"He has the face of someone called Esteban."

before bed each night.

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray

We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray

Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from the kids

Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away

-- Mrs Robinson, Simon and Garfunkel

sidrah at 7:20 PM

Sunday, February 27

lemon zesty memories.

The first week of our new semester has bloomed in fastforward and passed us by so quickly, that no one even had time to inhale it's sickly sweetness.

Not much has changed. We're still in the old campus and are expecting to stay there for a few weeks, the least. Not much has changed. Everyone still greets the chowkidaar with a bright smile early morn. Everyone still glances around for the guard-dog two seconds later. Everyone still strides in mechanic remembrance to the classrooms. Everyone still checks the bulletin board after dropping their bags and books on a favorite seat. Everyone still basks in the sweetness of the light air, chirpy cold weather and green mellowness.

With one difference.

We gaze longingly around and try to absorb everything at once. We've been given time to say our goodbyes to a place we love and adore. Tiny be it, our campus is still much loved. You can still pick a corner in the vast ground and plomp onto the ground and read a Paulo Coelho classic. You can still play hide-and-seek in between the benches and trees. You can still hang on the fattest branches of the fruit-trees, whose inedible fruit makes great ammunition to hit an unexpecting victim who in turn look towards the sky to see where the offending source originated from. You can still jump over the mini-canal to stomp onto the road and declare your joy; over the littlest things. You can shake the lemon trees and sink your nose into the greensour rawness. You can check the progress of the mango trees and watch as fruitmen come from afar and steal the jammons that have carpeted the grounds. If you scavenge hard enough, you can even come upon a beer bottle, carelessly thrown astray, you can pick a friend and read its contents aloud and repeat the 'muree brewery' tagline at the bottom of the label. You can watch traffic flow buy and donkeycarts pull lightweights and wave to young kids who look at you in awe, wondering when they'll bve old enough to carry books and walk on the road all by themselves. You still have the option to waddle through the fields of mustardyellow flowers and dirt paths. You can still see a long stretch of field as far out as your sight can register. You can still point out to passing cars and rate then out of ten. You can still run yelling on the main road (when the traffic's thin enough, ofcourse) screaming your head off and back. You can still hitch a ride on you friend's pickup truck and stand at the back, cold air rushing at your face, tussling your hair and unheedingly blowing your clothes whichever way it pleases. You can still climb up halfway on the barkless trees and be shocked when a flash of light appears and you realize that a friend has taken a picture of you in the most ungracefull treeclimbing position ever, and jump down and run after that friend in circles, screaming light-obcensities. You can still hang out with the guys and act like one of them, occasionally shouting out aloud how smoking 'those disgusting cigarettes' will just kill them sooner, or walk at the very edges of the open sewers in proclaimation of fearless fear. Your friends will still stop a motorcyle-walla on the road and ask him if he's willing to take all eight of you standing, watching and smiling, to the next bus stop. You can hop up-and-down when an annoucement of a morning class being cancelled is made and head towards the ammrud-walla and ask him to give you a kilo of khataay ammrud, with the ritualistic chat-masala, lemon and orange juice and other sour things, for only thiry bucks, which you will gobble down in a large group - piece by piece. You can still head over to the nearest park, rush to see who gets to the swings first, and fight off the park-attendent who insists that people over 12 can NOT use the swings ("But I am 12! Mentally!"). The joy of grabbing a cup of peach yogurt and skittles and bumping into an unkempt and dishevelled rockstar who was out to buy vegetables for his mom and who is extremly terrorized to see people see him in such a horrible state; is still very much there.

It's in my ears and in my eyes, in my nose and on my tongue.

sidrah at 5:47 PM

lord of the flies.

"The tide was coming in and there was only a narrow strip of firm beach between the water and the white, stumbling stuff near the palm terrace. Ralph chose the firm strip as a path because he needed to think; and only here could he allow his feet to move without having to watch them. Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of his life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet."

I just finished reading that 1950s classic titled Lord of the Flies, by William Golding. I did a backflip when I saw it buried under Shakespeare in a clandestine corner of the teeny bookshop-basement in front of Al-Fatah (which must be paid atleast one mandatory visit every month, lest the gods get angry) and almost squealed with delight: here was a book my english teacher had told us so much about.

While George Orwell wrote in Animal Farm, the division of classes and societies, Golding takes it one step further and discusses exactly how raw nature and a structureless society can lead to the surfacing of the very sin-malaised and crude nature of man. The novel is highly realistic; you can picture the characters taking a stroll along the beach and chasing after sows - a story you can recall from your soul, a story you think you'll known from before from a previous life.

sidrah at 12:50 PM

Saturday, February 26

depravity; such a lovely word.

You don't really want to hear about the frivolties, now do you? You want smiling sunflowers and singing creeks and dancing sunlight and trees that whisper the hearts of men to one another and mirages that glisten when the sun is at its apex and heat that swirls into clouds of beings and beatle-songs and happy tales to laugh at.

Unfortunately I have none of that to offer. Just a bruised heart.

Now you wouldn't want to hear about that, most of all.

Listening to: Here come's the Sun by The Beatles

sidrah at 1:10 PM

Thursday, February 24

i am... sad.

I want to write and write and write my tiny, little heart out.

I want to rip out my heart, grab it in my right fist and slam it again the white canvas. I want to splatter it all over the whiteness, and I want chunks of heartmeat to trail the path I rub thiswayandthatway with my heartfisted palm. I want to see blood drip down in steady streams till they dripdripdrip onto the floor and form tiny pools. I want to smudge my heart and dissolve it onto the whitespace till all that's left in my palm is the bloodied scapes of my onceuponatime heart. Then I want to rub my palms clean at the back of my jeans and step two paces away from my masterpiece and gawk in amazement of what i've created.

Then I want to wake up the next day and see blood clotting and repairing the sidrahheartshaped-hole I created in the universe.

sidrah at 1:27 PM

all i want is my billy joel.

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray
South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio

Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Studebaker, television
North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe

Rosenbergs, H-Bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom
Brando, "The King and I", and "The Catcher in the Rye"

Eisenhower, vaccine, England's got a new queen
Marciano, Liberace, Santayana goodbye

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Josef Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev
Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc

Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, dacron
Dien Bien Phu and "Rock Around the Clock"

Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team
Davy Crockett, "Peter Pan", Elvis Presley, Disneyland

Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Khrushchev
Princess Grace, "Peyton Place", trouble in the Suez

Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac
Sputnik, Chou En-Lai, "Bridge on the River Kwai"

Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball
Starkweather, homicide, children of thalidomide

Buddy Holly, "Ben-Hur", space monkey, Mafia
hula hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no go

U2, Syngman Rhee, payola and Kennedy
Chubby Checker, "Psycho", Belgians in the Congo

Hemingway, Eichmann, "Stranger in a Strange Land"
Dylan, Berlin, Bay of Pigs Invasion

"Lawrence of Arabia", British Beatlemania
Ole Miss, John Glenn, Liston beats Patterson

Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British politician sex
JFK, blown away, what else do I have to say

Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon, back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, terror on the airline
Ayatollolah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan

"Wheel of Fortune" , Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola Wars, I can't take it anymore..

- We didn't start the fire, Billy Joel

For more information on these cultural references.

sidrah at 1:02 PM

fairy-tales.

There's no story, no tale, no novel that will touch you like a fairy-tale. In a time when the daily grunge of our assembly-line life passes in slow motion shaded in with hues of dun and grey, all you need is a little magic, a completely different pretend-world that isn't too far-fetched for us to not believe that it may coincide within this very dimension, and immense strength of characters that you can constantly suck out with tonguesoft tendencies.

When you do find a good book, a good fairy tale, all you desire to do is lap in all that goodness as soon and as much as possible. You learn to know the characters, you live with them, they reside in your daylight fantasies and nighttime dreams. You have imaginary swordfights with bookfoes and tussles with bookfriends. You learn to love them and you turn every page with zombielike stares and a heart that seems to beat faster and faster with the end of each chapter and then you their: that point when there is no one; no one in the whole world except you and the characters of that book - there are no grasshoppers chirping in your garden, no nightly watchmen blowing a whistle at one am in the morning, no dogs howled far off - nothing. Just you and that book. There is space filled up with hobbits, elves, witches and wizards and there is time - but nothing else.

But when you feel the stilllefttoread part of you book getting lighter, and as you slowly reach towards the end of the book - a part of you falls to pieces and crumbles to the floor. It's as if a good friend is parting forever from your life and you read the last few pages with a heavy heart, be the ending good or bad, and you always have tears slide down your cheek when you read and reread that last line over and over again. Nothing hits you with more force then that last line.

And you put the book away, still dwelling on it for days to come, it still possesses a chunk of your heart, it still fills up your daydreams. But then you move on. Until month and months later, in a forgotten corner of your closet - which you could have sworn was hidden from your view till that very moment - out comes that very same book you worshipped just a while back - exactly the same, save for a thin film of dust and slightly curled edges, waiting to be opened and read again.

And you finger the cover and let your palm memorize the bookfront, while you inhale the scent of sandpapered adventures and a rekindled flame of love suddenly ignites your heart.

And it starts all over again; your secret world of secure happiness awaits.

sidrah at 11:58 AM

tisk, tisk.

I was just fiddling around with my blogskin when I got this sms from someone today - never has any four-liner fitted me so perfectly:

"Flatter me, and I may not believe you. Critisize me, and I may not like you. Ignore me, and I may not forgive you. Encourage me, and I may not forget you."

Reminds me of a more antedulivian Dickens times, where all learned men were great and the prose they scribbled out on scraps of dirty and torn paper were the real secrets of life.

sidrah at 11:57 AM

Monday, February 21

what tolkien left out.

I have never laughed this hard since I last saw an 'Da Ali G Show' episode:

The Secret Diary of Frodo Baggins
The Secret Diary of Samwise Gamgee
The Secret Diary of Legolas, son of Weenus
The Secret Diary Of Aragorn, Son Of Arathorn

sidrah at 9:57 AM

See? This makes two people in the world who can't spell.

sidrah at 9:57 AM

And tommorrow, the torture of giggly-girls who beam under the attention of the guys, long cold walks in the chilling afternoon, and struggling with twenty or so books at a time, begins.

Such a lovely semester break this was.

sidrah at 8:31 AM

4comments

Sunday, February 20

which way is gondor?

I can currently be found in the dark realms and deep pages of Tolkien's classic. Never has a fairy tale even held me spellbound like it did last night: for eight hours straight - and i mean the whole eight hours (except for one pizza break and a couple of water bottles gulped hungrily). My head hurt and I ached all over and I was panting for ten minutes like a tired dog in the shunning sun after I finally put the book away, and forced my tired eyes to sleep.

sidrah at 9:43 AM

Friday, February 18

anyone at all.

She listened with every nerve in her body for some sort of sound or a hint of the daily streetnoise; of wheels creaking, or a fruitman attempting to sell tired-looking grapes - even the passingbynoise of a car. She heard approaching footsteps scratching the sandbrushed tiles of the driveway and jumped up and immediatedly sat back down at the edge of the bed with the same speed, once she realized her mistake.

The visitor knocked on the door.

She wrapped both arms about her stomach and breathed in and out. She counted to three before she went to answer the door, not wanting to appear too excited, hearing impatient shuffling of a pair of feet as she drew closer to the source of noise.

She opened the door and tried to conceal spots of joy that erupted around her mouth, but to no avail. The visitor had the tip of her chadaar tucked delicately beneath the rows of her front teeth - pearly white teeth connected to her mouth with darkpurple colored jaws; the color of raw meat left in the refridgerator for two to three weeks. The vistor took the end of the chadaar from her mouth and began to unconsiously play with it with her two index fingers, revolving in circle, while she greeted the lady of the house who had just opened the door and was smiling at her. The visitor was nervous but hopeful, detecting the mood of the lady with the welcoming smile.

She greeted her misteress and attempted to crack a grin, successing for only a second before wrinkles of concern conjured on her forehead. The misteress urged her inside the house but she hesitated and explained how her child was sick and she had to take him to the hospital.

Why can't that husband of yours take him, mouthed the mistress, obvious dissapointment and anger lingering at the edges of her eyes. The maid sighed and explained how he was busy at work and she had to take the son immedieatly before he fell seriously ill, with promises of staying longer tommorrow to catch up on the missed work.

The mistress tried to make her stay, tried to prolong the conversation, she asked about the symtoms of her child, how she would get to the hospital - talk unimportant to the mistress, but atleast it meant having somebody to speak to, somebody to listen, somebody to converse with.

The maid hurriedly gave a brief synopsis of her plan and was now turning to go when the mistress tried one last time and offered to go with her.

The maid now twitched and looked wide-eyed, kajol outlining the brims of her white pupils, bordering with watery tears, fear shackled from every pore of her body. She refused and thanked the misteress, before breaking into a near-run and heading quickly out of sight. She always feared the toofriendly approach of her misteress and only gave monosyllabic answers to the numerous questions she would ask. She would always refuse her invitations to stay longer for a cup of chai, making excuses that her children were home and waiting for her. In reality, she was just afraid of the misteress, not understanding her behaviour - never having been drenched with friendliness all of her life.

The lady sighed heavily and stepped back to shut the door. She returned to her nowcold spot on the bed, smoldering the folds with the base of her hand, and clearing away bedsheet-wrinkles with a slight acurate pull of the sheets.

She sat down and folded her legs onto the bed and sat very carefully to listen again, waiting patiently for any scruffle of feet at the door. But she knew no one would come. After all, no one lived at the large greying bungalow except for her and the silence, interrupted only by the arrival of the milkman early morn, and the maid in the afternoon.

But she still waited with bated breath for someone. Anyone. Anyone at all.

Labels: shorties

sidrah at 8:52 AM

so saideth the wise.

He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today, to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be alone in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the horror was that he might also be wrong.

-- 1984, George Orwell

Listening to: Back in the USSR by the beatles

sidrah at 8:35 AM

Thursday, February 17

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban: a movie review of sorts, but mostly, the sound of my self-absorbed self.

Monday night I was up watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and I have to say I wasn't impressed. No sir, I wasn't impressed at all. Truth be told, the first two movies weren't pin-me-on-the-wall-because-you-love-me perfect either, but they did do justice in their own little ways. Even though the first two movies deviated from the plot in their own special easteregg ways, that's exactly what made them acceptable. But with the size of the books getting bigger and bigger with age, it's just harder to pull off the harry potter movies.

The very essence that make Harry Potter the grandslaming hit it is today is the intricately woven plots and subplot and submerged sub-subplots. The way the dialogue flows, the subtle humor, the different characters that leave a little bit of themselves behind each time you allow yourself to wander in the realms of the pages. That is exactly what makes the series such a loveable classic and such a childhood novelty that just never wears off. But when you take away the very essence and try to squish the story into a three-and-a-half hour film, you immediately lose the magic.

The reason Harry Potter movies have been able to gross so much in ticket revenues is due to the sheer joy of the readers to actually put that mind's eye into clearer focus; to actually see with your very eyes how the wizarding world would be like: the quidditch matches, the creatures, the spells, Hogwarts et al. That and no reason else. The films depends on the fan base of the book and not vice versa.

Coming back to Prisoner of Azkaban, why ever would anyone think of handing the direction to Alfonso Cuaron, when Christopher Columbus was doing a perfectly good job? Your right they wouldn't - because as far as I know, Columbus gave up the job after the second film. Which is probably the downfall of the Potter films to come. Add to that the death of Richard Harris (Dumbledore in movie 1 and 2) and your in deep dung.

The three main actors (who play Harry, Hermione and Ron) have encountered a growth spur that sometimes leaves them looking older then the plot age. Rupert Grint (Ron Weasley) is a natural - the kid has more talent then a bunch of top-earning hiphop artists put together (but then again, you never need talent to be a hiphop star - just an eagerness to strip). Apart from Rupert, Alan Rickman (Professor Snape) tops the acting gig. These two are just as you imagined them, perfectly fitting their roles, and such a delight to watch. Even Richard Harris seemed like a real life Dumbledore flown off the pages of the books and deposited into the movie. But with Richard gone, Michael Gambon has taken his place. This Gambon character was laughable in the third movie. Not only was he totally un-Dumbledore-ish, he was a laughable, loony character with no screen presence - more like a poor, uncultured cousin of Dumbledore. Dumbledore is the kind of man you want to look at and sit up and pay close attention too (something Richard Harris did extremely well) but this ole' buffoon of a Gambon makes you want to drift your attention to anything but him - like the color of the shoes of the guy next to him. Despicable.

Another disappointment is Sirius Black (Gary Oldman). Not only is his acting preposterous - he seems to be an overactive jumpy wombat who just took an overdose of caffeine. And since Sirius is supposed to be everyone's favorite character (don't even get me started on how much I cried when he dies in book 5), the movie really screws that for us as well.

And finally Draco (Tom Felton). Draco, draco, draco. What a pitiful little wimp they've turned you into. Draco is a mean, halfassed jerk whose only purpose in life seems to be ruining Harry's. But instead, he is bred into a stupid oaf whose really just scared of him under a layer or two - in the third movie. Tisk, tisk.

The third movie leaves one's attention drifting off. Every line conveys a whole chunk of information - which gets too hard to swallow (especially if you haven't read the book in a while), but the script-writers aren't to blame (who did a swell job, given their limitations). The fault is no one's: there just isn't time to cover the whole plot in! How are you supposed to cover a 500 page book plot into a 3.5 hour movie - while knowing that you can't increase the time, because, after all, your target market are ten year old kids; and everyone knows how long an ten year old's attention span will last nowadays.

I just can't wait to see what they do with the 800-page whooper of a book 4. Please don't screw that one too, Alfonso.

sidrah at 3:34 PM

Wednesday, February 16

I looooooove this song. Period. Sixty one seconds of bliss, I tell you - bliss!

You're comin' up like a flower,
You're comin' up through the cracks,
That live 'round here,
Everybody knows we have no fear,
This is my generation,
'Cause we just want to dance all night,
Live inside the spark of life,
This might be the only time around,
We wanna know the face of freedom,
We wanna make a place where we can learn to love,
Build a world that we can be proud of,
This is my generation.

-- My Generation, Emerson Hart

sidrah at 4:34 PM

Tuesday, February 15

random unrelated fish-hooked thoughts.

Thought-hunting is like hooking in salt-water trouts: you lure them in with colorful sinkers and do nothing but wait for one to arrive. And when one finally does, you try hard at reeling it. Sometimes your successful, other times you aren't. And sometimes your trout is just too small, and you end up throwing it back into the lake - grim and irratated, but waiting for somthing else to pass by.

On an unrelated note: I need to start re-reading/editing my posts. These spelling mistakes I make, make me out as an incoherent mentally retarded dyslectic neanderthol.

On another completely unrelated note: The difference between a good day and a bad day may be that one song that rattles on in your brain while you walk into your university.

Listening to: bohemian like you by Dandy Warhols

sidrah at 8:59 AM

Monday, February 14

Plan A.

Each us of should have a simple, white-linen place where we can go to when we're angry at God.

Since our explicit array of emotions prevents us from having them in our control; we should all set varying-from-individual tasks to launch into headlong when we are in inexplicable hurt with the Big Guy. So instead of resorting to blasphemous retorts or doing something we would regret later on, programming oneself to launch into Plan A, by default, would be the smartest thing to do.

Now, this Plan A can be anything. A corner of your house, a pillow to bury your head in, a CD in the background, a book cover. This place could even be our communion when we're in need of cooling down yet rebellious enough of an act to show our pain - and a blasphemous level acceptable to the angels.

My Plan A gets me through my days.

sidrah at 2:22 PM

gushing with pride, aren't we?

You who sit with such smug satisfaction in the confines of your castle of self-build pride, you, you will be the very first to fall when the battle of truth breaks out. Acknowledging a superiority when it can not be compared leave along deducted or be resolved to a mere pocket-calculator estimation. Just because you itch with fiery joy, and raise mockery with your eyebrows with a glance of the goldmines other try so hard to dig out, means nothing. A day will come when the upper throne will finally be disgusted and will retaliate by crossing out and rewriting your faith in a way where even the stoniest of paths would seem pleasurable. Lodging stones in between the patterned soles of shoes, purposely dragging the base of your feet, in attempt to scrap it off, before you lean on a tree trunk and are forced to dislodged the grime with the very tips of your hands; the same hands you would clench with solemn assurity and privileged pride, as though it were your very birth right.

Pride of any degree should quickly be hushed. Prejudice of any volume, ushered to the confines of a nevertoreturn place. And only then, only then my friend, will you be happy.

sidrah at 2:14 PM

Sunday, February 13

the reckless adventues of polly jones and the death-machine.

Such an occasion, such a delight, such a marvel.

Microwaved popcorn, ofcourse.

I've been weaned throughout childhood on the idea that an electronic device can blow up like an atomic bomb in your face. Computers, television, microwaves, you name it - all of these are sitting time bombs waiting to explode. An idea implanted, undoubtedly, by all those Steven Seagal action movies I used to watch at a younger more innocent time - an idea, encouraged by my very own parents, who didn't exactly enjoy the idea of us three children eating infront of the television all the time, and carelessly using our tv set as a cup holder.

But I've grown up now. And I know that electronics will not blow me up. They may shoot up sparks and start burning, but that's only if your pet cat pees on your CPU, or so said a friend.

But the idea, the very idea of my dieing a very unglamorous death barefooted on my kitchen tiles, heating up dinner in the microwave and it blowing up in my face - that idea very much lurks and does backstrokes in the deep, dark corners of my mind whenever I punch in '30 seconds' on that evil, white death-machine.

So you can pretty well imagine how near to wetting my pants I was when a box of microwaved popcorn was brought home last week. Any thing closely related to the food group known as junk food - and I pounce on it, rip it's package, and eat like like a mad woman. So ofcourse I had to have so microwaved popcorn. Come on now, ofcourse I had too.

So I set to the task by reading every safety instruction/type print/word on the carton. It was pretty simple, really. Just place the bag in, and heat for three to four minutes and take out the bag very carefully since it'll be steaming hot. The instruction were repeated all over the bag, and a few dozen times on the carton as well. For people like me I suppose. Or just for them slow rednecks.

After vivaciously scanning the product for the triangular 'precaution' sign or any 'security hazard' sign, I was a little disappointed. Nothing.

'How can it be? How can this be safe? You mean to tell me tiny little explosions will be going on in that death-machine of mine and I will be safe?! For God's sake! And no warnings?! What if it's my last meal! What if something goes terribly wrong? What if, what if, what if...'

I carefully peeped through the kitchen door, scanning the room for any possible extraneous external factor to encourage the explosion of the death-machine. None in sight.
I carefully peeled the bag from it's plastic wrapper, reread all it's directions and took a huge intake of air before opening the microwave.

After carefully placing the bag horizontally, I pressed the '30 seconds' button and ducked (with my hands over my head, ofcourse - the head always comes first when you want to save your life (basic household survival guide, pg 312)) within 0.23 milliseconds of initiation.

I waited for the impact: the whirr of the microwave plate. The hum of the microwave.

'Huh?'

whirr. hum.

'Why isn't it blowing up?'

And then I peer, very carefully, and lo and behold. It worked! I was alive! I made it! I survived!

And before the thirty seconds was up, I repressed for another 30 seconds and stared hard, crossing my fingers.

'Nope, still going fine. No signs of exploding. Gosh gee, maybe I'm overreacting about this micr-'

pop.

This is the part where I seriously ducked and was about to scream out loud when I heard it again-

pop.

'Is that the? Is the popcorn supposed to? is this nor-?'

pop. pop. popopopopop. poppoppoppoop. pop.

--------------

No, I didn't die that day, thankfully. And yes, those pops were the normal sounds of the birth of hot, yummy, buttery, salty popcorn. Till this very day (yeah sure, it' only been ONE WEEK since that happened, Sidrah) I'm still scared to pop popcorn for the first 17 seconds.

Hey, you can never be too cautious. Evil, evil death-machine that it is.

sidrah at 2:17 PM

Friday, February 11

disconnected is such a sweet, sweet word.

sidrah at 8:56 PM

Tuesday, February 8

Vienna by Billy Joel

Slow down, you crazy child
you're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart, tell me
Why are you still so afraid?

Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You'd better cool it off before you burn it out
You've got so much to do and
Only so many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told..
That you can get what you want or you get old
You're gonna kick off before you even
Get halfway through
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

Slow down, you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight
Tonight,...
Too bad but it's the life you lead
you're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong, you know
You can't always see when you're right. you're right

You've got your passion, you've got your pride
but don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

Slow down, you crazy child
and take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile
it's all right, you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize,..Vienna waits for you?
And you know that when the truth is told
that you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get half through
Why don't you realize,. Vienna waits for you
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

sidrah at 11:56 AM

You need to open up more.

Huh?

You need to open up m-

I heard what you said! But what exactly do you mean I need to 'open up more'?

I don't know... go out more, I suppose

Go out more?

Yes! Go out more!

And why in the world who you all of a sudden, in the middle of the night, on a grey rainy day, come to that conclusion, your highness?

Your just so..

So what?

Bitter..

Hah! Bitter, am I?

Yes. Bitter.

*silence*

You need to get out more, experience the world, experience love firsthand instead of reading about it in fairy tales or watching it in movies that leave you teary-eyed at the ending. You need to stop dwelling on the the technicalities - nothing would change if you don't read that book on Nazi history - the cosmic balance of earth will not be overthrown if you don't watch that documentary on Rembrant. Just get out more. Go find yourself.

Ahh, I see. So what your saying is that the only way to find out what one truly can aim to be is my wandering the steerts of Lahore late at night, in search for some spiritual sign from the Big Guy above? First of all, too much pollution - I'll just die faster and will reach "zen" slower. Second of all, findly the meaning of my life is useless. I know how it's going to end. I'm just weathering the storm till it gets over. Heck, even my palm lines read that I'll be dead soon. So instead of wasting my time, prancing about dirt roads and jumping over gutters whose covers are stolen in the middle of the night, why not surrond myself by something warm, something that will always be the same, something that I can be sure of. By that, your highness, I am refering to the very books and documentaries you despise.

See.

See what?

You've turned bitter.

Better then the saccharine sweetness of the people you insist I spend time with.

Some of those people really care about you!

HAH!

I'm not kidding. They do. they love you from the bottom of their heart. Your only going through rebounds inflicted by certain OTHER people. Not everyone is good. But atleast be good to those who are.

I don't need anyone.

Yes, you do!

No I don't. I'm perfectly capable of managing on my own, thank you very much. I don't need two-faced cheating scums who surrond me on the pretense of concern and just sap away at soul whenever they feel the need to; hurrying off as far as possible when then see their needs fulfilled; their thirst satisfied.

The lines of a person's hand change with time you know.

What? What are you on about?

I was referring to what you said earlier. You said that your palm lines refer to an early death; don't go believing that with too much conviction.

Even if I didn't, what's the use? I plan happiness, since I have the resources to do so, I am the lucky few who can dream and actually make those dreams come true if I beleive in them hard enough. But one glance onto those who can't even dream, let alone have their dreams come into realization... one glance at them.. and I tear up my plans into shreds and revoke myself. How dare I have the right to dream when others don't? How dare I! How dare I! HOW DARE I!

Have you thought of why God made you one of the priviledged ones?

An accident of fate I call it. I could easily have been a victim to a life of hardship. But that's what eats me up from the inside. I have a perfect life. With a perfect family. With perfect friends. And a perfect career ahead of me. But do you know what one thing I lack? I lack the ability of imperfection. I can't be the poor, starved, molested, raped victims that the world if full of. I am not them. And that what's makes me so guilty! That's what kills me every - single - day. That's what makes me want to mute myself from the outside world. I can give them nothing. Nothing. Whoever said one man could alone change the world was a stupid impragmatic fool who was probablly coated under layers of comfort and a lineage of ancestral wealth and was kept warm under a blanket of pseudo-security.

Remember what someone told you once?

*shaking with anger* What?

For you, is your own world. The little you can change within YOUR own world, is enough.

*silence*

So?

I hate you.

Good. Let's go for a walk then.

Listening to: In a Funny Way by Mercury Rev

sidrah at 11:56 AM

Monday, February 7

mitters, mitters, zindabad!

From Mitter's blog.

Also people, a round of applause for Mitters, who just got her dream-admission to the University of Edinburgh. It's not every day that people's dreams come true. But mitra definitely deserves it - Every bit of it! Congratulations once again!

Welcome to the 2005 edition of getting to know your friends. What you are supposed to do is copy this entire post into your own Blog, and change all the answers so they apply to you. The theory is that you will learn a lot of little things about your friends.

1. What time did you get up this morning?
At 10:40. Was rudely awoken by mom. Hmphm!
2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds. Preciousss
3. What was the last film you saw at the Cinema?
Can't remember. Never been to a pakistani cinema - but the last movie in America I saw was definitley a Muppets movie at Chucky Cheese.
4. What is your favorite TV show?
Seinfeld is becoming a quick favorite.
5. What did you have for breakfast?
chai chahiye..
6. What is your middle name?
not applicable, bhaiyya
7. What is your favorite cuisine?
desi! Gimme anything with spices on it and I'll go chomp chomp chomp like a crazy woman.
8. What foods do you dislike?
I'll eat anything! except chinese. I depise chinese. and coffee.
9. What kind of car do you drive?
hah. My dad has been trying to get me to learn driving for ages - but - i'm - just - too - scared.
10. Favorite Sandwich?
PB n' J
11. What characteristic do you despise?
People who are just mean and matlabi, and mean and just... mean. I will take them one by one, line them up and fart on their faces, I tell you.
12. Favourite item of clothing
I love me a pair of bell-bottoms! Love, love, love!
13. If you could go anywhere in the world for a holiday where would you go?
Hawaii. The white sandy beaches of hawaii. Or paris! Wait.. hawaii.. paris.. can I go to both? Oh and Italy - definitely italy, man!
14. What color is your bathroom?
maroonish-red and white. Why? why are you asking? You sicko...
15. Favorite brand of clothing?
link road walla darzi!
16. Where would you like to retire?
Ohh, a spanish villa overlooking mountains and mountains. Just anywhere far, far away from people.
17. Favorite time of the day?
No particular favorite time, i'm sorry
18. What was your most memorable birthday?
The last one! Surprise birthday party thee, jee!
19. Where were you born?
I am such a lucky person! I can go down to my birth-walla hospital any time I want! It's the one near Liberty and right next to this university (whose name has just slipped me mind). Point is, I always frost up the windowpane and watch googily-eyed whenever I pass it (which is half a dozen times a month).
20. Favourite sport
Table tennis! and I'm bloody good at it!
21. What are you wearing right now?
shalwar kameez!
22. What star sign are you?
saggitarius
23. What fabric detergent do you use?
Ahem. Um.. I know this one. Just give me a minute... Ariel?
24. Pepsi or Coke?
Pepsi, baby! They are bigger cooperate whores man! Bring on the bloodsucking MNCs, yaara!
25. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Oh no no no - definitely not a morning person. I am a hooting owl.
26. What is your shoe size?
Whatever fits
27. Do you have any pets?
One day, hopefully. One day.
28. Any new exciting news you'd like to share with your family and friends?
hahahahahahahahahahahah *wipes a tear* hahaha, the answer that just popped into my mind was so hilarious - hahahahahahahahahahahahah-
29. What did you want to be when you were little?
a doctor, geologist, and then a vet.
30. What will you be doing today?
nothing productive, i assure you.
31. What is your favourite quality about yourself?
I am modest. Ohh, i am just so modest. i shock myself with my modestly. I go, "whoa girl, stop it" with my modesty. My modesty outshines the sun, man. Uff Allah, i'm just so modest, man...
32. What is your favourite ice cream flavor?
orange!
33. What is your favourite CD at the moment?
Parachutes by Coldplay
34. Best compliment you ever got:
Did i tell you how modest I was? oh man.. modesty.. ufff... me and modesty are like.. like... poo and the toilet man... we are made for each other....
35. Are you superstitious?
for the fun of it, yes.
36. Favourite thing to cook/make?
2-minute noodles? Ohh wait. thats the ONLY thing i can cook. Sorry. But.. uh.. i can microwave popcorn! That is tricky, i tell you!
37. Favourite quote(s):
"mujhay bhookaan laag-ing"
39. Favorite book:
too many, yaara. why do you want me to put pressure on my teeny wittle brain? why? why why why?
40. Hardest lesson ever learned:
No matter how nice you are to certain people, they will only be as good as they allow themselves too.
41. Something you would recommend to everyone to do at least once:
weed. go for it, dood.

sidrah at 2:02 PM

U2: for abid.

A promise is a promise is a promise.

Twenty years, eleven albums and two hairstyles later, U2 is still on top of it's league. If ever there was a socially-consious rockstar, the names that would appear on our lips would be Bono (in unison, i assure). How many musicians have you known who have made two Irish leaders shake hands? How many celebrities can you count who have visited IMF forums? How many bands do you know of, who would join a social organization in a heartbeat?

Which goes to stand for the point I vindictively defend: musicians are the speediest catalysts who can influence people. Let's face it: there is no bigger humanoidgod then a rockstar. Nowadays, you just need a three-minute long squelcy-pop song to have half a million people screaming their heads off. That. That is what music has grown into. Even though I despise the mindless worship of pubertic teens who dye their hair and talk about how their girlfriends dumped them last monday, you have to have a brain of stone to not appreciate the social givings of bands such as The Clash, U2, Pearl Jam singers like Bob Marley, Billy Joel et al. When you have 20 million people killing for a concert ticket, you've got the greatest gift one can have: the gift to have people listen to you. When you have conformist sheep (no offence to them sheep. I like wool, man) listening, you can open them up and shake them to their very core. Music is very practical: voicing out your opinions to millions, waking them up from their slumbers is much, much effective then a protest or strike or organization. That. That is the power of fame.

Back to U2: Even though I am not a fan of U2 (okay.. let's put those shovels down now... very...slowly...) which is partly due to the fact that I've never really sat down and listened to them (no Abid, that does not mean I want my gmail account full of U2 albums), I do appreciate and admire the social-concious nature of a group of rich, famous people who could have so easily gone the other way.

U2 all the way, dood, U2 all the way.

P.S. Haww... Is it me or have I turned into a smug intellect-wannabe?

Listening to: Girl, you really got me Going by The Kinks

sidrah at 1:48 PM

all these phases, all these stages.

I am oddly in numb satisfaction.

Midway through your life, you reach a point where you know where you want to go, but are frantically freaking out because you are nowhere near there. Before you reach that specific point in your life, you go through various phases of zenistic realizations. You think you know it all and have it all sorted out before something bursts right in your face and you forget everything in an instant.

So basically, your more or less stuck in two phases throughout life: the first where you think you've got it all sorted out and anything is within the reach of your spreadeagled fingertips. You think you can do anything; anything at all and you write down your fate on tiny bits of torn paper, reminding your futureself of your dreams and goal and ambitions and to never give up. You go through the lyricstage - the point in your life where you scribble down any song that bumps into the happywhiteclouds of your head and absentmindedly slantedly write down choruses of songs that appear out of nowhere. Such a happy phase, is this. Ignorance mixed with jovial pubertic ambition. While the second stage is a total one-eighty: it's when you view everything in a conservative light, not sure where your headed, not satisfied with where you stand and having every drop of hope sucked from the veins of you soul. It's a kind of parabola of sorts: in our teens, we want to fix the world, in our midlife, we forget that we ever could, and when we get older, we calm down and realize that it certainly was possible.

In the enligthened words of Bono: "At seventeen, everyone wants to change the world, but they move on and forget about it. Sad fact is, most of them could."

If ever I could advise someone, it would be to never ever get out of phase one. Even though depression and pessimism are so much more glamorous then it's antonyms, being miserable is no ones lost, but your own.

Listening to: Sunday Mornings by Maroon 5

sidrah at 1:44 PM

Saturday, February 5

Sunday Mornings by Maroon 5.

Adam Levine's voice is such a miracle-worker. You want to drink it up in quick cold gulps and then hold on to your throat as the gush of feeling rises to your head and then slowly sinks back down to your feet. This song, on the other hand, is a pure classic. You just wait and see, ten years from now children will be coming up to me asking me about this band and how it came into existence. Maroon 5 somehow always reminds me of noori. Let's just hope they're next album won't be as poppily-sogged as their first one.

But oye amma! Do I love this song or what!

*loudly sings, "That may be allllll I needddddddd"*

sidrah at 1:18 PM

Friday, February 4

school's out!

Yesterday, as I hurriedly jotted down the last word for my last final paper, I threw the pen down (no, I really did! The person behind me gave me a few odd looks and scowled up an angry-face as I had disturbed her concentration) and I handed (more like hurriedly pushed) my Operating Systems examsheet and grab my bag before giving that class a final look and heading out.

Exams are over. One whole week of torturous studying till four in the morning and then having to get up two hours later: over. One whole week of gourging on coffee is gone. And one more week of taking cold showers in the morning and gloomily being welcomed by other glommy people is gone! Finito! over! zero! zilch! Hah!

The next semester starts on the 21st of Febuary. Till then you can find me in heaven, heaven, heaven!

sidrah at 11:12 AM