Musings on Monday Mornings

I find the fact that I am driving home at 12midnight alone on highway that brooks no traffic, in a town that is not my own, frightfully unnerving. My own emancipation scares me; the fact that I am responsible for my self alone, and alone responsible for myself. Life is comforting when seen from the lens of the things that bind us. Limitations are comforting. They edge the horizons of our universe, giving us the parameters with which we can exist and understand our world. Once those parameters cease to exist, or become increasingly permeable, the opaque fluidity of time, notions, values and responsibility muddle and fuzz dimensions. That is when we step, albeit unwilling, into the realm of Emancipation. Not all of us are looking to be emancipated. Some of us prefer our golden cages. (‘Cages’ is such a cruel world. I wish I could come up with something else as a substitute. But I can’t) Emancipation How one plays with words. (I sell them too cheap). What is emancipation to one is abandon...

In truth I have nothing to write, and am giving way to my fingers which can travel the course of any letter and word, conjuring sentences as they please. For once my fingers can be masters of their own destiny--the destiny deigned for them on paper. The mystics move to a tune (sometimes of God and sometimes the lover) and somehow words dance to the touch of the fingers, much like a choreographed dance, where the participants know the steps but do not know where the chemistry of the dance might lead them to. Different paths? A shared bed? Or just some simple, plain old dancing. Deviating from this somewhat sensuous and dangerous course these word and fingers (in collusion I believe) are painting, lets away to the realm of reality. Ah, but no fun lies in trying to talk in real terms. …………….the sun has begun setting early nowadays. It too marks the end of a long year with some early time off. Characteristic afternoons spent in the hammock—languid strokes of the foot, gentle swinging—in th...

As someone who chooses to live on the periphery of ‘home’ crowds—avoiding ‘women’s associations’ get togethers, the more-than-necessary dinners and most importantly the brain draining ‘ladies parties’ that are comities, one is at something of a disadvantage when it comes to ‘common knowledge’. A) It is common knowledge that EVERYONE has exhibitions. When you work the circuit, the circuit works you. You meet, rub shoulders, buy silly clothes that don’t suit you and which you’ll never wear…and voila, you are in. “Nosheen had an exhibition” “Did you buy anything?” “No…terribly expensive, but lovely things.” And thereafter follows much enthused conversation running two and fro. Meanwhile, I’m still stuck on Nosheen who? On average there are some 3 odd exhibitions every week. The Little Me still in the Convent frock vying to make friends quips: “Why didn’t anyone invite me?” B) Insider information. It turns out there is a guy who comes to your house to fix electrical appliances. One doesn’t...

I discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time, each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind but just the opposite: a complete system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature. I discovered that I am not disciplined out of virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, that I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, that I pass myself off as prudent because I am evil minded, that I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my repressed rage, that I am punctual only to hide how little I care about other people's time. I learned in short, that love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac.

I’m trying to kill hours. And while I would love a speedy expeditious death, Time seems to be lingering on endlessly. That’s the thing about evenings. The night continues, until creeping through the shadows comes the crack of morning sunshine. Ordinarily, I would saunter from one sofa to the other, but that indulgence does not make allowances for the laptop, which given its clinical functionality must be within the range of the wireless. Also, the words ‘saunter’ and ‘laptop’ juxtaposed in my metal picture do not evoke a comfortable thought. So here I am on the floor, next to the somewhat overgrown money plant, sitting on the marbled ground, under Sadiq’s chalk-white table with a flattened glutes that’s feeling the cold. But, I want to write—nothing, something—so I suppose one must brave the floor, overgrown plant et all. Today I found out Richard Moore died. He died in his sleep on September 4th, but the news caught up with me today. It was strange hearing of his death. He wasn’t one ...

So, through some massive last minute manoeuvrings, serious prayers and just a good-old kick from Fate in the buttocks, Shanz has managed Harvard. I count-- this dream has comfortably been 12 years in the making (With Honors [1996]). That’s a pretty long time considering how fast things change. So a kid and a husband later, actually a husband and a kid later (she did it the legit way), Shanz has initiated the dream. While there is immense guilt (she misses her kids first birthday, and insists she misses her husband) it appears dreams are not subject to reality. You can apparently pull them off. I guess it comes down to perseverance. As the Aitchisonians say it “Perseverance commands success.” But so far, there is no furniture though. She bunks with Nazia across the bridge. But who cares for trivial details like furniture while there are bigger dreams at play here. Hope springs eternal.

I read a blog recently of a friend of a friends, who for the major part of my life was defined within the vast confines of “Mano ki class fellow.” As I age, it appears the world shrinks and ages get swallowed up into the divide that no longer distinguishes me from her. Perhaps there are only three stages, one called ‘childhood’, then ‘teenage’ and then the bleak vastness that is ‘adulthood’. Within the latter we all try to scurry into our skins (sometimes outside) to recall the two stages that have passed before. It turns out that this blog stirred something. Azam and I spend some time discussing how all the world is the same. Mandated by a strange military-like obedience to like what is popular. In this scheme of things a differing view rarely draws positive feedback. Case to point: Fergie whatever-her-name’s song, “My Hump”. If I could shoot myself every time I hear it—I’d die any easy death. Perhaps, yes, my life, even though lived within the confines of somewhat dictatorial parents...

Green light, Seven Eleven You stop in for a pack of cigarettes You don't smoke, don't even want to Hey now, check your change Dressed up like a car crash Your wheels are turning but you're upside down You say when he hits you, you don't mind Because when he hurts you, you feel alive Hey babe, is that what it is Red lights, gray morning You stumble out of a hole in the ground A vampire or a victim It depend's on who's around You used to stay in to watch the adverts You could lip syn to the talk shows And if you look, you look through me And when you talk, you talk at me And when I touch you, you don't feel a thing If I could stay... Then the night would give you up Stay...and the day would keep its trust Stay...and the night would be enough Faraway, so close Up with the static and the radio With satelite television You can go anywhere Miami, New Orleans London, Belfast and Berlin And if you listen I can't call And if you jump, you just might fall And if y...

A thought for the random abyss: What is passion? Is it better (or worse) than happiness. Is there an alternative. Is it better to dream, or to live the dream and have nothing to dream about. Do illusions hold in the realm of reality. and, What if...... Is there a what if?

Ennui: Listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom There is something to be said about getting everything. {Dear god, putting aside the ingratitude that may seem to be reeking from the proceeding text, please bear the ramblings of this 20-something (if I were a man—prick) and put it down to… say… PMS. Also please ignore the multi-purpose ‘P’ in this particular regard. In toto please turn a deaf ear to this blog.} Yes, Ennui: listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom. To recall: Spent the morning listening to a chef called Martin Sperber from Stuttgart Germany who had a jollier time talking about his ‘antics’ in London from the hey days than the new ‘fusion menu’ on the cards for implementation at the four-star hotel chain. Not to mention that he looked like a rib-eye steak on legs (not that I am judging) and had nothing profound what-so-ever to add to my life……of course other than the fact that I’ll have some change jingling...

Danke Schoen, Darling, Danke Schoen. Thank you for all the joy and pain. Picture shows, second balcony, was the place we'd meet, Second seat, go Dutch treat, you were sweet. Danke Schoen, Darling, Danke Schoen. Save those lies, Darling don't explain. I recall, Central Park in fall. How you tore your dress, what a mess, I confess. That's not all. Danke Schoen, Darling, Danke Schoen. Thank you for walks down Lover's Lane. I can see, hearts carved on a tree. Letters inter-twined, for all time, yours and mine, that was fine. Danke Schoen, Darling, Danke Schoen. Thank you for seeing me again. Though we go on our seperate ways, Still the memory stays, for always, my heart says, Danke Schoen. Danke Schoen, Oh Darling, Danke Schoen. I said, Thank you for seeing me again. Though we go- on our seperate ways, Still the memory stays, for always, my heart says, Danke Schoen. Danke Schoen, Auf Wiedersehn, Danke Schoen

This isn’t about what one may think. Yes, in that way the title is delightfully misleading. It’s got something to do with the larger universe, tucked away under the mattress of your bed. Yes. It’s to do with the power of corners, cervices and conduits that beckon like Haydes to the underworld. Lurking within the periphery of your vision, but never truly visible—the evil that hides in the space between the elevator itself and the floor it is standing on. The abyss of gutter and manhole covers that threatens to swallow up the trinkets in your hand. Yes, dear, this piece is about the inevitability of the Unknown. Scenario 1: Manhole Covers At Home Destitution and poverty has its advantages. Two case; either there is a cover, or there is nothing. Round, solid and heavy, the Manhole Cover at Home has no spaces. No odd grill, design ingenuities or dents. By design or otherwise, this design has logistical advantages. A) Ungrateful, greedy and opportunist citizens (who find anything from schoo...

There was a debate about right and wrong, about the shades of grey that pollute the severity of black and white. And I in my parochial views found it so hard to understand. Questions: What is fidelity? Is it only prompted by something legal or is it binding without a written contract? If it is the latter then what constitutes a breach? How permeable is the line and how often is it permeated before you have officially crossed it? Does age have a bearing on fidelity? If you are young and are testing the waters, so to speak, are you more liable to break out of a relationship, than say, if you were older. What is a girl friend? Is she a girl who happens to be your friend, among a multitude of girls who are also your friends? Or is she exclusively your girl friend, who though a girl, is ‘first among equals’? Does the use of legal titles render people more faithful? And, if she is ‘first among equals’, then applying the rules of fair choice and democracy, is she as open to being ousted (as a...

Thanks for the song. It really made a difference

“My candle burns at both ends. It will not last the night. But ah my friends and Oh my foes, it casts a lovely light.” It’s been one of those days, and then worse, it been one of those nights. “There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out-carol the Lark and the Nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain……or so says the legend.” Feel like a nice, long drag on a never ending cigarette. If only! "Oh Mrs. Dalloway. Always throwing parties to cover the silence."

Bruce Springsteen always united Ami and me. First there was Dancing in the Dark and then this. Today I stuck a tape in the CD player, which in itself is a visit down memory lane in this digital-infested world, and hearing the song felt the strongest urge to fall in a puddle and get a hearty weeping. How did she do it? That gentle swaying between the feet like a footballer getting the blood flowing to those knotty nerves, while she clicked away on the fingers, head rolled down at an angle and eyes closed. I recall that she always tried to pull me in tango style into the dance but I was too self conscious to let my self go. And then she would grin, goofy style (my mother, she would grin goofy style) and sing the lyrics out of tune and often wrong. And today as the song blared at an obscenely high volume and I looked out the curtain-less window onto an unusually darkened, somewhat melancholy back yard, was reminded of all the missed times when I didn’t dance. Some bugger sang it right: “I...

I went to the wood because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience and be able to give a true account of my next excursion

Having moved out of home, I often think of the places that I have been and that I will be and am reminded of a line from Out of Africa: "If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?" Maybe I'll wander without ever touching anything, or perhaps these things will beckon of me once I am gone?

The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high... Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose... Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man... And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's." A. E. Housman

Word of the Day for Sunday March 12, 2006 parvenu \PAR-vuh-noo; -nyoo\, noun: 1. One that has recently or suddenly risen to a higher social or economic class but has not gained social acceptance of others in that class; an upstart. adjective: 1. Being a parvenu; also, like or having the characteristics of a parvenu. But the favourite's power and influence provoke intense ill-feeling among other courtiers, who regard him as a sinister usurping parvenu with ideas above his station, or perhaps even a sorcerer. -- Francis Wheen, "The whole truth about Peter's friends,"

Just finished with Kennedy’s Unfinished Life , which most ironically was left unfinished for the better part of the year. Finally though, yesterday the last chapter closed with his sad, yet by this time very predictable death in Dallas. (Love that about fiction—the hope that maybe he may live, become a single-woman kind of guy and live happily ever after with his delightfully charming American-royalty wife Jackie. But alas! Only in fiction.) Have now started with Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Know . So far, so good. Even while writing things in a medium as public as this, one thinks in one of two ways. A) I am brilliant, my work is brilliant. I will get (relative) fame and recognition from the (two) people who (actually) do read this crap I occasionally spurt out (Azam Noon and of late, though serious Nancy Drew tactics Amal Khan {though I don’t know how much the latter reads. The former has no choice. He is blood. I will hound him with sagging butt skin and fake dentures till he’s 80 ...

There's a big date today at 3.30pm with Destiny. But like all desirable women from whom we want something, she'll keep me waiting. And when I finally get my time with her, she will be dismissive, evasive and indifferent. She doesn’t know of all the people standing outside in the line that stretches to eternity and often beyond. There I'll linger with the other enthusiasts who have come to her to drink their bit from her well. AndI assume I will be unprepared. Still my shy self, troubled by the soul bearing that is mandated for the interview. She'll coax me into doing what she wants, even though my teachers have instructed me in the art of asking for what I want. Is it I who wants it? Is this what I want? And I will stumble through my speech, appear incoherent and at the end of the interview assume she understood what I had asked for—cherubim flesh with eyes that shine adoration. It was I love I had, a longing for Destiny to play her course with me. But it is the ravens ...

She smiles. Its always the little things that matter. A perfect picture with a glimpse of a tear on a smile, a hollow look, a turned cheek. Something read between the lines. It drizzles outside...and little tears fall down the pane, tracing gullies of dirt down a shadowy path to the point where it trickles outside the vision. What are they crying for? The depressive calm of grey outside the window is strangely reassuring. A leaf out of place, a whispered breeze may break this calm. And the rush will come, with the storm raging its heart out. Till then its silent, with the drizzle drumming a gentle beat of tears on the pane. It continues. But still she smiles on. And this perfectness we assumed would continue, that it would not come...the day when tomorrow was too far away in thought and even further in sustainability. Today is a burden even. She knew it but she never thought about it. Was there much peace bought on the hope that it might last? At least the smile was accompanied by some...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.

And so it is Just like you said it would be Life goes easy on me Most of the time And so it is The shorter story No love, no glory No hero in her sky I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes... And so it is Just like you said it should be We'll both forget the breeze Most of the time And so it is The colder water The blower's daughter The pupil in denial I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes off you I can't take my eyes... Did I say that I loathe you? Did I say that I want to Leave it all behind? I can't take my mind off you I can't take my mind off you I can't take my mind off you I can't take my mind off you I can't take my mind off you I can't take my mind... My mind...my mind... ...