaningful.

But most important, and perhaps also the most powerful of all the worms of wisdom Midas planted in me before he finally, mercifully left, is that we are not invulnerable, we just are not. Maybe we aren’t meant to be maybe we are incapable of it, but the bottom line is that the shit will hit the fan and it will catch us not only without an umbrella but with our pants down in a pool of quicksand which we will be unable to get out of ourselves and so we mustMustmust sink in, be submerged, drown and die and be absorbed in order to survive and get back up on our feet again. But none of this, none of the lessons/worms of wisdom can ever actually help because once the stupor of invincibility has been experienced, the rest of our lives our spent hung over from it. You will never ever stop missing it, or craving it, and you will never ever be able to experience it again because as soon as you do, the worms of wisdom will make you weary and clip your wings before they can even fully sprout and you will live the rest of your days in a state of Psuedo-existence, where you can never have what you want and know it too.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

the return of the whothefuck.

For at least the past 15 years (sniff) i've literally been producing words at will (sniff) to write stuff for other people (sniff). And i mean important stuff (sniff) from college admission essays and full blows speeches (sniff) to love letters and fake doctor's certificates (sniff). But when it came to writing my own fucking wedding invite (sniff), I'm completely stumped (Sniffs, sobs, dies).

How the hell can one be different without coming of a pretentious retard? And once you've mastered the walima invite how the hell do you deal with the mehndi one? Why is there a fucking mehndi taking place in the first place? why can't it be just one fucking event that everyone dresses up for and has a ball at and then goes home after instead of bunking at my fucking house so that i don't even have a room available to sleep in and must stay at a fucking hotel? (stomps, kicks, bangs, dies)

The marriage part, i realize, for all the horror stories one hears, is much worthier of being looked forward to than the wedding part. In fact, if it wasn't for all the bullshit that one must go through in order to BE married, marriages probably would be far happier experiences then they are. But you are forced to go into it measuring each others inputs into the whole wedding (i'm winning by many a mile, btw, my lazy ass bride, just sayin) and how well who's friend came through and whose aunt is toooooooooo fucking paindoo to be invited. Also, did you know, if you want 300 guests at the event you don't give away 300 cards, you get 600 printed! 600 ppl are to be invited in order to yield a paltry 300??? how does that even equate? Is this a fucking wedding or a deep sea fishing expedition in the dead fucking sea? I am so fucking ready to just fucking elope with who fucking ever is fucking willing to fucking make a go of it than go through all this crazy shit. The worst fucking part is that my dearly beloved isn't into all this shit either, she just wants the diamond... but we both mustmustmust go through this whole shebang because well when your parents accept the indignity of having borne love-marriage-ing progeny, the progeny mustmustmust accept the indignity of being treated like fucking centerpieces on a fucking buffet table.

Fuck! I hope i make it through without losing all my hair and/or turning into one of those middle shelf cynical 'husbands' who take inordinate amounts of pleasure in the misery of others just because it makes them feel vindicated.

In other news, I am Back and oh boy oh boy oh boy, do i have stories to tell...

Friday, April 1, 2011


Riptearshred out of place to make space for a new face but she fights back she has the knack for lasting and casting shadows so long you will never belong to any one else.

Its all in my head, its all in my head its all in my head its all in my head its all in my head its all in my head.

No one else will ever see or know or do what is expected of you to spare you the horror of failing and feeling like you could ever belong to anyone else.

Potentially, life is fucking beautiful. And god is mercy incarnate. The shit has turned to rose water right before hitting the fan and there's a downpour of fragrant benediction which you don't need an umbrella for. Divided and united and divided in an instant of intense ecstasy with someone i could become but its no good to me Goddamn it, its no fucking good to me because when you aimed your love soaked spear you were aiming at who i used to be...

Saturday, March 19, 2011

here we go again

i am compelled to say i'm going back to america but this time around it seems/feels a lot different. A lot different too are the dynamics. Either way, i am off, for better or worse. Let's hope this time around i get what i am going for.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Back when we were young, it wasn’t quite so cold. The summers were pretty intense, but not enough to break our spirits.
Back when we were young, alcohol was a lot more potent than it is now… and movies made a lot less sense but were a lot more fun.
When we were young no road was too long/dark/narrow to travel. 36 hour drives were measured in terms of how many CDs were needed, how many cans of coke more so than how much time. There was pleasure in the pain. When were young, there was no fear.
Back when we were young, we had long hair and we wore it like warriors wear their armor. It was our force field against mediocrity. We let it rest clumsily over our heads and shoulders so that when the west wind blew they would dance like gypsies under a full moon. We didn’t shave, when we were young, stubbles added to our street cred and the babes loved how tough we looked, plus the calluses on our hands from lifting canned goods to their specific shelves all night gave our hands the rugged look college chicks so crave.
When we were young our cars had woofers and tweeters and crossovers. I knew the names of every damn woofer in the market and the exact decibel rating. We used to ride with the music on full while you rolled up the last pre-class joint as well as the first post-class one. We drove drunk, when we were young.
We ran up our phone bill into the stratosphere because when we were young love seemed invulnerable to the ravages of distance. Love seemed incorruptible, I felt invincible and she… she seemed divine. She seemed like she was crafted for me and to me she was meant to belong. Even in yellow she could take my breath away. And then we crumbled to pieces and I learned that when they say love is blind they actually mean that it turns us blind.
We climbed mountains everyday to get to class when were young, and when we were young we could work all day and party all night and not break a sweat until Sunday afternoon. When we were young we passed up on free food but never on pussy or a ride. Things needed to make a lot less sense to be believed when we were young for in youth we had with us the legendary power of not knowing. When we were young we didn’t fear learning our lessons the hard way.
When we were young I loved mine very much. And you loved yours just the same. But we aren’t young anymore and we know that hearts actually do break and that when they do the pain if enough to scare you into making more mistakes than you can ever rectify.
When we were young we did throw caution to the wind and risked every thing for one. We drove fast and we danced fast and we lived faster still. We loved like madmen and with an intensity that is granted by youth and youth alone because when we were young the ones we loved defined more than the histories we would have to bear for as long as we shall live, they defined us.. But we are young no longer and it suits no one to go whimsically apache on our own asses in the search for that same old feeling of not knowing enough to give a damn about broken bones or promises or hearts. We are older now, they are older now and despite how different they may have been from each other, all women are essentially the same.
Except for in the moments that snuggle up into our DNA and become weaknesses which will last for generations. Except for when we were young.

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
What the fuck is up with that, yo?

Thursday, December 30, 2010

What do you do when love seeps in through the pores on your skin so slow you almost didn't feel it happen ?

Love is easy to qualify and/or quantify when it smacks you like a sledge hammer to the nuts or a poisoned arrow in the ass. It bamboozles you, obviously, sending your being into shock, incapacitating your fight or flee instincts, rendering you wholly helpless and at the mercy of the after shocks of the unforeseen assault.

Falling in love by degrees, by choosing neither to fight nor flee but submit instead , however, is a completely different kind of disease. Its no less potent, mind you, but its infinitely better than accidental love.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


years old: my blog.

14 years old: my email account.

20 years old: my car.

I'm not one for letting go. Learn to deal.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

i can't tell you what it really is, only what it feels like.

There is an empty space where grace used to be no forwarding address just a bad taste in the mouth, now, where did the melody go, now who ate my song?

Losing in love is hard on the ego, falling in love is hard on the knees. Being in love is hard on the heart, don't fall in love please.

A man's gots to do what a man gots to do and this man gots to survive.
But by the time i'm done making my peace, will you be alive? Will you be alive?

This is not for you. This is for me. And your failure to understand is also perfectly planned.

She fucking hates me and I love it so you can judge me but you'll never know what i've seen and done and gone through cuz you always think its about you. Don't even know who you are anymore you only think you do. I could be talking to myself it all the fucking same.

"Winston, If i were your wife, i would lace your tea with cyanide."

"If i were your husband, Nancy, i would drink it."

And they lived happily ever after. Unloved, unscarred and regretlessly.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Dil to chaha per shikast-e-dil nay mohlat he na dee

You don't deserve to be loved, she said.
But seeing the frenzy in her eyes, he strangled his heart. And for the rest of his life his heart never loved him again. This granted him the gift of verbal poignancy of divine caliber and cynical insight as sharp as a diamond blade but when years and years later the child asked her what his eyes were always apologizing for he understood that he had failed. As much today as years and years earlier and every day, every moment between now and then he had consistently, continuously failed and so despite his judicious reasoning and cynical insight as sharp as a diamond blade, he had ended up proving her right.

And now as he sits duly bundled up in two blankets and a fur cap that covers his ears entirely, slowly sucking on the stem of his pipe out of the habit of sucking more so than the habit of smoking he has run out of things to say or verbal poignancy of divine caliber to offer because it was only when the news of her death reached him two years after she had died that it became clear to him that love does not exist. He then had an answer for the child who was no longer a child but a young woman capable of believing in love herself and thus now blinded to the stark truths she could so deftly find amidst the flawless lies that it caused a man much oldersmarterwiser than her to understand the true nature of his crime.

And so he summoned her through the necessary agents of communication between them and despite the rancor she came for she had learnt one lesson well that regret ought be avoided whenever possible.

The answer is, he spoke for the first time since the nicotine had claimed his throat, for breaking my heart.

She remembered the question even after the years and years and every moment within those years that she had struggled to understand the nature of her crime which had warranted such a hefty punishment that she believed she would never ever stop paying for it. But his answer instantly released her from her guilt. Like the soul departing from a corpse, the guilt accumulated over years and years of wondering why travelled up and out of her and her heart welled up with as much emotion as her father's had back when he'd been told that he doesn't deserve to be loved and her father noticed the violence erupt on her face in flashes of crimson across her pale cheeks and a splash of red across the white in her eyes as he learned how it felt to have your own eyes well up with frenzy.

She either failed or chose not to heed the her father's silent request and without letting the chance to go by unheralded she permitted the tears to fall and the words to flow and I didn't think you had one, she said, i don't think you do.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

And for every head severed, two spawn anew.

Don’t stop comin’ up, don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop comin’ up, don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop comin’ up don’t stop comin’ up, you don’t stop.

Hydra. You've become your favorite monster. I hope you notice. But i know you won't.

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