"He has the face of someone called Esteban."

2011-11-06T13:47:00.000+05:00

Islamabad is my kind of city.

It's unsettling to think any place other than lahore could sweep me off my feet. but this capital, i tell you, i could picture spending life here.

there's the slow haziness of the days. people under proper traffic regulation, giving you way, wearing their seltbelts, never touching that horn, being pleasant and pleasing. there's a familiarity in the streets and sidewalks you pass. the homely feel of the khaiybans, the crawling greens and patches of residential areas that seem to be put there by mistake. The charm of G6, my favorite sector, the rich red of its make-belief sidewalks and the earthiness of its down-scale homes.

the slopes and dips of ataturk avenue and the calm of a 1 am drive. you seem destined to run into acquaintances here though, what with just a handful of haunts. but you take you time through islamabad. the city lets you savor itself.

the boars, are both fascinating and frightening. i mean, some grow as big as tiny bullock, and praddle about freely during the night. stories of maulings flood your brain, as you stare, intrigued, by a creature that speeds on by like a motorcyle.

just the ability to stroll the city through the nights, walk its pavements and traipse its sidewalks, unafraid. to sit on its benches, able to look up at the wide expanse of the sky, and think of such things as Possibilities. to enter a coffeehouse and smell real roasting coffee beans. to just be and let be.

and to be here with friends that fit you like a glove. trying out the likes of ginseng teas and potato leak soups and unheard-of bands and tucked-away farmhouses.

the city is like a sunday afternoon in the spring. it eases by, it flows through.
you never have to play catch-up.

2011-11-06T13:08:00.004+05:00

the sunshine streams in through the window, filling up the room. while bron-y-aur stomp plays on the laptop.

i kinda feel 18 all over again.

2011-10-22T11:22:00.001+05:00

i woke to the tiny footsteps of rain.

October barely out the door, yet islamabad can boast of doing harsh winters. Fall isn't here yet. They tell me unless the sidewalks go crunchy with leaves and orange with color, it's technically still summer. Showoffs.

Lahore's become a transit city. A place i crash at at the odd weekend. A city I can only spend 35 hours in, at best. I miss the Punjab University version of fall. When red hibiscus flowers still pop out, when the leaves go golden honey, and touch out to you. When the colors and sensations help you tune out everything else outside your periphery.

K thinks i should write more. I think he's right.

Onward to Karachi.

2011-08-27T15:02:00.001+05:00

vencer por la locura!

2011-07-09T12:19:00.004+05:00

the crackle of an electric wire
on a spitting summer day,
the crows perch unsteadily
tiptoe and stagger--
and then the air goes flat

2011-07-09T11:16:00.001+05:00

sometimes it just takes the right song, or the right fruit, or the right sunlight to create a moment of magic.

maybe it's just the feel of the wind filtering in through your window, or the recollection of summers past, spend lying on your belly consuming tolkein and apricots, or of people and smiles, and tiny scars that mark their faces.

the days are now filled with old songs, list-making, shopping, packing, compacting, and a little bit of daydreaming.

i think i will miss lahore terribly. i love my "village pretending to be a city" city, and the colors, and sounds, and the street food, and the easy temperaments, and the angry drivers, and the choked roads, and the feel of the sky, as the cedars and oaks and hibiscus trees hit out at it, and the constant stream of students and backpacks that are scattered about the city roads, and the city in the rain, and the memories now tagged to so many spots.

i'll miss my city.

2011-07-05T13:13:00.002+05:00

"i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart)"

it's hard to sum up a lifetime in a blogpost. especially a lifetime that flashed by in six months. i didn't blog about my time at CSA, being too busy being knee-deep entrenched in it - but i'm glad i captured all the worthwhile moments that made this last half year such a deep scar on the soul.

the words Bolan, Mehran, Khyber, Fatima, Syndicate, Attachments, Mess, AD, Extension Lecture etc. will never mean the same again. for all the sleeping through classes, and hiding away cell phones that were banned under the DG's orders, dodging violations, and studying for exams a night before. the computers in the library that creaked as they worked, the syndicate rooms where the airconditioning was never turned off. the faculty room where fresh untouched new yorkers waited to be fondled. the steps on the library, and the mugs of coffee and pieces of homemade chicken, while we talked about Postal and Sindh postings and KP boys. the academic block as a meetup point, and the old commoners i memorized while waiting. the peering into the bulletin boards, the filling of my water bottle, the long walks through AD lane, as the wind shuffled past. the Admin block steps, and the kamikaze lizards, and the suicide dogs, and the rats - ooh, the rats! passing underneath the dancing corridor of mehran, where shakira would be blaring out, and sitting at the badminton courts after a long 2 am matchup. the cafe benches, the gym steps, that secret spot in between khyber and punjab house.

and then the dining out, feeling extraordinarily unprobationer-like, flashing our probie card at checkpoints and nakkahs ("this is the only misuse of power i'll allow myself!"), spending the entire nights talking about life, love, dreams and the little bubble we were trapped in.

so there it is - the synopsis of the last six months. nowhere near the justice it deserves. and nowhere near the depth and love of all that i found.

"and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)"

2011-06-28T03:19:00.000+05:00

it's raining in CSA. that means an immediate flooding of the pathways, and a concerted struggle to find dry spots to hop through. AD lane awash in yellow and rain. the pavement infront of Fatima I turned into a full-scale moat.

three more days and it'll be the end of Common Training Program.

the ladies are slowly stewing their luggage away. one can see rooms cramped with cardboard boxes as you glance through open doors. theres an unruliness in the grounds as the mad rush of clearances begin.

these six months have changed my life. and right now, the future's looking beautiful.

2011-05-03T10:41:00.004+05:00

Loss.

2011-05-02T22:58:00.002+05:00

nights like these and clarity in old school Coldplay.

all the pop songs sound different now.

2011-03-23T12:02:00.000+05:00

bereavement defiles my tidy little neighbourhood. tragedy reeks in the street across.

a young boy, whom i grew up across from, killed two weeks ago. from the very same house with the mango tree; tilted permanently by the weight of its fruits and the smacks it was delivered to get to them.

i feel and hate my bubble more than ever at this moment.

i quietly look on as mom meets the parting family, bold in their grief and outrage. the young girl, amina, always arching to be a grownup, now striking for the pain on her face. she is dazed as she carries a dusty telephone to the back of the waiting car. this isn't how she imagined she'd say goodbye to the house she grew up in.

the boys, weighed down by the sum of tragedy placed on their unsteady shoulders. wrinkled shirts, greasy hair, unshaven faces. all speak of early stages of grief. these were the mischievous boys, the "lahori" boys, who sometimes catcalled, always played loud music, and religiously kept me awake on basant nights. aged by years now.

more familiarity departs. slowly and steadily my world is crumbling. crumbling, crumbling..

2011-03-15T01:04:00.003+05:00

it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the best of times.

2011-02-06T23:26:00.000+05:00

a delicious breeze snakes through the academy. emptying rooms as the news spreads. it's going to rain, someone says aloud.

sunday night blues. they match the soaring high of saturday mornings, so it's only fair.

the boys in their polyester tracksuits, the girls chatting in the halls. the familiar routine of unloading, unpacking, unwinding.

it's a new week in our little bubble.

2011-02-05T13:31:00.000+05:00

they promised us we'd be too busy to sleep, miss home, complain.

they delivered. the mini-world inside the world. and the other tiny worlds in it. you travel from one to the other, passing the throngs, the faces, the unfamiliars, the familiars. three weeks in and we've settled into some sort of acceptance. that this is routine, this is acceptable, this is how it'll be for the next half year.

there are growing bonds.

there are breaking walls.

there is a growing comfort.

there are a few obnoxious boys.

i am now familiar with adjusting the water taps for the perfect shower. i now know how far in to cram my extension wire into the electricity socket underneath my desk. i now know where all the water dispensers are dispersed in near-proximity.

there is no being alone here. virtually no moments of solitude. no cocooning into thought. it is a different sort of world. but there is growing comfort in it.

2011-01-22T22:03:00.000+05:00

out of the CSA bubble.

no people in corridors, no brushing through crowds, no tiptoping at the notice boards, no settling into upholstered seats, no more constant awareness of training and being trained, no more eyes.

my room overlooks the tennis courts, and firewood. the view tinged by orange, early morning.

the always-spruced gardens, the well-tended borders, the bushes the only sign that nature's putting back a fight.

then the late night strolls and scampering across the slowly-familiarizing terrain. but always the cold air.

and my favorite spot, underneath a tree, below the canvas of the sky, awash with the orange of bulbs. hidden, but not secluded. the grounds infront, the people at bay, someone's paan left over on my left, and escape all around.

2011-01-11T23:48:00.000+05:00

"Life is not easy, is it?"
"Not very."
"Difficult."
"In spots."
"The only thing is to be brave."
"That's about it."

- Much Obliged, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

2011-01-09T22:33:00.002+05:00

Here's to you, Tim.

2011-01-04T22:24:00.001+05:00

there have too too many of these rocking moments.

2011-01-04T22:16:00.002+05:00

for minutes i look
at a pile of new shoes and wonder
if this,
could ever be life.

they killed a governor today.

he gave me a medal once, but i
was never a girl for the governor.

i must be,
after the five stages.

i wonder if this,
could ever be life.

2009-10-08T21:54:00.000+06:00

a day of pungency.

another ideal traded in for dusty reality. i hate the growing pains of having to deal. 36 hours of too much work and too little rest. woke up with a wonked eye that refused to open. oh well, atleast B noticed and asked. fair trade, i say.

i wake up early tomorrow to head off to a convocation rehearsal. can't wait for the multiple layers of security and red-tape. but as i flick off flint from my oversized gown and too-large cap and tussle over "hair up or down?", i look into the black hole that is the future, and am, for the first time i can remember, very scared.

2009-05-04T11:41:00.000+06:00

Lahore in the early summer

is like inside of a rusty tin can. parched, left for the ravages of nature, wild. the wildness of the winter, left undisturbed, now pushes up its fingers through the soils and off the bark and down the heads of no-longer-slumping flower bulbs. aprils in lahore bring a battalion of dandelion blowballs and fluffy seeds that cloud up the small pools that form beneath the feet of brown boys swimming in the canal. or twirl madly around the chowks when the cars fizz by. basking lazily under the trees rather then selling factory-rejected t-shirts in the broiling sun, or piles of colored raw strawberries behind a donkey-cart, or singing out evening newspapers. because lahoris prefer basking and watching and an empty stomach to hard work. perhaps it is the greasy lunches that cause this permanent siesta in our heads, but maybe it is the bumbling beauty of the nature that flows, marks it's territory through the infant city. the city is a bad attempt of a city. it is more a town that wants to desperately be called a city in it's childish hurry to grow up.

Lahore in the early summer

is of a different hue, a different scent, crammed full of stories.

2008-10-24T18:31:00.001+06:00

i've figured it out- atlast!

"idols must not be touched. the gilt comes off on our hands." rather, they must be wrapped away in the recycled tin-foil of our dreams. growing and aching into a living being, just out of our reach.

2008-10-19T15:47:00.001+06:00

the onset of winter has begun. a dissent from the ghastly summer that had stretched its welcome. warm cowls out, winter clothes being eyed and dusted. geysers turned on. fans switched off. and chiffons spread on the bed.

i remember what a pervy economics teacher once said about the transition to winter, and what it meant to lahoris. something about the lack of willingness to be swayed in. but the warm channas and spicy sittas always win the lahoris in for another lull. damn food. always gets us in the end.

have a short story marinating about in a folder somewhere. building up the emotional strength to finish it up. so easy to create happy endings, so hard to get them.

2008-10-16T11:09:00.000+06:00

i thought it'd never happen but it did, it has. Obama has penetrated the Haque Shields. Oh yes, the amiable logic, the penetrating calm, the ruthless rationality has left this otherwise cynic in a unruly swoon. defenses have been penetrated, HIS CHARM IS WORKING ON ME, CAPTAIN, I VOWED FOR THIS NEVER TO HAPPEN, ABORT ABORT ABOOOORTTT!

too late.

2008-10-14T16:00:00.001+06:00

i felt so damn sorry for M today. him now all tamed and controlled, sitting in his corner, sucking on an apple juice box, with bowed eyes and a fallen posture. him with a scraggy beard and hands he studies. he was the loneliest boy in that room, in that one jucie-box moment, and it just God damn broke my heart...

2008-10-12T21:26:00.000+06:00

LOL! I wish i was a boy! I'd totally Franz Josef this week!

2008-10-09T15:53:00.000+06:00

you know times are bad when an Anti-Terrorist Squad building gets the suicide bomber treatment.

these are the brave men who swoop in to clear bomb hoaxes, are trained to function in a post-bomb scenario and end up cleaning the body parts greasing the roads after an attack.

they're saying the bomber was driving a white car, got into the area without being checked by gate security, distributed two boxes of mithai, and then rammed his car into the building.

and here i was, thinking nothing could further psychologically dismantle this nation..

2008-10-08T11:10:00.005+06:00

Dr H and the curious case of hair

Dr H is frumpy and resembles the nursery rhyme
about the Kings men. he unravels
like an apple peel, in between a normal distribution
equation, or in the middle of a central
limits theorem. he's lost his anger and his hair

and a few inches from around
the spine, where a tummy still rolls over
when he sits. and gasps for breath

Dr. H has a transparent pocket showing
a few hundred rupee bills and a hand
kerchief. the only excitement from him
comes when he rediscovers a proof
and/or
a student who discovers it. and then up
jumps his hair

2008-10-07T21:26:00.000+06:00

yeah, sorry, navy blue just wasn't working for me..

2008-10-05T18:21:00.000+06:00

imagine my shock to wake up to OJ Simpson on the front page, being charged in court. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and groggily turning the pages to the news piece, i slid the paper away and headed into the kitchen for some tea. i needed to process this.

I remember the '95 OJ Simpson case very clearly, and recall the faint sense of injustice being done. Dad railed off about the blatant racism that swayed the ruling. "the only reason he got a 'non-guilty' is because there are more black people in the jury then white". The whole of America felt close to the case because there was always a 'side' to choose, and lengthy, devoted television coverage to watch. it became a racially-infused circus act based on color. the verdict of 'non-guilty' seemed like the biggest miscarriage of justice at the time.

and then there was the barrage of pop culture references. it became part of comedy folklore, murdering your wife and her (supposed) boyfriend and the extra glove. Simpson's attempt to publish "If i Did It" showcased his complete fall from respect and humanity. A sort of punch in the face of the families of his dead wife and her friend.

sure he'll be doing time now, but obviously, its just not the same thing. justice delayed is justice denied, as professor Z would reiterate to a sleepy classroom.

2008-10-05T11:09:00.000+06:00

studying theories on international politics can be quite an experience.

i'm more your idealist living off the scraps of the fiction genre, stewing away in ideals that make no sense in this age and aching after people who are by worldly standards, social failures. to then have to study the conscionable efforts of superpowers to outstep the other in an nuclear armament race, balance of power and mindless unilateralism, is by all means, an unpleasant backwash.

the whole concept of nuclear arms is difficult to swallow once put into rational terms. the fact that we as nations, in this day and age, must now acquire technology that can burn the world into smithereens, in order to be listened to, to make threats with, or be left alone. those who aren't in the 'club' can not compete with those in it. so imagine a playground full of third-graders after school. the fat, big kids want to rule the playground and show around their knuckle busters to let everyone know whose boss. only a few other kids can save up, steal, starve to get their own knuckle busters. and then, everyone else in the playground is terrorized into submission whence shown a glint of metal. that's your realist world order: the world in a permanent struggle to affix the balance of power in their favor (all in the name of "survival" ofcourse - we all need a rational vanguard for debased actions).

Screw the idealists then, right? In a way: right. since we all know war is the one thing in the world that'll never go extinct.

2008-10-03T18:39:00.000+06:00

i'm afraid its going to take more than just a long hug to drive the ache away..

2008-09-25T11:00:00.003+06:00

Chronicles of a Deed Never-told

consider it of paramount importance to blog the following anecdote, given the following, ahem, circumstances.

i thought i'd take this story to the academic grave with me, but oh well!

in bachelors we had an administrative law course, which in essence was a primordial course regarding civilian law. one of those 'extra goodness' courses you get in the favorable consequence of being a social sciences student. our professor was a big-tummied, frumpy-haired lawyer who would rant off in lawyer-diction of penal code XYZ and what justice ziauddin boringpants had to say on the topic of habeas corpus, etc. fact was, most of the class - being normal, rational adults - would be bored with the big fat law terms and headachey clauses and the rattle about the technicalities of the chief justice issue (which was hot those days, not the dried out aubergine it is now). a small portion of us were, however, fascinated with the administrative tribunals, types of writs, legal processes - we would engage passionately in debates over what we considered wrong with the legal system, the hudood ordinance, the reality of how jirgas form an important service to society, etc. i would especially be vocal, punjabi blood flowing, feminist spirit evoked. i think he found me an amusing little creature - loud, scribbler, front-rower, full attention yet humoring a bored classmate on the next seat. he would throw out questions and catch them back in his palm. he was open, huge in conversation, engaging, encouraging - one of the few courses that won everyone by the end.

and here comes the interesting part. come the final, and we all arrived the next day, bleary, overcome with the huge amount of syllabus. when the paper slipped through our hands, the objective portion shook me in my seat. i made the mistake of not paying attention for a few extra handouts, and the whole objective portion ended up making it's way from there. i actually ended up leaving huge blanks, disappointed, headed on to the subjective portion, determined to finish it off to save some grace for the Haque name.

after the paper, post-exam analysis rants filling the room, i was worried about the general chatter of 'wow those objectives sure were easy!' 'yeah man, mine went great!' - i sulked and accepted by fate of a B-grade. but thoroughly disappointed i had screwed up one of the few courses i had actually enjoyed that semester.

fast-forward to three weeks, and the checked papers slipped through our hands. much to my surprise, i bagged good marks in the objectives. double-tracking the "name" portion and confused for a few minutes, i studied the paper hard...

.. and realized that someone else's hand had filled in the blanks i had left... and unable to believe it.. it was actually the professor's hand! it was ACTUALLY the professors hand! yes, he had actually solved some of my paper, in blue ink, in poorly mimicked handwriting!

LOL, my professor totally helped me cheat :)

the result was that my marks did not improve drastically, but were suspiciously enough to glide my final GPA to a 4.0. (one of the three kids out of eighty who did get a 4.0 in that course.)

whether i deserved the 4.0 or not, he definitely thought so! the act remained unacknowledged, a knowing look shared, and admiration deep in my heart, i left the room.

(And it was only two months after, when the nov 3 emergency was declared, the utility of the course hit me spot on when i immediately recognized why the it was placed, and could rail off to a best friend the resulting 20 fundamental rights that were now denied to us.)

so friends, reespeck the lawyers. they're alright.

2008-09-21T06:46:00.003+06:00

I can not believe in an 1,000-kg-anything let alone an 1,000-kg bomb...

the oft-repeated postludes just won't work anymore. is this our penance for the systematic cleansing being carried out under our watch in the tribal belt? a life is a life, a pakistani a pakistani, and the hundred being killed and maimed anywhere breaks your heart, hardens your soul.

its time for us to bring in some serious heavy-duty CIA/other-scary-agency trained officials to regulate the security plans of our country. how does a militant outfit get away with having 1,000 kg of explosives? i'm thinking its not something one can easily concoct with pipes, drain cleaners and the internet in a kitchen. with security cordons growing larger and stricter, the result is a need for bombs that are bigger, fatter, more-potent. is this the future of our country? larger layers of security and even larger bombs to penetrate them?

we need heavy screening, regulation of materials, a tighter control on the influx of goods and people. a journalist said that intelligence had already been alerted early in the day that a oil tanker armed with explosives was to hit in Islamabad - which meant that the security of the city was tightened, hospitals on alert, the city vigilant. oh but just one small error: it was a large van and not an oil tanker. boom. one small error, one big mistake.

i wonder if the terrorists had maneuvered the fire, or are rejoicing at the externality of more charred, burning people.

i wonder how a terrorist feels after seeing his handiwork on live television. do they congratulate each other? do they thank God for the holy mission that has been accomplish to burn the infidels down to the ground? do their hearts not tremble even in the slightest?

i now no longer think of people who wish to leave, as selfish or weak. this country has failed to provide security to its people, be it in the forsaken havens of the Durand line, or in the belly of our capital. who would intentionally want to put their family, children, parents in that kind of precariousness. is life worth gambling over may-bes and may-be-nots?

and ofcourse, on days like these, there's always one image, one scene that burns at the back of your brain, a token of the tragedy to keep always - that comes back to you later on, always. like the young man who was flailing on the pavement, like a fish out of the sea, a limb severed, sobbing over the silenced newscaster..

2008-09-21T03:51:00.000+06:00

On Afia Siddiqui's Son Being Found

The televisions pour open a child returned

To the nation; ricocheting off a destiny
Unknown hidden in walls, Edhi homes, DNA

Strangled by the perfume of garlands
Choking his neck, and the press

An old/new family rejoices on
Camera, uncertain of what to say
Certain of how to perform

The newspapers gloss a child retrieved
From the clutches of a dark, dank
Pit of unknowns, question marks, X and Ys

2008-09-20T17:50:00.004+06:00

i got a terrible fright today. i don't think i'm the fighting kind or ever will be, except when laws of punjabi honor apply (i.e. attack family or friend, and colorful offense will flow freely in both word and movement). other then that i'm rather a wuss. the placating kind that believes roadside car-klunking should be forgiven, even if the villain leaves not having learnt a lesson, and perhaps repeating the offense in the near forgetful future. i am weak that way. meeh. pacifists...

2008-09-20T07:41:00.001+06:00

a disconnect from all sides, she knows
now of a packed tree
branch that spread-

it spread, like pollen spreads

from the bowel it came
off a monkeyed mountain
range to the roots, of an half-foreign objectofsorts
not ever any particular ones'
but claiming each for her own
geopolitical takeover

disowned tree-stump
,

withering away;
no one to give apples to,
or firewood, or comfort

2008-09-15T03:00:00.000+06:00

Come what may, no coup or military vagrant can taint the romance of a soldier. the dreamy myth of sensitive soldiers ploughing the fields of indecision, deep emotions that fish out at crucial moments, deep fisted bravery, stony faces, quivering hands; all of that will be kept alive by literature, music, film, always. be it a brick-faced colonel buendia experimenting with his first whore, an innocent recruit plucked from love and put into a jean-pierre jeunet masterpiece, or the general Dispatch always sang about -- the myth is more virile in my mind then the propaganda.

2008-09-13T07:23:00.003+06:00

maybe its just the time of the day clouding my judgment, or the caffeine bumping in my veins, but little-accounted-for m. night shyamalan's 'lady in the water' is a beautiful film with characters that touch you from the other side of the screen. only a wizard like shyamalan -and his quality of the understated- could take a fairy tale and spin it with his camera shots and his succint dialogue and his minimal frames and do this to you. keep you thinking about it long after it's over like a name you can't remember.

or maybe i'm just, you know, the fairy tale type.

2008-09-12T03:12:00.002+06:00

"Knowledge is my capital, reason is the basis of my religion, love is my foundation, desire is my mount for riding, remembrance of God is my comrade, confidence is my treasure, anxiety is my companion, science is my arm, patience is my mantle, contentment is my body, modesty is my self-respect, renunciation of pleasure is my profession, fortitude is my food, truth is my intercessor, obediency is my sufficiency, struggle is my habit, and the delight of my heart is in the service of worship."

- Hazrat Muhammad (PBUH)

2008-09-09T14:30:00.003+06:00

lol, i love this power of the friend!

whilst your girlfriend's new beau tries his best to impress you in the inital meeting, all his energies being spent to make sure he makes no wrong move -- you on the other hand can be bored and lazy and in control - muaahahahahah

2008-09-06T17:28:00.004+06:00

Khaled Hosseini pisses me off.

He's become one of those exotic birds perched atop an American arm. You see, KH fits the bill perfectly - he is different but tame: he is amusing, with his slight tang of accent, yet he is anglicized enough to have over for dinners and conversations. He receives praise and peanuts for amusing the dinner guests. While his country stumbles and falters in a ruined war that has sucked the life out of a whole people. Yet intelligent, suave, cultured Khaled Hosseini, perched atop an American arm.

Or take Mohsin Hamid. We all know serious artists don't take him too seriously. But it says something deep about our diaspora when the success of a free and fair elections convinces you that wow, this Pakistan can actually be civilized sometimes, and that wow, maybe just maybe i could consider it "home" some day.

No thanks, MH. we're good. this country is running after all without the promising allure of the educated youth who decide to establish their "homes" outside of Pakistan. The braindrain account of this country is in deep deficit because of people like yourself, who choose to make better lives outside their troubled nations. Great. So you've chosen your path in life. While everyday Pakistanis must deal with the reality of troubled politics, a border being carpet bombed and raided by an unwelcome superpower, and suicide bombings that tempt the fate of our cities. and yet you disrespect this country by deeming it "livable" and "unlivable" according to your own weak minded spectrum. you watch from your distant corners till you think it is "safe to return", to the land of the uncouth cavemen. No thank you, we don't need your judgements from your polished london flats and New york night clubs telling us when we've become civilized enough to meet your princely standards.

And then their are those whose own complexes force them to flex their intellectual muscles in our faces. the young pakistanis who were flushed to a foreign land in their preteen to teen states of unsure. who have grown up in the red, white and blue -- For whom nationality is merely having nusrat fateh ali khan on their last.fm lists and having exotic stories to tell to their fellow "intellectuals". how you fill the bellies of your dinner conversations with tales of "from back home" and makes dibs at your fellow countrymen over a fag in your fraternity houses. do us a favor and chuck those nationalities you claim in jest down the loo for your fresh foreign ones -- so that atleast you no longer possess the ragging rights on the 'Stan. yes we're a shithole, a craphole, but this is OUR shithole and craphole, and we will fix it on our own.

And then there are the portly uncles who leave for a foreign country with a fresh wife tucked with them. When thirty years pass, and they are comfortable but troubled by a bushel of brats who have taken to wild drinking, dating Blacks, turning white -- then you curse the land that has given you so much, and then you make calls to the ones back home that you want to move back, but never do, except a summer trip to buy more property, to plan your retirement -- because of course, you will come back to the motherland after your retirement, to be 'rid' of that 'awful gora country'. you are the worst of the lot -- since you refuse to accept yourhomeland as the homeland of your youth, and only as the homeland of your retirement fund- and on top of that you are ungrateful to a country that adopts you, places clothes on your back, and coins in your hands, gives your kids free education till they go to college, and one that delivers social security, and pays for your upkeep after 65, no matter where you choose to live. you are the worms of the earth, sucking at the teat of every land you wriggle upon, owning allegiance and loyalty to none.