Speak - Say what is to be said

Wild, wild, wild world

2005-09-11T09:29:00.000-04:00

Loads of craziness going on.

Kayne West's comments are censored but won't go away. And then Moore's letter arrives. Things keep getting worse for this president, and I'm not disturbed in the least.
Orhan Pamuk has to face a court for calling Armenian deaths a genocide. A genuine case of life imitating art, I'd say, as people adhering to the simplistic version of histories are already portrayed in his book, Snow.
They meet, but there's more - To the supporters, I ask, how can anyone be naive enough to think that restoring diplomatic ties will win us any strategic favours. What did the Palestinians gain when they did the same? And to everyone who went on the piece-meal strike on Friday, what's there to loose if all you do is talk? This is recommended reading.
Mutawakil, the face of Taliban as their FM, writes a book. What can I say, there's all sorts...

Reading and wondering

2005-09-03T06:07:00.000-04:00

The time for political novels has past, but Pamuk handles it well. Snow starts with a poet coming back to Kars, a remote town in Turkey. The official line is that he's here to find out about a line of suicides amongst the head scarf girls. But once there, Ka the poet, questions whether that is the real purpose he came. What is it about the snow as it cuts off the small town from the rest of the world, as it falls like a blanket on the city reshaping everything insight, covering up the present, blocking out the future, until the past is the only thing left? And the voice is superb, as it gravitates towards the centre of the book until it reaches a point where it is lost in bewilderment, just like our poet.
This is the kind of book that explores the historical past, the present and the future through the tools of fiction. As the line on the jacket says, "Pamuk is narrating his country into being". Can there be a case for 'fictional truth' just as there is for the Poetic truth?
Poetics...which reminds me, Juan Elia is gaining praise post-humously. Isn't that the way of life (or rather, the way of life after death) for Urdu poets? Left to themselves while alive, they only gain recognition once they are gone. What notions prevent us from taking an Urdu poet seriously while he's alive, that suddenly vanish when he passes away?
Anyway, I am going through 'Shayad', an amazing collection, but what caught my attention isn't the book, as much as its introduction written by the poet himself. Elia makes a few observations in his 'Muqaddama' that are worth noting down. I'd like to translate the whole thing, once I get the next few days of my chest.

2005-08-23T06:29:00.000-04:00

Been catching up on the hindi movies that I haven't seen, and the general impression remains the same. Big strides for bollywood, small steps for mankind.
The election fever is gone. Came and went with surprising calmness, something no one could have predicted. The people embrace it. Turnouts are high. 'We do what we can, the rest will follow', which reminds me of Plato, 'Who will guard the guards?'
A few nights ago, I sat bored hearing a relative/acquaintance rant about how he found his better half. It was an arranged affair and the selection had been made through photographs. How can someone find a wife by looking at photographs of women? Isn't that like finding love online? And how do these photographs make the rounds? I suspect someone makes the rounds carrying an album in their bags.
My circumspection amazes my relatives. They think I've turned too Canadian and this is the effect of the last few years abroad seeping in into my attitude. But photographs... why don't they just put up a website, and gain a global market? Blah!

LB Elections

2005-08-19T10:04:00.000-04:00

The polling is complete. By hook or by crook, some have arrived, some have left. As Cowasjee kept repeating on the televised debates, it was a matter of choosing the lesser evil. I don't know about the rest of the third world countries, but in Pakistan, that usually is the case.
The government has deemed the exercise successful. The foreign commentators seem satisfied. My own mind is stuck on a news item from a polling station in NWFP, where not a single female voter turned up the whole day. Maybe they all caught rabbies!
Watching some of the candidates in Karachi and hearing their supporters, I was wondering if we could have a Local Bloodies election sometime soon. People would get a chance to vote for their favorite leader, who'd be transported out of the country to live in exile for the rest of his/her unnatural life. All on tax-payer money! Its an easier way to reward these criminals, then putting them back in office where they would be responsible for the affairs of many. And we'd root out the fake degree mafia at the same time. Splendid, no?
Any which way, the agenda of globalization continues. Weak central governments that bow down to pressure from the financial centres of the world, while the people are busy keeping records of who paved the roads and when? But why complain, when we can still watch the tantalizing climax of this week's Sussar bhi kabhi damaad tha?

The long road home

2005-08-15T07:58:00.000-04:00

Standing in front of a PIA passenger plane, staring at the green streak on the white body of the aircraft to my mid-morning walk in North Karachi, I seem to have travelled light years. And yet here I am, where I had always been.
The plane journey was uneventful. It began with the mild nuisance of dealing with people crammed in a small space. Travel agents across Toronto had told me that seats weren't available for PIA flights till August 18th. And yet, the seat beside me sat empty. I could picture someone in a PIA uniform laughing somewhere, and had to shake my head to get it out of my head. On the other side of the aisle, a passenger got too chummy and inquired whether I was returning home to get married. I mumbled something about Pakistanis in general, and that was the end of that.
On the window seat was M, who did a wicked impression of a PIA hostess announcing a flight when we landed at Manchester. Highlight of the whole 18 hour flight, I assure you! She pointed out that PIA was probably the only airlines crossing the Atlantic with an all male steward crew. No sir, we're just too proud to parade our women in a small space serving tea and selling duty-free cigarettes. (btw, wicked rates here for someone used to the prices in Canada.)
I landed at Islamabad airport at around 6pm. The doors of the plane opened, and a humid air surrounded me. It clung to me like a long lost relative, embracing me as if I was the one it had missed all along. And i was a child again, struggling in the bear-hug of an old aunt, desperately wanting it to end.
As I waited for my luggage, I looked at the staff staring stiffly at the few women daring enough to have come home in western clothes. This is still consy town, no matter what they show on television. Once my luggage had arrived, I ventured outside. I was to continue my trip to Lahore on bus from here. But, outside, the vultures had gathered to skin me alive. One cabbie demanded that I pay Rs. 500 for a trip from the airport to the Daewoo bus station. We settled at 120.
Pindi appeared to be a mess on first glimpse. The streets were ripped everywhere. Huge construction equipment sat blocking traffic on both sides. As we approached Saddar, I was struck with disbelief. Every corner that I had known, from the PC hotel to the race course grounds had been bulldozed over. No more trees lining the sides, and footpaths to walk on. An endless spread of grey being trampled upon by cars and trucks of all sizes. In the war with progress, the dark barks and the green leaves had no one on their side.
The Daewoo station looked like a train wreck. Cars here, buses there, and all the passengers in between. I recalled a small station with an even smaller waiting area. By comparison, this was an airport with people strolling in and out, a crowded ticket counter where one would have to lean in just to hear the person on the other side. Getting the ticket turned out to be a semi-jihad, that I fought with an ever decreasing vigour.
Once the bus started moving, all I could hear and see were cellphones. Thumbs started ticking, buttons flew, and ring-tones vaguely familiar began to sound off. I felt like I a small town simpleton dumb-founded by the city experience. But that impression didn't last. A Maulana was sitting in front of me. His discussion with his family implied that he was returning from a trip to Sawaat. Another sat behind me. During the trip, the air conditioner broke down, and we had to take an additional stop, where I phoned home to let everyone know that I was on my way. My brother asked whether I was calling from Toronto. "Nopes", I replied, "Kalar kahaar!"
At the unscheduled stop, the Maulana sitting behind me disappeared. The AC was fixed and we were ready to leave, and a hunt was launched for him. He and his fellow traveller had ordered dinner at the local restaurant and were adamant that they wouldn't leave without eating. When the driver threatened to leave without them, they returned to their seats, and immediately asked the stewardess to bring them the complaint book. Then, they sat back and wrote for a full hour. I could hear some of the subject as was being dictated by the Maulana to his accomplice. I wondered if I could have come up with a better improv, and that too, on paper.
The stewardess was called every fifteen minutes after the incident. Twenty four hours ago, the people around me would have considered this behaviour outrageous. But righteously so, this is consy town, where a dose of harassment dished out by a loud Mullah was ignored by all.
Finally, I reached Lahore. Met my parents after a good three years. Mom looked like she had lost weight. No doubt, every ounce gone was spent worrying about me. Dad seemed composed, but later on, I noted that his temper comes quicker now. A slight nuisance, and his nerves give way.
From there on, I spent a few days in Lahore, and now I am in Karachi. With cousins and family, I barely get time to read. This is the first time I have ventured online in almost two weeks. Pamuk's Snow is in my briefcase, and every time I open it I wonder when I will get a few hours of down time to enjoy it.

Leaving Toronto

2005-07-29T11:29:00.000-04:00

I was supposed to have left Toronto by now. But the blunders of a travel agent, and an ill informed friend resulted in me turning around from the airport. Will try again today.
I am leaving without definite plans, and also, without saying my good-byes to all. I was never good at either.
See you all when I return, and behave while I'm gone.

Poetry - Pablo Neruda

2005-07-19T18:10:00.000-04:00

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Taken from here.

Ke tujh mein hai rab dikhta

2005-07-15T01:55:00.000-04:00

I was trained for a world of numbers. Forming patterns, integrating logic, and breaking both down. Feedback mechanisms for self-evaluation, ensnaring randomness and jumping over singularities. For a while, it kept me awake at nights, but I got over it.
For me, the creation of art, and the artist are incomprehensible. How can Art, the particular, be more universal than all the equations and theories combined? And how can someone communicate, without defining in the express terms of numbers?
To witness it's creation is to be completely baffled and in awe; of the process, of its inputs and outputs, and the uniqueness of the blackbox inbetween.

2005-07-14T20:02:00.000-04:00

Macho bullshit aside, I need to get back in shape. The smoking part, the not exercising part and the no time for meals part is devicing a whole that's good for nothing. The realization came when I couldn't hold my breath long enough for one length in the pool! A day before, my lungs were about to burst after half an hour of basketball. Ridiculous!

The toonie affair

2005-07-13T00:12:00.000-04:00

Made a trip down to the Pakistani Consulate today. The buzz was strong, as opposed to the last time I was there. The counters were full, and the attendees were stumpped with the amount of people inside. Looked like a media frenzy.

I was going to write about the loud and inattentive service person at the information desk. (Once prompted with an inquiry, he actually asked a customer, 'Do you want the passport or not'?) But, forget about him already, and instead, allow me to tell you about another Consulate employee who took a toonie out from his shirt-pocket and put it in with the cash I handed him. I had not anticipated the hidden charges and came up two dollars short of the total payment. He did add, that he would go bankrupt if he had to do the same every day.

Embarassment is euphemism for what I felt at the moment. Shuffling through the change in my pockets, emptying out my wallet on the counter, and wondering how much delay this toonie-affair would cost me. The paper submission time was already over when my number was called. A denial would have seen me heading back the next day, with the required change. I would have huffed and puffed, but as per the friendly-yet-firm code of the customer service industry, what other option did I have?

No need to worry Murlizee, there's good people all around. Cheers to their momentary lapse of reason. I hope I keep running into them, and also, that they never go bankrupt.

All roads lead to Lahore

2005-07-10T14:16:00.000-04:00

Asha'ar Rehman on why Lahore matters.

Respect

2005-07-09T17:00:00.000-04:00

Heading back from work, I decide to catch up with A. He called me 3 days ago to tell me he's working again. And he also has a cell phone now. I stop by his workplace to find he has already left. Pay-day, I think instantly. There is no way I can get a handle on him on a payday.

I start walking. Its a good mile and a half, but an evening at home is out of the question. Call him from two payphones, and no answer. 'The customer is currently unavailable.' He had mentioned something about running out of minutes, and knowing him, filling up his cell would not be a priority. Still, I walk.

I reach Ardenthorpe with only half the liquids in me, my throat dry as my humour. I take a peak inside from a window, and suddenly stop. His neighbour is eyeing me. Another asshole to deal with.

I stick a note on his door, and start walking back. I am surrounded by suburbia. Green lawns, well kept, some sprinklers still on. Houses with brick work, the same variation of dull red and yellow. Even the patterns are predictable. Every third house is brick, and every ninth house has the same brick work. A garage door cranks up with a lotta noise, a Chevy Impala comes out. Middle-aged men drinking beer, middle-aged man cleaning a car and a middle-aged woman walking her dog. A kid staring out into the street from a sterilized window. All plastic, direct from Home Depot, I'm sure.

Back at the payphone, I try for the last time. One ring. Another. A. picks up. His voice is slurred.
A: Hell-o.
Me: Where are you?
A: I'm... I'm at Feba's place.
Me: Where exactly?
A: Lawrence and Brimley.
Me: Thats where I am, you idiot. Lawrence and Brimley. I'm at a pay phone on the corner.
A: Turn around, I... I think I can see you.
Me: (turn around. see no one.) Where are you?
A: Its a bar. Febus place.
Me: (Spot the blue and white sign) I'm coming.
A: Are you coming?
Me: hang up.

I walk into Febus. A greek bar with an Arabian hostess. I spot A., and after the 'niceties' are exchanged, he orders for me. Looks like he's been at it for a while now. He looks distraught. Says his new job is tiring. The boss is an asshole.

The hostess looks around as if bored, and talks up another customer. A. still thinks the night is young. Its almost nine. He orders again. I wait.

'Oula', he screams at a woman in white and black. If Oula isn't middle-aged then I haven't been born yet. She looks pleased and smiles at us. Must have been a real cutie in her time. She extends her hand for a shake, and I see, her skin is pure gold. The face is puffy white.

Oula makes a face at A.. She doesn't remember him, or maybe doesn't want to. She tells him her foot hurts, she's twisted her ankle. The hostess comes back. Oula exchanges a glance with her, and gets up from her chair. A. stops bothering Oula and walks back.

We head outdoors for a smoke. All the tables are taken. He grabs a seat from one table, and I, from another. We sit beside each other. I point to the moon neatly visible amongst a jumble of power lines passing over us to the left. Its a crescent. What month is this, I wonder. A. looks bored now, and drunk.

He tells me he is appreciated at the new job. Everybody is touting him to be the next manager. I ask him about the current manager, he looks at me as if he's already answered the question. Oops, I think, the asshole boss. He tells me about taking shit on more than one occassion, but in his own words, "He's my boss. If he asks me to jump, I ask, how high!"

I want to tell him that I have a bad feeling about this, but I don't. He isn't talking to me, I know. He is giving himself a pep-talk. A motivational after a long week and a bad boss. Everyone deserves a break, and a dream.

A. looks at his cell. He asks me for another round, I decline. He offers a night out till one. I don't reply, instead I ask him why he's being so spend-thrift? He mumbles something but the only word I catch is 'respect'. He asks the guy on the other table for confirmation. The guy raises his drink, prompting A. to do the same.

Now, A. is calling a cab. He's on his way to a fun weekend- the kind that's half-planned, with a few surprises along the road, and feels grand when someone narrates it. But, thats all that it's good for: narrating.

Many a times I have been the one to call a cab. A few times we've done it together, where I end up feeling whimsical and silly, and A. ending up with a guilt-trip so bad, it wipes out all the progress he makes during the work week.

I get up and leave, and pray that he doesn't run into his boss while he's partying. And this time, God, help him keep the job for more than two weeks.

London after the bombings

2005-07-08T13:10:00.000-04:00

Two authors, Ian McEwan, author of the book 'Saturday', and historian and novelist Tariq Ali on London after the bombings. here and here.

Banaa kar faqeeron ka hum bhais Ghalib...

2005-07-01T16:10:00.000-04:00

When I was in boarding school, one weekend every month was designated as a long holiday, and I would head to Lahore. The going part was easy; anxiously awaited, and celebrated all the way. Ande jande stationaa toun kulfiaan khawaan gay sorta thing. The coming back part was hard. Calling friends, trying to find out who was leaving when. Fitting it into Mammu's schedule so he could drop me off. Waiting in the heat to buy the ticket, and wondering what movie, if any, would be shown on the rudimentary in-bus entertainment system.
I'd grab anything to read during the ride, which contributed to the exodus of books from my Naana's house. But the roads were bumpy and the buses - don't get me started on the buses. I could have done what the majority of people did: engage in chit-chat, discuss politics and weather, or muse over what was in-store for us all, in the great land of the pure. But I was headed to boarding school, leaving family in Lahore, for reasons I didn't understand and wasn't eager of being reminded of.
On one such trip, an elderly looking gentleman sitting beside me started 'making conversation'. Although he appeared harmless in his starched-cotton kurta shalwar, bulging belly and the fruit basket he'd dip into from time to time, I was instructed to be wary of strangers. As soon as he asked me my name, I gave him a false one. Then he proceeded to interview me about my family, and the reason behind my travelling alone. I told him I was headed to boarding school, which was true, and for the rest of his questions, I made up answers on the go. I can't remember what story I came up with, but it must have been believable. The gentleman asked me to join him for dinner when the bus stopped midway at a small roadside dhaaba in the middle of nowhere. My instincts were to say no, but I was having too much fun conning him into a meal. I was twelve years old and loving it.
The trip ended with me getting off the bus safely at my destination, and relating the story to the rest of the boarders.
Now, those of you who haven't been in boarding should know that inspite of the charm associated with living away from the prying and preening eyes of family members, boarding school gets boring just like all of everyday life. The story sessions after the lights-out deadline, specially ones after a long weekend, were enchanting and entertaining at the same time. Lahore, Multan, Muzaffarabad, D.G. Khan, were all there in that dormitory, ensnared in our imagination, golden in the nostalgia, almost romantic after midnight.
In two days, everyone was asking me about the game. I was the kid who'd bull-shitted his way to a free meal, I was a con-artist. Without realizing, I had made it into a select group reverred for their antics and anarchist behaviour on campus. I had done no such thing, and was mildly amused that they thought I was cool. That evening, when the usual suspects were rounded up for yet another prank, I was there, too. When the nightly session was over, I was brought in into another session, held in a different dormitory where I came to know the people behind the pranks and antics that had remained unsolved. My own buddies, but with a slight gleam in the eyes, bemused smiles and a bring-it-on attitude. If this was the real boarding, where had I been living?
Until I joined university, whenever I travelled, it would be under guise. The rules were simple. I had to get them to pay for my meal when the bus stopped. It could be as small as a coke or pepsi, or as large as a three dish meal. I would take no money in my hand (which was offered once). I'd accept contact information, but never actually contact, and I'd provide no such thing for myself. There were no rules for the story, except that it had to been done then and there. I could be anyone, as long as I had not been that particular anyone before. At various times, I was the rich kid partying without a sense of future, the boy following his heroic uncle's footsteps, the kid with an outrageous disease, the over-achiever from a poor family, the downtrodden restored by destiny, the orphan, the ghazal singer, and best was, a colonel's son on special assignment. It worked every single time!
The victims were fellow travellers. An auntie who held me up as a role-model to her two kids, a German tourist on his way North who said he went there every summer since his retirement. A female student of QA University who tried to convince me that life had meaning beyond love (I had lost my girlfriend in an accident, you see), and gave me her phone number which I sold for cigarettes (This was the only time I was tempted to break the contact rule). Most of them were common people, city folks headed one way or another down life's treacherous path.
Now, planning a trip to Lahore, I wonder whether my improv skills are up to it or not. The only way to be sure is to try, and hopefully, I'll have a story for you guys, too.

The never ending story

2005-06-29T15:10:00.000-04:00

Five years of chasing shadows in my head, comes to an end. An end dictated by causation rather than the power of will. An end befitting the lost rather than the found. How romantic!
It is a never ending story. Goal after goal, through failure and success I realize that life is a journey, not a destination. Cliche words that I used to preach, now ring with even more resonance than before. It seems I have discovered something that wasn't lost in the first place.
Night after night, I am drawn to Lahore. Images come and go without much ado. Now, I am waking up with the familiar drone of the ceiling fan. Fumbling for a torch in a blackout. Cursing the humid monsoon for showing up in the middle of the night. Arguing with the newspaper man, and following cricket matches on the go at paan-walas across town. The dull, the banal, the quintessentials, coming forth in a constant assault on the mind. I just can't wait to get out of this town.

Two Top Guns Shoot Blanks - New York Times

2005-06-18T22:22:00.000-04:00

Two Top Guns Shoot Blanks - New York Times: "The boundary between reality and fiction has now been blurred to such an extent by show business, the news business and government alike that almost no shows produced by any of them are instantly accepted as truth"

2005-06-14T14:53:00.000-04:00

I wrote this in a discussion on Gen. Musharraf's (rather than the current administration's) policies towards education in Pakistan.
-------
Pervez Hoodbhoy has previously written an article by the title of 'Reforming Pakistan's Universities'. It is insightful, to say the least.

In all 3rd world countries questions regarding the movement towards a better tomorrow become, instead, questions of political will and budgetary constraints. It isn't just the case for Pakistan, and education is not the only thing that suffers. (primary health care is a good example.)

Sitting here in Canada, I witnessed the recent debate over the allocation of funds in the budget process for education and health care. The allocators had to contend with the needs of an aging population, and its demand of health care reforms, and an emerging population of young adults and immigrant children with their demands of better education! The percentage of funds dedicated to each cause is a good indicator of where the priorities of the current government stand.

Running the same (layman's analysis) on Pakistan's previous budgets shows the priorities of the Musharraf regime. From day one, this administration has held the view that an economically stable Pakistan is a strong Pakistan. The foremost priority in this regime is NEITHER education NOR arts; it is economics. (please do not confuse this with Gen. Musharraf's personal views regarding education and his appreciation for arts. His views are not pertinent to our problems, but his policies are! As an example, he has repeatedly cited that democracy is the only way forward, but has refused to implement his views as public policy. Similarly, his backtracking from the abolishment of the Hudood Ordinance proves that there is a discrepancy in his personal views and his policy)

It is my belief that even the current tide of enforced enlightenment is NOT to please any foreign masters, but to please FOREIGN MARKETS which demand consistency of policy, enhanced law and order and the encouragement of entrepreneurial skillsets. The war against jihadis is not the war against extremism, it is a war against the destabilization of the flow of money in the form of business development and stock exchange investments.

The granting of university status by the UGC to ill-conceived institutes housed in residential villas, is not for the sake of education, but to produce a work-force that can be labelled as 'professionals' on paper. No doubt, these papers will be presented on one forum or the other and touted as proof that the regime is involved in efforts to eradicate illiteracy, ask for more funds and the cycle goes on and on. Meanwhile, the public will keep believing that their sons and daughters are gaining an expensive education, and the youth will dream of lavish lifestyles, while labs remain without equipment and lectures end without debate or dissent.

Then there is also the complex issue of dealing with religious schools. On this I will just make one point. If religious schools have to register their curriculum, why does the policy not apply to NGO's working in the field of eradicating illiteracy? I don't contend that they are doing any wrong, just that the basis of all policy is consistency. If it isn't consistent, it isn't doing justice. If it isn't doing justice, than its promoting secretarianism and reactionaries in one form or another.

It isn't budgetary constraints that are stopping Pakistan, and it isn't Musharraf's lack of understanding. It is Musharraf's lack of policy, the failings of various bureaucrats at various ministries, the lack of concern for the common good by all concerned, lack of accountability in the implementation process (as opposed to the funding process), the lack of public disclosure regarding policies, and the lack of concern from the public towards the use of the public's hard earned taxes by the government! To blame all this on one man, or to excuse everyone by blaming the 'system' is the easy way out, and it won't be solved by our congregational prayers (no matter who is leading). As Faiz said:
Visaal-e-yaar faqat aarzoo ki baat nahi!

Free culture

2005-06-13T23:37:00.000-04:00

For the past week, I have been reading Free culture by Lawrence Lessig. Lawrence is one of the forces behind the creative commons license. Reading on the computer is never an easy task, specially when one has to break often to digest what is said. I had known about the creative commons project for sometime, but never bothered to dive into the details. The whole argument behind free culture is pleasantly presented with real world examples and emphasis on how the incidents affected society and law. It is indeed, a fascinating read, concentrating on the different aspects of property and piracy, as it relates to intellectual property. Finding its basis on in Stallman's Free Software, it broadens the scope to cover the whole of culture.
A worth-it book, if you have enough butt glue to sit in front of the pc for the whole three hundred and fifty something pages.

ascii-movie

2005-06-07T19:57:00.000-04:00

No comments required, just follow the link for ascii-movie.

2005-06-07T16:32:00.000-04:00

"I sometimes detect within myself a battle-ground where two opposing forces are constantly in action, one beckoning me to peace cessation of all strife, the other egging me on to battle. It is as though the restless energy and the will to action of the West were perpetually assaulting the citadel of my Indian placidity. Hence this swing of the pendulum between passionate pain and calm detachment, between lyrical abandon and philosophizing, between love of my country and mockery of patriotism, between an itch to enter the lists and a longing to remain wrapt in thought. This continual struggle brings in its train a mood compounded of frustration and resignation."

- Rabindarnath Tagore

Behja Cycle Tey

2005-05-28T22:50:00.000-04:00

School di wuddi Madam ney

Puppo nu kuttya is gul tey

O nikki miss nu kehnda si

Aa ja- tu behja cycle tey

(unknown)

Finding inspiration

2005-05-27T00:23:00.000-04:00

Something has to happen to stir things up inside, and then, and only then, am I compelled to write.
Yes, I know that's silly. Even according to Elizabeth George's book 'Write Away', writing has more to do with butt-glue than inspiration. And while I was reading that particular line, I could almost see my mom looking over my shoulder saying, 'not just writing, M Zee, life!'
But I can't. I can not relate to discipline. If I were a character in someone's book (which isn't that far-fetched an idea once you think about it), this would be my defining trait. I'd rather let it burn in the back of my mind, till I am sure that I am ready, till the nervous energy is almost visible, bechaini, betaabi, seeping through the pores on my skin, and then I write.
My dilemma is that I can't say its good, because it doesn't work for everyone. I can't state with surity whether this time around it will work for me or not. Will I be scrambling at the last instant, trying to kick myself in the butt, and fail? But it is the only way I know.
Years ago, I'd actually promise myself that the next time, the very next time, immediately after that particular task, I would set myself straight. Alas, it wouldn't work, and the low you feel when you let yourself down is almost irreversible.
But the instantaneous realization, that yes, it's here, it's happening, is an occassion that warrants a celebration. And the reason I'm going on and on about all this, is because lightening struck today, and I wrote down another 25 pages in one sitting.
That's my new record!

Extreme mood swings

2005-05-24T13:59:00.000-04:00

I've been watching two movies this long weekend. One was 'Tum Bin', slow melo-drama at its best, characters with a sense of purpose, and the great melodies. The other one is 'Fight Club', with its 'your condo and your sofa' anti-boredom rhetoric. The mood swings could not be wilder.
I realize that the weekend is over, but I'm still hanging on to it. I should be keeping myself busy, fill my head with the logical disillusionment that is the real world around me, dressed up in Emperor's new clothes with Mose's stick in hand. Take care of things that need to be taken care of. Finish what I have yet to start.
But suddenly, I am tired. Even after an uninterrupted sleep of 8 hours, waking up to Rabbi Shergill singing 'Bulla Ki Jaana', having tea in my pajamas along with a cigarette. All this, and no energy to tackle the day in front of me.
No energy to make up an excuse for my uncle or my cousins. No energy to go to the Temp agency and get myself hired. No energy to fill up the forms and deposit the fees, have them sent from one department to another, while I wait.
No energy for friendly chat, no energy for phone conversations, no energy to dial a number, communicate. None for the library, none for the headlines, none for the blogs, none for Backgammon.
What, in the name of God, is this paralysis?

To Sherazi

2005-05-22T23:57:00.000-04:00

You could travel the world
suitcases dragged, shoulder bags drawn,
tickets, papers, passport in hand,
asking for help,
from a complete stranger.
You could watch the Nile,
sleep on its shore,
or you could read a book!
A good book, infact,
that would explain
the meanings of the words
you seek.
clearly defined,
in alphabetical order!
You could claim the highest accords,
Even, in cooking,
up a scheme
staging a final plot
in a cartoon-ish land
of mice and men,
literally,
You could save the world!

But can you forget
the night we sat
between
a stage show and its audience of,
one single man!
when we talked
a mile an hour,
and walked the same.
raising the collars of
your humungous jacket
and my graceful coat,
snow in our face
wind in our ears
debating
winter and Faiz.

I have finished Faiz,
and summer's here,
too.

Denigration defined

2005-05-18T17:47:00.000-04:00

Q. How do you influence the outcome of a debate when you DO NOT have an argument?
A. Slander, off course! Dig up dirt on your opponents and discredit them.
Q. What if I can't find dirt?
A. Manufacture it, like the evidence of WMDs in Iraq.
Q. Isn't that too obvious?
A. Be subtle. If you can't find dirt, find something that might be unacceptable to your viewership and slant it such that it seems part of the argument.
Q. Isn't that unethical?
A. Irrelevant question because we are not interested in ethics, we are interested in winning the argument whichever way we can.
Q. Fine, but how can I be sure it works?
A. Take the example of Voice of Toronto, who incidentally, claim to be a news-site. The debate in this example, is about women leading congregational prayers. So, how did they influence the debate? They took a photo of a prominent liberal opposed to their view, and they stuck it on their main page. The person in question is Tarek Fateh, editor and host of Muslim Chronicle and the founder of the Muslim Canadian Congress, he supports the idea of women leading the prayers. The picture in question claims to show him as dancing, though the pose seems awkward and...
Q. That doesn't discredit his views? I mean, so what if he's dancing. How does that influence the debate?
A. Aah, you didn't let me finish. I haven't told you about the slant.
Q. The slant?
A. The urdu caption in the image translates to "After praying behind a woman, dancing behind a woman". There's your slant, there's your relevancy. Immaterial information is now part of the debate!
Q. Ooh...
A. Exactly!

Weekend past

2005-05-16T16:28:00.000-04:00

Saturday was overcast, but still we ventured out to Mississagua. I hate that place, would never live there. Everything hip and practical about downtown Toronto, turned upside down and moved 40km west. Uncles in gas-guzzlers and huge aunties flaunting too much jewllery. It is too much of a suburb to warrant any serious activity. Too many cars on roads too wide for pedestrians. Nothing is in walking distance anywhere, and transit sucks. Surely, lots of Pakistani and Indian cultural programs are held in the area, but that has nothing to do with the ambience. It has to do with utility, and cheap rental rates for evenings.
Anyway, we had fun. Ate Shawarmas at Pakwanchi. And the pakwanchi I knew was at the corner of Kennedy and Sheppard, not off of Hurontario. I've seen the guy at Jumaa a couple of times, said hi, but never knew they had moved, or opened a new location.
Then it started to drizzle. This weather never ceases to amaze me. Its like the whole sky over your head has been taken out and replaced in a matter of minutes.
Bought shades at Eye Emporium, and laughed hard when the girl behind the counter would say the store name. In her thick accent, it sounded like emPORNium.
Sunday, I sat down to do some character sketches. It is one of those design documents for fiction, that do not require a logical thought progression, and hence, can be done anywhere I can find a paper and a pen.
Wrote a brief for CSF, and scrapped it. Wrote a poem and ripped it. These things are so heavily tied with inspiration, that at the slightest touch of discipline, or forced delivery, the thoughts disappear. They leave behind fragments of sentences and phrases that might come in handy the next time I sit down. I want to change that and tie my writings down with perspiration rather than inspiration, but my attempts have been unsuccessful. I have the material ready for another 2000 words, hopefully, I'll pull it out of my head today.
Job woes continue. Nothing worth mentioning there.
Insight of the week: What you write could land you a prison term!

First impressions are made

2005-05-14T21:36:00.000-04:00

One of my cousins is beginning his foray into the world of Rock. And what it took, was a song I hadn't heard before, Bandeh by Indian Ocean, from the soundtrack of Black Friday. We've been listening to it almost non-stop.
Tonight I hunt down the band and all their songs on net. All leads are welcome.

Kiss your hands tonight

2005-05-13T01:39:00.000-04:00

One hand severed and the other badly bruised, for speaking up for those who can't do it for themselves. The sickening brutality, this violence, someone stop it, please...
I can't write anymore.

Unscheduled fun

2005-05-12T14:43:00.000-04:00

Yesterday evening, I went to meet a friend who is visiting from the US. As the evening progressed, it grew into a gathering of fellows lost long since, and we found ourselves reminiscing our earlier times. I pointed out that apart from two guys, all of us had lived with the rest at one time or another, an oddly discerning fact which seems to have struck some subliminal note, as it quieted down for a few moments. And then, the latest rounds of funnies started, and all was forgotten. Unscheduled fun is the best of its kind.
R asked why they say saw so little of me last year, to which H replied that the only place to get a handle on me was at 'blogspot'! I was struck dumb for a second. I had no idea that this man concerned with little more than women and money would have noticed, or have bothered to look at a blog. What possible motivation would he have had for an ungainly activity like visiting a friend's blog? He has kids to take care of, and a business to run! He didn't elaborate when I asked, leaving me to wonder what other things I took for granted amongst my very own.
A good middle of the week fun that charged up all my batteries, and now its time to put them to use.

Various

2005-05-10T13:51:00.000-04:00

1. Has anyone ever read a book or watched a movie where the audience is implicated to be the villain? Is that even possible?
2. Got a forwarded email about a Washington Post cartoon depicting Pakistan as a hound-dog with the latest terrorist in its mouth, being patted by a US soldier. It appears here. Googling the author's name I found this, which casts a shadow over his credibility (in case you can't be bothered with long paras, it claims he is on the ISI payroll). Another vested interest, or another dairh eenth ki intellectual masjid?
3. Found the Books and Authors section in Dawn, and was perplexed that I couldn't recognize most of the authors or the books they were reading! I feel as blessed as Cobain right now.
4. Sank U for the wishes everyone. The runny nose has turned into the stuffed nose. It isn't quiet like the caterpillar turning into a butterfly, or the ugly-duckling story, but its progress. Another day and I should be back to normal... whatever that might be.

Nose off

2005-05-09T15:06:00.000-04:00

I have a horrendous cold. My head has sprung a leak. It is all draining down through my nose. I hope to loose my memory, too.
I am on fluids most of the day, but it doesn't matter because I can hardly taste anything. The only sensation my taste-buds register is sweetness. That's why my Chai was loaded with sugar. 'Since I can't taste it, might as well just swallow it' and that lead to a burnt throat. A tissue paper box, marked as ultra-soft, lies only half full. I bought it yesterday. And as for the ultra-softness, it has already scratched my nose enough that the next time I touch it, it will fall off.
In front of the mirror, I did a cheap imitation of Nicholas Cage, pointing at my own face with all my fingers, and with a slight flick of the wrist, "Nose Off". My forced grin turned into a cough, which turned into a sneeze, which turned into a big mess in the sink.
Which reminded me of two things. The nose is a good analogy for a drain. Or, maybe the other way round. And number two: Stephen King said somewhere that there is a drain between the conscious and the subconscious, and the goo that can't pass from the latter to the previous - the goo that gets stuck in the middle, is prime material for creativity.
In between these two disjointed reminders is another bad analogy waiting to happen. But I will be some time before I try and sniff it out.

Just asking

2005-05-06T00:44:00.000-04:00

Fuck Rolling Stones and the list mania! It would have been a good enough edition without the numbers that go on the sides. Why do people pay attention to the-top-five, the-best-ten, and who gives them the right to rate anything? Just because something is out for public consumption, it does not warrant commentary! You don't squeeze a whole nine to five schedule in every short story. Ditto the history of existentialism in every poem. Analysis upon analysis devoted to vague concepts like 'feel', 'soundscape' and 'punch'. What is this 'punch', anyway?
And who decides what songs will be recycled as background filler for ads on TV? Such gems of music that sold themselves to the world - were owned and loved by millions around, are now selling cars and video-games.
When was sports demoted to being 'just entertainment', as if its only the hormone rush that comes out of a good game?
Why does being 'professional' mean being politcally-correct, and what political motives do these 'professionals' have?
Why is Stephen Harper so much in the news when people don't give a shit about the conservatives, and don't want elections?
Why, exactly, is Stephen Harper the opposition leader, when he could not harvest scandal upon Liberal scandal, to gain voters? Talk about checks and balances in a democracy!

The lovers of Algeria - Anouar Benmalek

2005-05-02T00:03:00.000-04:00

"... anybody, anywhere can fall in love, but it always ends badly..."

But in blatant dismissal of her own experience, Benmalek's characters choose to live their life in hope. As if all of them are challenging the futility of submission to violence, by completely disregarding it; at least for a while.
I didn't think the plot of love torn by violence had much traction left in it, but Benmalek carries it well. Not just carries it, but carries it to perfection. One of the best books I have read since Jhumpa Lahiri.
He portrays Algiers as a country under siege, with the French on one side and the extremists on the other, while the people are caught in the middle. And everyone continues on with the violence, even though they feel its pain personally. It goes on and on, dragging innocents into its folds, killing them or turning them into perpetrators of injustice. People come and go, but the killing and the torture never stops. And it is love, the naivete of a swiss girl and an algerian highlander, that forces them to keep themselves alive through it all.
And a word for the translator too, Joanna Kilmartin, who has transferred the work into english from its original french.
Highly recommended to all book lovers!

Blowing it all out

2005-04-30T14:59:00.000-04:00

fuck.. one of those days where no news is good news. The whole of the internet seems to be in deep mourning over one thing or the other. Somebody should have invented a happy lens by now.
On another note, Thank God the snow is gone. Now, I can get a life.
Tomorrow: Tariq Ali at the Hart House Library talking about his book,"Street-fighting Years: An autobiography of the sixties".
May 18th: Nelofer Pazira on her new memoir,"A bed of flowers: In search of my Afghanistan".
June: Junoon arrives in town.
June: The Urdu Conference by Urdu Times Newspaper.
July: A trip to Pakistan
This summer should be eventful.

my PC

2005-04-27T18:38:00.000-04:00

is up and running, and I can not describe how liberated I feel. I just realized while writing that line, that my computer is such a personal thing to me. I'd left it back when I had moved to my Uncle's and was using, actually sharing, his computer. And its not the same.
The keyboard is still a lil sticky from all the windex I had to use to clean it all up, but that should be gone in a few hours... And then, I can transfer all my scribes to the machine. I hate writing with a pen and paper, the editing and rewriting takes ages, and its a big deal trying keeping everything in order. Which page goes where, and the notes in the columns, and the corrections of the corrections. Now I can write in peace.
The only thing is I have to keep the friends of my cousins out of this machine. 'Get away from my baby!' Hopefully, the more paranoid I act, the more they get the message. There is one in particular that I am worried about, who thinks I am his long lost college buddy and wants to share a smoke with me. Well, the smoke thing is fine, but nO nearO my pcO.
And now, for a game of backgammon and then we hit the road.

A Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman

2005-04-26T13:07:00.000-04:00

For anyone not familiar with the Pashtun way of life, Peshawar and the tribal politics of Afghanistan, this book will be very informative. It is the most detailed and researched book on the subject of Afghanistan, for once getting most of the popular facts straight.
There is a lot of description in the book, from the first line the author sets out to portray the whole landscape, the turmoil and confusion (the dust), switching viewpoints to show the local version of detail and the foreigner's eye for confusion. A lot of ground has to be covered to tell the reader who is who in this part of the world. Many myths have been destroyed.
At one point the two protagonists compare notes on life and women and the author aptly asks, are we really that different? Caught up in one tradition or another, whichever stance we take, whatever the outlook on life, we go through the same turmoils and fight the same battles inside.
The war overshadow the struggle, the backdrop moves to the front as the story progresses, overtaking the personal for the political. Saying anything more would be a spoiler.
The dialogue is crisp and varied, moving from thorough to passing in the space of few sentences. The characterization is not thorough, many a holes appear as they progress. Daliya fails to impress. Her motivations seem too cliche and her connection with the protagonist needs more than just a page to develop. Similarly, her female saviour isn't helpful. Two months in Boston every year and such indecision and doubt! But the two male characters are good enough and the action keeps the book moving, ample diversion to cover the short-coming.
But clearly, I am not the intended audience for the book. I know the background, and the long descriptions and situation analysis going on inside the character's heads are overbearing for me. It seems, the author is forcing the reader to draw the conclusions that he wants, pushing rather than leading. Characters deciphering whats going on in another characters mind is troublesome to follow. And the viewpoint switches become bothersome. At some points I lost track of who is watching and who is being watched.
But the research put in, shows, and is clearly the best part of the whole narrative.
And next on my list is an author I am really excited about, Anouar Ben Malek. Hopefully, I learn a thing or two about poetics in prose from his work.

Weekend counting exercise

2005-04-25T12:35:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, I met yet another family (this time Indian) preparing to leave Canada for good. Lately, it has become a recurring news.
Five years ago, the latest arrivals dominated the scene. Who had applied, who had received their documents, who was expecting the red carpet and who was prepared for the one-finger salute.
There are still some fresh immigrants in my circle, but I wonder, if its my constraints or theirs that keep it that way.
One of my buddies runs a driving school. Since most newcomers need licenses, they are his customers, and he keeps track. He says nothing's changed. PIA is still running a one-stop route to Toronto which says more about this lucrative destination than the propo(ganda)-papers will speak of. But people ARE moving from Canada. Their destinations vary... US, England, Pakistan and now India but they are moving.
There was a feature in the Toronto Star about a month ago (that I finally read this weekend) regarding a few Chinese immigrants who were planning to return. That got me counting. Including this last family, I now know 28 people who have left Canada. Yea, 28 people in one person's circle in three years.
Hmm...

Horoscope predictions

2005-04-23T13:17:00.000-04:00

Here's what Rob Brezsny had to say about Scorpios for this week:

" While mountain biking, I spied a white horse engaged in odd behaviour in a meadow. Over and over again, it took two steps forward and two steps back. Was it neurotic or distraught? I decided to sit and watch. Five minutes went by. Ten. Still it continued its routine. Finally I got inspired to pray for it. "Dear Goddess," I said, "please at least let that poor horse go three steps forward and two steps back." Moments later, the creature started doing exactly what I'd prayed for. Slowly, it made progress across the field. Now I'm saying a similar prayer for you: "Dear Goddess, please help Scorpios escape their treadmill-like pace, and go at least three steps forward for every two backward."

Amen!

The future looming large

2005-04-19T15:30:00.000-04:00

It is difficult for me to write. As an engineer, and a produce of the Pakistani education system, my writing is geared towards commentary. My prose is jumpy at best and at worst, sounds like an op-ed piece. But compared with the other troubles of my life, its a pre-cooked meal; the instructions are easy to read, and the results are immediate. Even if it tastes banal, it fills my stomach and lessens my complaints.
The biggest issue right now is my career. Do I stay in Canada after I get my passport? Do I move? If yes, where to - The US, Pakistan or Middle East? Will I have to change careers? Can I keep my writing alive through all of this? Should I take up writing as a full-time career? Maybe I'm better off moving into real-estate... The more options I give myself, the more confusion I have to contend with, resulting in even more inaction. And a boiling point arrives, and out of desperation I act, unsure if its the right decision, or maybe not!
I know all this because I've been here before. And made bad choices, too. And that haunts me. In psycho-babble its called fear of failure, I know this but like the rest of my knowledge, this piece of information can not will itself into action. I am 'stuck in a moment that I can't get out of'.
From time to time, my mind wanders. Concerns further off dominate the immediate. I loose focus, and dwindle from one day to another. All very cliche, but I assure you, all very true.
And as all this races through my mind, I find solace in the matters of the heart. I let it rule. Solace. Such a peaceful word, it belies the emotions to a lull, until everything feels grey.
The most difficult thing to deal with is the free advice that I get. I am thankful for it, in a very uncaring manner. I listen to what people have to say, as they compare their own situation with mine, what they would do and what I should, and how it all contrasts with what I AM doing. And once the conversation is over, I let it all slide.
My parents are desperate to intervene, but post 9/11 intervention is a word colored in the negative. Plus, the fact that in the past, whenever I have followed their advice, I have hurt myself more. Nothing against them, they are wonderful people and mean all the good for their son. But, their solutions are black and white. And what am I, if not controversial!
So, on and on it goes. The deadline is around this summer. Whatever decision I make, that is the time when I have to be firmly set on my path, with no looking back. I have promised myself that I will not feel any remorse, no matter how bad it turns out. I already have enough guilt in me to last a lifetime.

My excuse for laziness...

2005-04-17T21:29:00.000-04:00

this weekend is the enormous effort I put in, in following the cricket matches until they were resolved to my satisfaction. Isn't life great?

The Afridi Effect

2005-04-15T13:24:00.000-04:00

My mammu, a conservative man, told me in the prime of his youth, 'Life is like a game of cricket. As you gain experience, you discover that the pointers you got your first day, the pointers you didn't have patience for, are the ones you have to keep relearning, over and over again.'
I hope he witnessed the 'Afridi effect' last night!
Last night, bored out of my brains, I decided that I would follow the cricket match on the internet; an arduous task, where broadband does not do me any favors. After the first innings I found www.cricexpo.com which had a live feed to the Audio commentary. So I put it on, and opened up a game of Backgammon. A friend came online, and we wondered what would happen when Pakistan came out to bat.
Our amateur analysis didn't matter.
Neither did the expert opinions.
Ouch!
Afridi came on and he did what he does best. A show of brutal thrashing with complete disregard for the conservative strategies of the game, the time of day, the pitch, the bowler's experience, fielder positioning - Nothing could have persuaded him to stop, and that's the way its always been.
I have never been a fan of Afridi, consider him too flamboyant for the game. Ditto Akhtar. 'If you can't control your wits, don't play!'
But this was his day. And by God, nobody else could have done it. The Indian attack was clobbered and all their moves were rendered futile, all from a man who has been described as 'hardly knows how to bat'. But he does understand something about human psychology:
Fear breeds confusion, which destroys confidence, and then on, strategy can not be implemented.
I saw some commentators on the web dismiss the performance as a one-time lucky shot, and I agree. What they fail to realize is that that is exactly why he is in the team. The day he works is the day the rest of the team idles. His disregard for technique might be scorned at, but his contributions cant be overlooked.
Now, where is mammu's phone number?

Insight of the week

2005-04-13T15:17:00.000-04:00

It dawned on me today that the only reason smoking seemed fun was because it was a big no-no. And the fun part was trying to figure out when and how to get out of people's ever-watchful eyes and light up. The drawn out afternoons in Lahore with the temperatures reaching 42c, and the only worry I had, was to find that ideal time when you can get out and get back in without being noticed.
And the excuses, oh my, don't ask. I had only a few rules about them.
Number 1: Truth is stranger than fiction, so the outrageous might actually work, provided you tell it right.
Number 2: It had to be spur of the moment, if u plan it out the story looses its elasticity. To compensate the narration has to be enthusiastic, as if you actually had fun doing what you did, which might not be suitable depending upon the story you concocted (and how can you enjoy anything in that weather!)
Number 3: If you have to involve additional characters, make sure they know about it before hand, are willing to corroborate.
Number 4: Tell it, while looking the person in the eye, and don't loose it in the middle of a sentence, just because someone's eye-brows are raised. Doubt CAN be conquered.
Interesting points, all of 'em, that I am trying to incorporate into my fiction these days.

Lost in TR

2005-04-11T14:48:00.000-04:00

I have found that the worst part about writing in english is translating the odd word and verse. My stories are about Pakistan, if not, Pakistanis. The multitude of voices, the difference in tone associated with many of the phrases (Kithoun aaye ou sohneoun!) are clearly drawn in most people's mind, but bring this into english, and the words are no longer animated. Its just another greeting in a strange town with strange customs.
Dialogue in Urdu is even harder, the partial phrases are different from english, and a literal translation ruins the whole effect. Example, the word/phrase from Lahore, cheetaa, colloquial for cool - Would you put it in?
The technique I have seen other authors use is to put description in movement to try and capture the environment, the phrase is used in. But that means long boring descriptions of the dull of everyday life.
Or, I could avoid the whole fiasco and resort to minimalist language, capture the essence of the story, keep it in motion, focus on action rather than interaction. But that technique fails to capture richness. The difference is the difference of Nadeem Aslam and Mohsin Hamid.
Which brings me to Dasht-e-tanhai, Faiz's metaphor that captures loneliness, isolation, an unrewarding life and its bleakness in one phrase. Such phrases can NOT be shifted from one language to another, and we have to do with its translation; no matter how literal it might sound.
I guess I have to achieve some sort of balance, between capturing the scene and narrating it. I believe if I were published, or rather when I am published, my readers will be somewhat familiar with the culture. And hence, I can count on the body of literature already making the rounds, and use it as a background canvas on which images can be drawn.
But the way I see these stories, and the way someone not familiar with South Asia sees these stories would be different. I can see the red bricks, the fields passing by on the GT road, the distance from one corner of Mazang to the other, I can smell the Jalaibi as it sizzles, and I can hear the katakat of the knives from which the dish gets its name...
It becomes a question of focus on the elements that give life to the scene, and thats what I have to edit for. The scene, the angle, the distance which tells the story as it should be told.
And my background in an arcane science based on mathematics and boolean logic is of no help here.

A new dish is made

2005-04-10T13:52:00.000-04:00

Smell it! The brew of controversy amongst liberal and conservative muslims has a new ingredient within it- Tahir Aslam Gora is the latest in a series of names that started with Manji, and was soon joined by Asra Nomani and Amina Wudood; all disgruntled with the conservative framework of religion.
Gora has issued a proclamation for modernizing Islam, and a weekly newspaper has given him ample space to bring forth his criticism and the changes he proposes. He is the founder of NewIslam, and was previously the editor of the 'progressive' newspaper Watan. I have read his views and will comment on it in another space. Meanwhile, I hope he updates his website with his manifesto, it was clearly articulated in Urdu in the paper, but the details are sparse on the website.
The post 9/11 world has challenged many (including me) to re-evaluate much of what they took for granted (dismissing the evil as merely the ugly), but the issues are still there. Extremism is desperately being chased, but poverty, literacy disparity and cultural isolation remain. The on-slaught through liberal media, conspiring think tanks and men in uniform continues.
My views on the subject aside, it gives me a certain sense of awe at just watching these new ideas emerge, these debates happen. Newspapers giving space, PEN Canada backing freedom of expression... Spectators are forced to think, to side with one or the other, to make up their god-damned minds about what and who is closer to the reality in their own lives. These are real people who have stepped forward, for peaceful dialogue and analysis of a subject dear to many. And that they are doing so with the power of debate rather than fatwaa is commendable. My only fear is that it will turn into an olympic event, with too many steroid-calls and too many medals to be chased; but we can hope, cant we?

The farce of the job fair

2005-04-07T12:20:00.000-04:00

I was at the National Job Fair which is being marketted like crazy as the once an year chance to get employers and prospectives together.
Not so.
I went to the fair yesterday around noon. When I found out that there was a cover charge, I mean an entrance fee, my imagination ran wild.
Somewhere in a meeting, some suit informs another that they will not pay the whole amount. Another suit fires back. The first one sits down, and explains that a small cover charge would keep the place from over-crowding and atleast cover the expense of the fortune cookies planned for the event.
And as an immediate result, I was handing out $3.50 to get my five minutes of time with the hiring managers (as claimed in the very informative magazine they provided).
Not so.
Half of the floor was given to 'employment services' and education institutes, meaning I paid $1.75 to be advertised to, by government agencies and private, public institutes. When I asked a lady at one of the booths about a creative writing program, she kindly informed me that the school did have a full fledge english department, and "the details are available on our website, Thankyou, HiHowcanihelpu?"
Then came the agency booths. These are employment agencies that place successful candidates in other companies, and apparently, that is a solid money-making gig in Toronto. Anything other than sales and customer service, and you are better off "checking the website, because it has all the updated information, and it discusses the positions in detail, too." (I have resisted the urge to provide a link to their website.)
A network marketter for financial services, self-employment guides, a volunteer staffed social service booth. Where are the employers, I thought. Lo and behold, they were there, looking for sales and customer service positions... the army wanted field engineers, OPP looking for officers (weren't they short of funds or something?), A protection service showing off an officer dog (I am not being disrespectful, it was a real dog in uniform with a human master/guide/friend, watever the politically correct term is these days) on a leash. I liked the leash though, it certainly added some character.
Two hours later I stepped out, only after providing feedback (looks like they needed it too) on one of the stalls setup for this purpose. Apart from the shoulder bag I had brought with me, I carried a bag with a tremendous amount of web-site addresses, some printed on glossy pamphlets, others on simple white paper, all of which can be compressed into a single page (the technology these days), and put on a webpage on the internet...
But that would drive the fortune cookie guy out of business.
Sigh.
freaking trade-offs.

Small victories

2005-04-05T17:57:00.000-04:00

The three guys that I fell out with, are now finding out that I was right.
My silence on the matter continues, let them figure out the wrong they have done. They happen to be intelligent people who can add subtract and keep track of numbers as they come and go. Let them keep the record, and learn from it. When I was shouting out that some of the documents were false in their accusations, that it was a scare tactic to get me to pay money I did not owe - all my claims were tall because they did not want to believe me.
And now, when that third party has accepted their mistake, and my stance and my memory of the records has been proven, everyone is quick to point at the other...
I remind them that I have stopped caring. You deal with what you have to deal with, I don't care about ur emotions now, and I didn't care about your accusations then. It simply wasn't worth my time.
What did bother me then and what continues to bother me, is the unease and confusion my parents have gone through because of this mess. These guys (and one of them in particular) have damaged my credibility, even though my dad has been more than understanding.
We had shared so much together and ... A part of me wants to empathize with them, still.
That, perhaps, is the only regret I have today.

The waiting game

2005-04-04T12:20:00.000-04:00

I went to give an interview on Saturday for a technology company. On my resume, there are a coupla instances where I have done similar work for other companies. The interview went well, with yours truly first passed the HR, and then the technical panel of interviewers; everyone taking their turns with the questions and the please-be-at-ease smiles. As I write this I think, did I come across as nervous? watever, its in the past. No, use fretting over it now.
And now the waiting game begins. Its already day 1, with me calling to provide them with my references, and explaining how and when I worked with these people. And now, I sit down with my chai.
The sun is out after a miserably overcast weekend. Sea-gulls are making a show of force outside, grounding the few pigeons in my uncle's balcony. The blue carpet underneath my feet catches the sun, feels warm.
If I have to wait, I might as well feel a lil' cozy.

Falling from the edge

2005-04-01T01:06:00.000-05:00

How do you tell a near and dear that you don't believe in the religious moral code as it exists in conservative Islam today?
How do you tell them that you are ok with living in a world full of humans? That all human beings have failings, and the compromises we make with our religious codes to make our lives easier work... that's why we make those choices in the first place?
How do you tell them that you are sorry, not for failing a sense of principles, and not for living the way you believed was right, but rather, only because of the irresponsibility inherent in such behaviour?
And what if you are sorry, but have exhausted the capacity to regret your actions and your inactions, and what if you want to say sorry but experience no remorse at all?

Home cooked meals and other blessings

2005-03-30T00:39:00.000-05:00

I had forgotten what it means to live at home, to eat full blown meals without worrying about cooking the next one and to take lunch and dinner at the hours when these meals are supposed to be taken.
An old acquaintance kept reminding me that I have lost a lotta weight, which isn't unusual, considering what I have been through the last coupla months. I am beginning to realize that the events have damaged my personality, too. My sense of humor, my confidence, my irrational exuberance ;) But let bygones be bygones, Murlizee, and good riddance, too.
I read a quote somewhere that madness is making the same mistake over and over again. I don't want to look back right now, but I have to, even if it is just to reminisce, to find out the reasons why fell into the holes that I fell into. Why could I not handle it? Where did I start loosing it?
At this point I don't want to blame others or myself. Just move on, I tell myself, but its hard to think clearly when so much of the immediate past clouds my thoughts. At first I thought some plain old solitude would help me out, but it didn't, and now that I have good company, I realize this is what I craved and required.
A special thanks to the Omnipotent for getting me here, and a special prayer to guide me forward, and a special resolution to keep moving, learning, maturing... the show must go on.

Shaking booties to end prejudice

2005-03-28T19:54:00.000-05:00

When I was a frustrated teen dragging myself through the misery of a segregated society in Saudi Arabia, I loved beauty pageants. It was the glamour, the iconic status, the swim-suits and the too-hopeful-to-be-real answers that I could tsk-tsk at. And off course there were the hormones and the male ego; estranged forces that have a significant contribution in what ails the world today.
So, when A tells me to mind my own business where the Miss Canada Pakistan Beauty pageant is concerned, I tell her the story of a young chauvinistic male who fell in love with a wonderful woman and realized that his notions were downright prejudiced. That he knew absolutely nothing about women and their world, and whatever he did know through feeble, half-hearted interactions and pop culture was a lie that he had digested gullib-ly, never realizing that the tsk-tsk should have been directed at his own fantasies and fictional ideas.
Thank you Love!
I have since given up on most of these publicity and marketing gimmicks-the magazines, the advertising, the top 10 lists, and the sexual innuendo streamed through pop culture.
'Beauty pageants are an entry into the modeling world.' 'They provide networking opportunities for females looking forward to a career in that industry.' And the particular one for this event was 'it shakes off the image of Pakistanis as fanatical and terrorists'. Interesting take, that last one.
That it feeds ambition, competition and provides exposure to young females is a good argument. But it does all this while instilling a belief in the participants and the players surrounding, that beauty is something to be used, judged and given points on. Countless teens and young adults - the demographic interest group (geek-speak for young and dumb consumers) are fed the images of these very models, reinforcing the belief that to be successful you need to work hard; on your waist-line, the swing of your hips, the size of breasts and how enticing a package you can create based on what the media thinks is a good figure.
Self-esteem issues are bound to follow.
The argument that the battle is half-beauty, half-brains is rather naive, and you don't have to know the IQ of the losers for proof, you only need to hear the judges questions. The 'world peace' answers in Miss Congeniality come to mind.
Most women think that if chauvinists were given complete control they would turn women either into geishas or sex symbols. That, too, is a rather naive belief. Men have adverserial tendencies so they love the concept of a bitch. Plainly said, it gives them someone to fight with. And also, they love the idea of the invisible woman who can only be seen when she is sought, otherwise remaining invisible and ignored. Then there is the need for a man-woman, a female who is convinced that they way men go through their lives is the right way. Emotions, communication at a more personal level, finding and establishing complex social interactions should be left out for male-bonding activities like sports and beer-bottle competitions.
All this to say, that the way a man spins a woman around is much more complex. Its a world by men and for men. And they have learnt the tricks to keep it that way, too.
But A, its still a free country, and if you want to use the words Pakistani Canadian, go ahead. Can't force one persons views on another, can we? That the organizers went ahead despite opposition from conservative religious groups shows they are willing to stick in and fight. By all means, go ahead. Just don't claim to be opening doors, providing opportunities and fixing fanatical images, when you are creating more problems then you are solving.

Same shit, another weekend

2005-03-25T20:37:00.000-05:00

I am shit tired of my employer. I have been working with these guys for five weeks now, and I still haven't received a pay cheque!
Today I walked half an hour to meet the guy, and I heard the same story once more. I am not the kind of guy who looses his cool in difficult situations. Infact, I hardly get confrontational. But this was it. I just burst forth like a volcano waiting for the the right shift.
I hate these small time jobs. I need to get back into my field, and I need to do that ASAP. No contract work, no billing and waiting 3 weeks, no more excuses. If you want your work done, half now, half later. And if that half later doesn't happen, no deliveries.
God! Its frustrating, I have expenses too, and the end of month is right around the corner. How am I supposed to make rent by the 1st, if these assholes won't clear my dues?
Too frustrated for more!

Empty posts, watever

2005-03-22T18:05:00.000-05:00

My blog looks even more boring than I feel, oh My...
These days I am going through some financial distress. Right now, I am supposed to be getting two cheques from two employers. Any day now, one says. I need time says the other. Meanwhile, the tab I keep at the local restaurant is high enough for the owner to pay me a visit (I can not elaborate on that much further).
But life goes on, and so do I. As long as I have a good meal at the end of the day, and TTC tickets to bring me to and from work, I should survive.
But greater questions remain. How long can I go on merely surviving, that one is from my Mom. I wish I felt some need to move on, but I do not. I hesitate before telling her about writing because I know, in her mind its a timepass, not a life. In my mind... it gains ground every day, diminishing the space reserved for more practical endeavors.

Friedman on Manji

2005-03-06T12:41:00.000-05:00

Thomas Friedman, a pulitzer winning writer for the New York Times wrote a piece in praise of Irshad Manji and her plans for a 'centre of excellence'. What that exactly means was humbly left to the reader's imagination. Muslimwakeup came out with their own views in a blog entry.
Manji confuses me. I respect her zeal for the revival of debate within Islam. I respect her views on Israel, but there is a lot that is left out in her book. For instance, Islam is not the biggest reason, neither is it the only reason why the muslim world lags behind the developed countries. From Africa, through the Middle East and South Asia, a lot of the problems are political in nature. Poverty, dismal literacy rates, non-existence of free press, un-open economies and atrocities in the name of justice are huge problems, and many find their roots in the political climates of these countries, whether they are dictatorships, feeble democracies or kingships. Friedman is keen to point out that the western world has used the Middle East as its gas station; as long as the oil prices are low, the West is happy. But thats just the Middle East. Chomsky details the exploitation of Asia in his latest book, 'At war with Asia'.
And it isn't just the Western influence on the politics of countries - internal feuds for power, agrarian societies which lack industrial and technological capacities, poverty leading to exploitation of the masses for the gain of the few, generals and kings dictating the use of the few resources available - As I said, a lot has been left out of her book.
But at the same time, her demand for the revival of ijtihaad is something that I can not bring myself to disagree with. Its Islam's built-in feedback system that has been left rotting for two centuries now. The fatwaa, used to be a doctrine of law, is now merely a way of dissing opponents. Why do women have fewer rights in todays version of Islam? Not only is it unacceptable, its disgusting. Women can't drive in Saudi Arabia! To the asshole in Texas who keeps inviting these Holinesses one after the other to his ranch, can we forget the misunderestimation for a while and talk social change with the freaks incharge of these laws.
And as for muslims ourselves, if you read the muslimwakeup article you realize that cutting to the chase means shouting sell-out rather than debating a need. Isn't it the easy way out for us to label everyone we don't agree with as a sell-out? And it goes directly against the principles of free debate. Frankly, its all too maulvi-ish, to claim representation of one group (liberal muslims in this case) and pass a fatwaa that the other party's point of view is not worth arguing, because it is funded, projected or patronized by groups who are definitely against us.
Guilty by association, seems to be the verdict for Manji, as it has been for nearly anyone trying to bring muslims out of their misery for the last two decades. Attaturk, Jinnah, Syed Ahmed Khan - Yes, all sell-outs. Just so we can live happily in our coccoons, shielded from debate and dissent that just might prove us wrong. And the holy, the chosen can never admit to being wrong, can they?

Beeri pi, khush reh

2005-03-03T19:07:00.000-05:00

In a strange moment of inspiration, I found myself taking notes on the subway. And later, sitting in the Coffee Time opposite Coxwell station, having finished this week's fiction list, I wrote 2000 words in one hour. Some of these days, I amaze myself. I wish I'd do that more often.
Meanwhile, the cold alert is on till noon tomorrow, which means Friday evening should be good enough for a trip to the beaches. I am a scorpio, so water bodies are as soothing as a summer breeze.
I didn't know it was possible but I have fallen in love with a painting in a shop on Danforth. I find myself making excuses to walk past the store, only to look at that one painting. It features a man and a woman making a run for it. The light source is on the left hand side of the reader, which is also the direction in which the couple is running. I have no idea why it strikes my fancy. I am afraid that the price will be unbelievably high, and I have no place to put it either. Imagine, people walking in into a half-apartment-half-masjid and being greeted by a frame on the wall with a young gora couple in the instant of flight!
[Fake Indian Accent] Oh no my friend! Allah's house, you know! You put picture on wall. Man and woman holding hand and running. All picture is Haraam. Meaning not allowed! Ok? Ok![/Fake Indian Accent]
PS: In newspapers devoted to spreading rumors, raising emotions and marketting bahaar melas, it felt strangely exciting to read a feminist peice by Naseem Syed. I have to find a place where I can get her poetry books. Hopefully, at the next mushaira, whenever that might be.
PPS: The title comes from a bengali man standing in the paan shop on Gerrard, while I was cursing an asshole who was spitting paan out the window of his moving car.

I wrote a post

2005-03-02T17:56:00.000-05:00

I wrote a whole post, spending 15 mins of my very-available time, and the computer froze up.
Aur ab duaa...

Bar'ay be-aabroo ho ke tere koochay se hum nikle

2005-02-25T14:22:00.000-05:00

Three years of friendship, sharing and living together culminated into three bags (a briefcase of paperwork, a sleeping bag and a suitcase full of broken promises), as I exited 2011 and called a cab.
A friend, who had sought help from me at a time when I could offer none, came to the rescue, making arrangements (and freeing up floor space), so I could crash with him for the night. In the evening I spoke with the owner of the place, a kind-hearted fellow, who realized that I had no explanations to offer. We haven't finalized the rent, but looks like I'll be here for March, too.
They call this place a 'musallah', which is maulvi-speak for a space to pray. The living room has no furniture, just a plain grey carpet, where the people from nearby come to say their prayers, five times a day. There are four rooms. One for the owner, the other three are rented out to singles. For now, I am sharing the room with my friend.
In the last two days, I have met all the regulars, those who live here, and those who live nearby, coming and going as they please. They respect my privacy, and I respect there's. There was a time when I would have cursed at the idea of living in a masjid, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
The evenings are sullen and pass slowly. I keep myself busy with my books, keeping my mind off of the immediate past. Sometimes it works.
For two days I waited for the dreaded speech, for the invitation and the initiation into their way of life, into their shared prayers and tableegh. I tried to make up arguments as to why I don't pray, and why I don't look forward to prayer with the fervor that they do. But the logic keeps falling apart, and I have nothing to say.
But the invitation hasn't come and I don't think it will, until I take the first step.
A part of me wants to confess, to my past mistakes, to come in from the cold and be greeted by someone... anyone. And another part wants to shout out obscenities at the slightest thought of what I have suffered at the hands of some of my dearest.
Inspite of so much to say, my lips remain silent. In prayer and in person.
And I wonder, if this is the silence of the mathnavi, or the silence of paralysis?

A few things

2005-02-09T16:26:00.000-05:00

1. I love Nora Jones voice. If this is jazz, I'd like one more to go, please.
2. Snow again. its pretty good right now, while its snowing. But soon the wind will take over, and I'll take cover somewhere in my shabby little space.
Yesterday it was my roommates birthday, and we had a sombre party. I have a real tight budget this month (nothing unusual about that) but I am trying to discipline myself into spending what I have, rather than what I think I will have in the future. So, the planning started at 9pm, and I had all the supplies in till 10pm, and then the music went on till about 2am. By then the whole scene had died down, everybody looked guilty as hell. I hit the sack thinking this was a good one. I read my horoscope in the Eye magazine this morning, only to find out that it mentioned my money problems AND my partying.
Uncanny is the word I was looking for.
Have to call home tomorrow and I wonder if this will be one of those pleasant calls about weather and cooking or the dread of my life calls regarding career choices and lifestyle and money and marriage and what not. Some of it is bound to pop up, and as usual I will just be dodging issues rather than communicating the impossible, impractical, career ruining moves that I am dreaming up in my head.

Confession time

2005-02-07T13:44:00.000-05:00

Today might be the day that all the lies that I spin around in my life, finally entangle me. I wonder, why do I tell these small white lies at the workplace? They aren't worth it, and end up causing me more trouble than they were worth in the first place.
Why was I scared of my boss? Why did I not give him the exact truth in the first place? Why did I have to find a scapegoat when I am the one who chickened out? And it wasn't even my fault. But instead of coming in with what I believed was not my fault, I spun a cockadoodle story about the misgivings and bossy behaviour of another person, tried to play the boss against a senior worker just so I could be in my own comfort zone.
The manly thing, the brave and honest thing to do now would be to accept that I lied (for whatever reason) but I don't have the guts to do that. I will keep on doing the same, insist that I have the right story, and blame one person who has no idea I am tossing his name around.
And I tell myself, this is vengeance, for some earlier shit that he gave me. Now, its my turn to play politics in the office, and get some good will going. 'Trust me, I have my reasons", I tell myself each time. But it sounds really hollow, really weak.
And as always, I promise myself that I have learned my lesson, no more comfort zone, no more bullshitting people. Lets see if Murlizee, dismissed for breaking promises he makes to other people, can keep a promise that he makes to himself.
Oh God, help me out on this one. Seriously, I could use it right now.

Bored or busy?

2005-02-04T13:40:00.000-05:00

Oh man, I wish I didn't have this many problems at this time in my life. I have no idea how to handle them. And self-doubt, the complex neurosis that only humans can go through, is taking toll. I haven't done any writing in days. And I wish I had something new to say, but my mind is preoccupied and I can't cut through the glut that seems to surround me.
But the weather has been better the whole week. Nothing below -5c, which is a blessing. And I have been eating well enough, so I guess I shouldn't complain.
As I write this I realize that either I loose myself in the bigger picture, or loose it all in the daily. I can't seem to figure out how to divide my time (and effort) to both. Hopefully, I'll learn. Soon.

Getting paid for poetry

2005-02-02T18:13:00.000-05:00

I have a part time job these days that is taking full time hours. But the good thing is that I just sit there, read and write poetry. Ghalib couldnt get his pension restored and I am getting paid for this: life is so cruel.
A few bright and sunny days ago I decided that, not only will I complete my fiction project, I will also publish poetry. And I don't have poems to put in it, but I have a title.
Next thing is, I have to find more South Asian writers in Toronto. I could use their help. Or maybe, I should complete the first draft first, and then proceed. The reason being that it would be really difficult for me to network in the kind of personal and job-related environment I am in. But I need the feedback. And no matter how motivated you are, self-doubt is human; specially if the weather is gloomy.
So, I went through this anthology called 'Her Mother's Ashes' by south asian women in North America, only to note down where they were, and what they were doing. I need to find out if some of them are still here, and willing to help a newbie shoot his first hoops.
Lastly, my paycheque hasn't arrived. It was due on the 27th, and I am on my last $20 bill. Need to take care of that as soon as I am done blogging.
Which means right now.

Eid Blues

2005-01-21T14:44:00.000-05:00

Wasn't it like a week ago that we had the last eid? Oh my, I have completely lost my sense of time (and my sense of timing was always screwed). All I can remember about last month is the subway. Zip to here, dash to there, read Pamuk on the bus and Vassanji on the job.
I spoke with my grandmother after a long time, today. And after a long, long time I have this urge to just buy a ticket and fly off to Lahore, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty.
Reading my emails I find that I once had a life, and some people beleive that I still have one; if they only knew, my woes have neither an end nor any meaning.
My greatest fear is loosing myself in the 9-5, or the drudgery of my roommate's punjabi stage show collection. No wonder a coffee time nearby looks more cozy to me than my own apartment. And the bills that pile up and the constant phone calls I get from institutions I owe money too; Arrrgh, don't wonna think about them!
I survive on fiction, that I am sure of. I would die without these worlds (and words) that sometimes give meaning, and sometimes withhold it. Not merely an escape, they exist as parallel realities where things occur for a purpose, no matter how strange or ordinary. I belong to these alternate universes, not this one that I am in, and perhaps that is the only 'ehsaas' that sustains me these days.

Computer Issues

2005-01-20T09:51:00.000-05:00

I am currently going through a host of computer issues, because of which I am unable to post regularly. Till I get over these, this blog will be updated once a week.
PS: Have a great eid, and when you complain about the weather, add my name to the signees.

New years resolutions

2005-01-05T10:18:00.000-05:00

I have been surprised by the outpour of emotion and financial contributions in the wake of the tsunami disaster. A caller on a radio said that as many as 350,000 Sri Lankans live in the Toronto area. I know four of them, two being neighbors, all four have lost someone in their immediate family.
I think I have wrongly become a cynic. My experience might be bad, but it is limited. It pains me now, to see how wrong my attitude is.
Volunteers are making rounds on foot to collect donations, people are sitting in call centres waiting for donations. Many are donating food and clothing. Many more, with nothing else to give, are trying to provide counselling.
So here's my new years resolution.
This year, I will be an optimist. I will block all thoughts that lead to negativity. I will encourage others around me to participate in making things better. I will shun the cynic in me. I will refuse to be haunted by bad experiences in the past. I will not care what the headlines predict.
In short, I will believe.

Justifying my good feelings

2004-12-29T05:27:00.000-05:00

I sense change.
That it is coming.
Progress, enlightenment, serenity, certitude. I have doubted their arrival and the timing. But slowly the patterns are emerging.
First there were voices, lonesome and frail. Then language was born, and communication florished. Which gave rise to debate and dissent, and only through their fostering could reason rise.
And all through the process, consciously or not, there is the yearn; to seek, to grow, to rise, to fly.
Guess what? They are being fostered.
It is coming.
Candles lit from candles, and the light is spread. Me, you, them; the least we can do is bear witness to our own ascent (and with a rising tide, all boats do rise), and the most is to spread the word, participate, contribute, everyone in their own way.
Here's to this new year. New beginnings, new ideals, new horizons; with renewed spirits and rejuvenated intellect.
Seeking, we are, and find it, we will.
-More on this later-

Independence Day

2004-12-27T17:29:00.000-05:00

I read an article in the Globe & Mail celebrating lonliness, and the treatment that is meted out to the concept in books. Thats where I found out about Independence Day by Richard Ford, a pulitzer winner.

The story focuses on the life of Frank Bascombe going through his 'Existence Period', a time in life where he is happy to answer the question, 'Do you have a life, Frank?' with a 'no thanks, I have an existence'. He justifies his purposeless wanderings in real estate, his non-committal arrangement with Sally (another existence period dweller), and ex-wife Ann, who has moved on to a better life. He salutes the good in life rather than go after the best, and finally realizes that not taking a risk is the biggest risk of all.

I saw an uncanny resemblance between my last two years and his 'existence period'. 'Going slow', 'one thing at a time', setting small goals and trying real hard not to answer the grand-er questions that life has thrown at me. The way he has distanced himself from those who love him, asking everyone to leave him to his fate, forsaking love and its entwined spirals, demanding privacy; its was all too familiar, and kept me 'thinking about thinking' (as his son puts it).
There are times in life when existence works, but stretch it too far and it expands to encapsulate all interactions between human beings. Conversations dwindle, clarity is lost, and all thats left is lonely stretches of silence; a silence that can never reciprocate the spontaneous laugh, the untimely sorrow, the dry wit or the unlikely musings that arise when two people connect.

But life is so... individual, so specific, so very unique these days that the focus on 'me' can not be shattered. It has become a race truly, no matter how holy the goals might be. Why is their so little time, so many mountains to climb, journeys to complete, heights to rise to? Isn't the existence period our way of slamming the door to society and its imposed values?
Isn't Frank the modern day hermit who is trying to make sense of himself rather than mix in with the rest?

Small pleasures

2004-12-26T02:56:00.000-05:00

The only personal gift I got for Christmas this year is a copy of the Naom Chomsky book 'At War with Asia'. This, from someone who has neither an interest in world affairs/politics nor Asian roots. That fact makes the thought behind the gift, greatly appreciable. Thank You.
One of my favorite sites, topleftpixel (linked in blogs I read) has been awarded the best blog of 2004 by Now Magazine. BoingBoing (also linked) also made the top 10. Congrats to both!
Elsewhere, in the desi newspapers I read that Imran Khan is appearing as a guest tomorrow for an evening on Islam. The cover price is $35 which means I am certainly not gonna be in the audience. Shahzad Roy is showing up in Toronto for eid- which reminds me, since when have we started celebrating Chand Raat before the second eid? Sigh. People amuse me.

Nightmares and Christmas carols

2004-12-23T18:03:00.000-05:00

I am sitting in an open space inside a big mansion. In front of me, there is a green house. I see an oft-remembered love of long past playing tag with my younger brother. They run through the green house towards the left and disappear.
I am happy for some odd reason. My deceased grandmother and aunt are sitting beside me, one on each side, holding my hands. I realize I am in heaven.
Behind the green house is a giant swimming pool, overlooked by an all-glass building, on top of which the sun shines in a soft afternoon glow.
My brother is on the top of the building. He moves to the side. She comes running from behind him, doesn't stop, and dives into the pool with the elegance of an olympic diver, somersaulting, twisting, bending and finally hitting the water in a small splash.
My grandmother smiles.
I wake up with a smile on my face. With a start like this, my day is bound to be good. Its still not time, and my body is aching for more sleep. I turn over and close my eyes.
This time, I am in Pakistan, travelling in a car. The road looks like the GT road, with huge power lines running on the left, tower after tower, as I stare out the window.
I see two girls and two boys, in school uniforms, the grey drabs of Kurta and white shalwars, with shoulder bags on the back standing on top of one of the powerline metallic structures.
Suddenly, they jump.
I shout for the car to stop. By the time I get there, they have burned up in the mesh of wires, with the shoulder bags still on their backs.
I cry in my sleep, and wake up contemplating suicide. Even my dreams reek of symbolism.
---
I am shit tired of hearing Christmas carols. Everywhere I go, its about christmas. Well, atleast the musicians didn't mind being christians, and forgot about the politically correct 'Happy holidays'. God is in the details.
I didn't celebrate eid, and sure as hell won't be celebrating christmas. Its all a big farce for materialism. People reduced to petty emotionalism by the media. What a happy world we live in.
But, being the hypocrite that I am, I did give one christmas gift, to my most beautiful female colleague, (who graces this place with her one-liners from time to time). And guess what the gift was? An unabridged evening with Murli Zee, raw as sushi, albeit vegetarian.
By new year's eve, she will have fallen in love with me, inspite of her boyfriend, if not, because of him.
---
Dear Rahul,
You have caught me at a bad time, but what the hell. I'll bitch to anyone who will read. Beam me up, Scotty!

Cold, cold town

2004-12-20T15:46:00.000-05:00

I woke up at noon on sunday, and called mom long distance. She kept asking me about the weather, and I kept saying that it was still ok. Later, I turned on the tv, lo and behold, the windchill was -34c. You have to experience it to know what it feels like. It gives me the idea that Hell is depicted as hot because the people of the books were in hotter climates, near the equator. If the Quran had originally come to the people of Canada, Hell would have been a cold dark place with constant wind, freezing rain and frozen sidewalks.
My walk to the subway was a jihad, and coming back from work at midnight, I was exhausted. The mental toll of this extreme weather is much worse than the physical.
But I still recommend it as one of those impossible goals everyone should have on their to-do list. To spend a week in -30c on earth before heading for the heat of hell.

Let sleeping dogs lie

2004-12-19T02:38:00.000-05:00

So, what the fuck is Martin upto? The man has single-handedly turned the liberal party into a joke! I hate Bush, but atleast, he respects his mandate. And where is David Miller? What happened to the deal for the cities and the waterfront?
First, Martin lacked the balls to enact legislation on the issue of gay marriages and sent the issue to the Supreme Court. The courts shrug it off, 'not our issue, talk to the parliament'. But the hornet's nest had been disturbed.
Even though it is legal in 3 provinces to marry a person of the same sex (maybe more by now), he just had to come up with a federal answer to a civic issue. What a waste of leadership! And now, big-oil Alberta's Ralphie has the oppurtunity to confuse the country by demanding a referendum. Great! Then every Canadian has a say in what two people of the same sex living together, can or can not call their union. No referendum on joining the US missile defense program, but referendum on something that is already an established practice in the country!
If gays want to call themselves married, what the fuck is wrong with that? And many a moron will argue that marriage is sacred. Oh yea, here's a word. sacred. So what else has been dubbed 'sacred'?
The british duty to rule the world, sacred.
The right to import, buy, sell and kill slaves, sacred.
State persecution against left-wing artists in the US during the cold war, sacred.
Bin Laden's mission, sacred.
Bush's illegal war, sacred.
Marriage, sacred? Buddy have you seen the statistics for divorce in today's world. wtf!
My rational argument falls along the words of Truedeau, 'The state has no business in people's bedrooms', and my emotions are summed up by Cobain in his journal, 'I am not gay, although I wish I were, just to piss-off homophobes'.

Misery

2004-12-17T18:42:00.000-05:00

O misery. It is difficult to walk
With thorns in your feet.
The sting, the bleeding-
Why is it you are not heeding
Your longing for another path?

O misery. You are walking on glass.
Your sole is cut and torn.
Why have you shorn your raven locks,
Why do you stumble dreamless in your pain?

Misery, I remember you before the hemlock.
I remember you proud and fierce.
Before you drank the drink of self-forgetting,
You were glorious, an exquisite gyre,
Turning in the sun.

Misery, what have you done?
Why do you pluck you feathers
Bleeding by your beak?
Misery, speak to me. Say your name.
Say the shame you feel not saying it.

Misery, remember who you are.
That long and jagged scar:
Own what you've done-
This costly dance with bloody feet on jagged stone.
Own what you've done, forgive it and come home.

(The right to write - Julia Cameron)

The end of an era

2004-12-14T13:42:00.000-05:00

In the start of 2002, I convinced some friends from across the city, and we moved into Apt 2011. It was supposed to be a refuge and a shelter for like-minded people, and it was all going good, until 3 months back, strapped for cash, we inducted another roommate. And it went well, but for-and-against allegiances started to form. And 3 days ago, the shit hit the fan.
We are still living at the same place, but the drift is evident. The evenings are melancholic, almost depressing. The confusion is mind blowing. Mistrust is taking roots, and the channels of communication always strapped for time, are closing off. We avoid talking about the incident, but it is everywhere.
I have lost my sense of space, privacy and refuge, essential components that took months to establish, gone in one evening.
2011 was the talk of the town, the bachelor's hangout, where the married came to party every once in a while (much to the dismay of their wives). The eid milan parties, watching cricket matches the whole night, the barbecues, the episodes with our neighbors - sweet memories, no doubt.
I would like to remember the good parts but the way things are going, the ending will not be one of them. And right now, I am too exhausted to boost my mood and look at the bright side. And all out of motivation to try and repair the damage that has been done.

Ironies of life

2004-12-11T01:01:00.000-05:00

I spent thursday chasing after a few job leads, that I had found out about. So, when I got a long distance ring on my home phone on friday, I assumed that it might be a follow up. Maybe lady luck had smiled, and I would get out of my financial distress.
There's good news and bad news. You see, I haven't landed a new job, but I am one of the winners in a competition. My prize is 2 camera phones (don't know the model numbers yet) and seven months of free local calling. No contracts to sign, no commitments on my part to keep the plans after they are over.
I'm guessing the phones are worth around $300 each, so thats $600 right there. Free local calling is at $45 a month, so times seven , thats $315. All in all, thats around $900 worth of products and services.
And the irony is, I don't need either one of 'em, the product or the service.
I closed down my cell phone two months ago, because I didn't use it that often. I think cell phones are a huge distraction. Plus, your always available. If the weather's bad, or you're in a basement, you have to jump around like a circus freak. It also ruins the conversation and disturbs other people if you're in a public place. Cellphones should have no rings, IMHO, just vibrate-alert.
I still have my last set from another company. I can get it unlocked and activated on the seven month free service, and sell both the phones. That recovers $600. I have no way of recovering the rest of my loot, because having a cell phone means nothing to me. Sure, I'll get it. And I'll even use it. But I'd be hard pressed to get the value of $45 out of it every month. Cash would have been a hundred times better.
Maybe I should start a one-man telemarketting outfit, calling people in Toronto, selling them stuff they don't need (and also, helping them win stuff they don't need), making comissions on each sale and laughing out loud everytime I put the phone down...
Any suggestions?

Another adaptation

2004-12-09T14:23:00.000-05:00

Jhumpa Lahiri's Namesake that I reviewed earlier, is being adapted for a movie by none other than Mira Nair. She has already bought the rights, according to the BBC story.

Cornered

2004-12-08T19:56:00.000-05:00

Thats how I feel like right now. Cornered, with no way that leads out of the hell hole.
Its embarassing in a very personal way. You make rules for yourself and you live by them. But I can't. This rule-making-and-following does not work for me.
I am moved to action by three phenomenon, the first being Necessity. You might have heard of the do-it-once-do-it-best, or the put-off-till-it-bites life-style, but have u heard of the drowning-in-debt-but-dont-give-a-shit lifestyle that seems to have descended on me lately. Trust me, its exactly like Jon Stewart; when you want it to be funny, it bites.
So how does it feel to owe so much to society? It feels like shit. Honestly, I have to bear strained relationships, friends with hesitant words and calls from the collection agent of the day. I wish I had the insensitivity to bear it all, but I don't. I wish I had the strength to look them in the face, and say no, to be blunt and brutal in my apology. I know some who really deserve it.
Faith, effort, hardwork and the lottery feature high in my conversations with myself these days. Somedays I repair, somedays I maintain, somedays I hear myself lecturing me in ways not possible for anyone else.
It is brutal to be too honest with yourself. Like that quote I gave you the last time. If I were living in a void, it wouldn't be possible but I have sufficient examples of misdemeanor from society in general, that make my own crime seem belittled, somehow.
I might be living in a castle in the air, but my unconcious has turned mathematical. Every exchange that involves money is analyzed by algorithms, I cant even begin to explore. Plus, Minus and divide take center stage, while multiply (my favorite) has no real world implications.
And here's a question that bares the beast inside. How will I manage to compile fiction in this state?

Bush Arrested in Canada

2004-12-03T23:32:00.000-05:00

If ur the type who scans headlines to judge the mood of the day, there's good news and bad.
The bad first. Apparently google news, the automated news aggregating service, can't differentiate between satire and... well, news. Granted, some days I can't either. But my personal fuckups are no lone-light-in-the-dark guiding the seekers of truth. And even my tyre treads know that Canada cant arrest Bush, as a peice of satire claimed, which somehow made it to the google headlines.
If anything has been arrested, it is the Canadian media, with reports covering Bush's visit, the inactive activists, the free trade apologists, etc.
Now that Parrish is gone, it was supposed to be better for the liberals, who wanted to call a truce with the Republican administration to our south- they wanted to talk about beef, lumber and border crossings. But Bush, riding the arrogance of a second term, declared what he came to get from Canada; commitment for the Missile Defense Program.
And when I say declared, I actually mean decreed.
This is embarassing for Martin. Before, he might have been a Minister of Finance, but now he's Prime Minister. Prime Minister, I must add, of a country that is horrified by the war, born of one man's infatuation with seeing another man behind bars; an infatuation that might be dismissed as a leather fantasy if the horrors of war allowed.
The activists meanwhile, came out with their very own humane-than-thou, proudly Canadian reasoning that they welcomed him as a neighbor, not as a policy maker.
I wonder if the deprived of this war judge the rest of the world guilty by association, or is this snobbish mannerism enough in our defense? How many people have been guilty by association before, in other wars, before our times? Why do we let this continue? What does the dictionary say about the word pre-emptive? Is this even a word?
Sigh... I'm lost.

A friend called Denial

2004-12-01T21:29:00.000-05:00

I just finished Azar Nafisi's book, 'Reading Lolita in Tehran', and something struck me as very odd about my own behaviour.
Whenever my own life is hit by disharmony, I shift my gaze from the personal to the political. I read newspapers more avidly. I surf the internet. I participate in other people's lives, just so I can get away from my own. Like Humbert of Lolita, I shift the gaze from the pityful and repugnant, to the surreal debates, arts and random joy. I seduce myself into believing that grand-er things exist; that I am, only a small player, standing on the shoulders of giants, that somehow I owe it to the blessings I have receieved, to provide words and decipher meanings.
I read the future in the present, with complete disregard for the past, like the people around me who insist on a 'spiritual' love that stands apart from the passionate one, not realizing that it is just another ideal they have bestowed on themselves to hide the misery of the moment.
And as my roommate Sherazi reminds me, we all live in alternate realities, interpretations that give order to the universe around us; an act of faith rather than a statistical probability.
Right now, December 3rd is an important date, one where I will have to talk myself out of a jam I am in. And I can't wait for it to pass by.
Here are some big words to remember by yours truly, in a diary I wrote 15 years back.

No one should have to bear the reality of himself, before bearing the reality of the world around him.

BSA activity in Pakistan

2004-12-01T13:44:00.000-05:00

Here's a news item that wont make it to the headlines on pakpositive. Pirates given one month to wrap up.

Comments on Maps for Lost Lovers

2004-11-20T19:18:00.000-05:00

Nadeem Aslam takes us to a Pakistani and Indian community named Dasht-e-Tanhai, somewhere in the middle of England. Two lovers, Chanda and Jugnu are missing, and everyone in the community is adjusting to the supposed murder, or worst yet, their running away. Discontent with their surroundings in Dasht-e-Tanhai, the racism they have faced, the clash of values that they have always had with their surroundings, and how it has shaped them, are beautifully rendered in prose.
The strong undercurrents of religious belief, the induced hypocrisy, the anti-feminism (bordering on anti-humanism) that is induced by the popularized notions in Islam, all show their ugly head, and the characters are hostages to their own beleifs. And indeed, it is the same artifacts of their previous lives - these religious dogmas that they hold on to, engraved in their psyche and cherished, because it is the only link to their past, Pakistan and India.
A woman chooses to use a man, so she can go back to her child in Pakistan, a child who lives in Pakistan with his drunkard, wife-beating father, who has divorced this woman while drunk (and now wants her back). And the man chooses to use the woman, to feed on her zest, to be free of the compromises that surround his own life, and that of the community.
It is a grand project, but it suffers in a few places, where the characters manage to gross themselves out(and also the readers), metaphors that should criticize, tend to disgust. If that was the effect sought, it works wonderfuly well.

Parrish Outburst

2004-11-20T03:07:00.000-05:00

The papers were full of it today. MP Parrish got the boot from Martin but said she had no regrets. This after she stepped on a Bush doll for a comedy shoot, and was terminated from the liberal caucus By Paul Martin.
Amazing times we live in these days. If I weren't disgusted by his policies, I might feel sorry for Dubya. But its just more of the same. He has become an icon for relief these days. Everything gets blamed on the misuderestimated Texan. And happens to be the case, he is showing up in Ottawa next month. So those, who think Parrish handed her head on the plate to Martin, aren't completely wrong. With his visit so close, and the first after re-election, any Bushism incident had to be kept quiet, or sternly dealt with.
And the papers are full of apologists, dissentful voices that don't agree with Bush, but are requesting for more respect from politicians and informing the regular Canadians that its all about the trade. US buys 90 percent of Canadian exports, and hence, we can't afford backlashes. Plus there's also the issue of Canada disagreeing with the US on Iraq, and still saving themselves from retaliatory trade disruption. And now, in his second term, he wants Canada to join in into the Missile Defense programme. With some tricky diplomacy ahead for Canada, such behaviour could not be tolerated.
I find this economic hostage situation amusing, because I have seen it happen between the IMF and Pakistan in the 90s. While in theory the free market is all equal, in global trade the bigger market players have many leverages. Even in Iraq, whether elections take place on time or not, their real need of debt cancellation will never be met, and they too, will have to pay for a long time for this enforced liberation, same as when Afghanistan was liberated from communism.
You see, bashing Bush as an icon might serve some good, but it isn't just about the neocons, or the republicans. It is the interests of the market makers that are to be watched, and they are watched by all. Even in India, when the Congress party won, the media rushed to check the beat of the market players, as they adjusted to the win of a party with socialist leanings.
Parrish just did what millions of anti-war activists have done all over the world, stomp on a bush doll.
But trade, economic outlook, market predictions and the millions of statistical metrics associated with them can not be allowed to be disturbed by a voice of dissent.

Kuj sheher de loke vi zalim san...

2004-11-18T01:15:00.000-05:00

'On one hand the city surrounding me was easily provoked. On the other hand I was curious about ways of dying...'
'The second verse should be, "I was curious about the ways of living". Kuch mainon jeen da shok vi si...'
Maps for lost lovers - Nadeem Aslam

A look into the future

2004-11-16T23:58:00.000-05:00

Chastised from originality, I begin to follow the herd.
I give in to the incessant chatter around me, and get married. I brush aside the questions of love and commitment, and with much fanfare resolve to enjoy my wedding. It comes and goes, and later on, I wonder what all the fuss was about.
We fall in love, but it lasts two months. She curses me for bringing her 'Up North', where cold is not limited to the winter months. When she wants to pick a fight, we even talk about going back to Pakistan.
A child follows, and we thrust our insecurities and unfulfilled wishes onto its meagre shoulders, a burden to be born for life.
We move in our lives. Buy a bigger car and move to the suburbs. She tells me how a woman never owns anything, her childhood home is her father's, and her adult home is her husband's.
I hate the constant noise in my ears.
Its time for school, and for the life of me, I can't stop telling the child how she is blessed. My wife brings brochures for the muslim school in her new car. I tell her its her job to pick and drop. She turns into a soccer-mom complete with an SUV, albeit with a scarf on her head.
I shift attention. The discussion about the kid turns into the discussion about kids. I change jobs.
Desperate for company, we start socializing with other young Pakistani couples. When we want to be seen as progressive, we criticize Pakistan around the dinner table. When we want to feel enlightened, we criticize Canada.
Meanwhile, the kid learns to hate. She hate the crochets in her bed linen, its another explanation to give to the questions she's asked, another nuisance that makes her stand out, rather than be part of the lives of her friends. She hates the greasy food. She hates the muslim school.
But the outside is not welcome inside, and they learn to live two lives. One inside, one outside. And they blame their mom for her dogmas and their father for being a spineless jackass, who isn't prepared to interfere when the former is indulging them.
Days turn into seasons that never change, and just like seasons, they never remain still either.
I look myself in the mirror and don't recognize the face. I buy a BMW.
My wife, a nervous wreck now, feels invisible. I secretly wish that were true. Her search for meaning starts with religion and ends at her kids. And she is menopausal, so there are no excuses.
So one day, she sits them all on the dinner table, and tells the teenagers how they need to know about religion. By now, they are sick of her hypocrisy and renewed zeal towards Islam. She tells the eldest to cover her head and hands her the Koran.
-------
At this point the picture gets hazy. I hope for the sake of that child, that she picks it up and throws it back at her mom. Because otherwise, it is just a series of cliches.
Some days the images are so clear that I forget its my worst nightmare.

Ironies of eid

2004-11-13T23:27:00.000-05:00

Celebrating eid without family is an oxymoron.
Then there's the issue of two eids everytime. Half of the muslims are ok with following the calendar as it is printed in the Middle East, the rest go for moon sightings. It used to be a big affair when I was a kid. I remember climbing up on the terrace and scoring the sky for the moon. A family frolick. I havent seen anybody do it (in my family) since 1995.
As I was saying, there's actually two eids. I mean it depends on which group you follow, so atleast one friend of mine in North America has already celebrated eid on Saturday, while the rest will celebrate it on Sunday.
So, what are my options for tomorrow? Have to make lotta calls, thats a given. I can visit family friends and risk dying of boredom and homesickness, or I can walk around my apartment all gloomy; a realization of my non-existent social life and self-pity ruling the game.
As I write this, I think I should risk death rather than self-pity.
The various eid bazaars around the city are non-issues, buying over-priced chaat and barbecues is not my idea of a good time.
And I've already watched the G3-live in concert DVD, that might have been a good solution.
My new favorite calendar shows a reading session. Maybe I can do that in the evening. So I just have to pass time till 6pm, that shouldn't be so hard, should it?

PS: I got an invitation from my colleagues after my post last night. And I made a complete fool of myself by singing Lady in Red on a karaoke mic. To my defense though, it wasn't a song of my choice.
PPS: Ranting works, period. If it doesn't, it gets you an evening with friends that is guaranteed to work.

Short note for Nadeem Aslam

2004-11-13T18:48:00.000-05:00

Nadeem Aslam, a Pakistani living in England was nominated for the Booker prize(now the Man Booker Prize) for his book, 'Maps for lost lovers'. His book is available in the Toronto Public Library and is next on my reading list.
Google came up with a shortened interview that was originally conducted for tehelka.com. Interesting details: The book took eleven years to write, while Nadeem worked as a construction worker and a bin man.

A fictitious world - or not?

2004-11-12T19:43:00.000-05:00

I did something today that I shouldnt have done. I took out the 70 Saudi Riyals I had stashed in a secret corner of my wallet and I converted them to Canadians. I don't know why I held on to them for this long. Perhaps as a sign of things past. But I asked myself what memories do they bring back; apart from the frustration, the anger, the confusion, the resentment, the misplacement, the unmendable relationships, the innocence and family - The answer is so tilted one way that it wasn't even debatable!
Tomorrow I sell my car.
Little by little, I descend into the hell hole of Mohsin; my character and his experiences.
A little girl (she'd be around 10, I suppose), a true lady in the making, gave me a cold stare, and waved her hand in front of her face, her olfactory lobes offended by the smell of the Colts Mild that I had lit up outside the library. I gave her a decent verbal input, as to what I thought she should do!
I walk a fine line. I have to remind myself that Daru is no role-model. He is the critique of the pretentious snobbery of our time, that is society. He is an artist's rendering, and the artist has used love as a metaphor for his irrationality, the celebration of his misfitness.
I need to remind myself of that fact, just as Mohsin needs to remind himself that Devdas is no role-model. His love too, is a metaphor for his oblique views that the feudals around him can not relate to. (Its never about love in the love story, its always the context)
There are people who live the 9 to 5, without dissent, without discomfort. They do it over and over again, for years and years. And then there's me, who was happy when his hours were reduced from a full week to a half week, even though that would mean a barely rent-cover amount. To whom the whole routine smells. And the longer it drags on, the rotten it gets!
I hope Mohsin survives for his own sake, to become the role model that Daru and Devdas are not, and I hope I survive to tell his tale.

Development at Voiceoftoronto.com

2004-11-12T02:07:00.000-05:00

In an earlier post, I ranted on about Voiceoftoronto.com, on the lack of coverage given to two incidents where muslim clerics (and self-acclaimed leaders) were mouthing off (one on a tv talk show) and how the community in Toronto was unconcerned with the effects.
A recent visit to the site shows that they seem to have removed the link to their forums. The meaningless Ramadan musical show poll is still there, but they have put up an editorial which winds down to a criticism of both, Al-Misri and Younas Kathra, albeit in the last two paragraphs. It certainly wasn't there the day I made my post.
I'll be an optimist and say the glass is half full, but ranting about the other half helps.

Movie Time

2004-11-11T15:44:00.000-05:00

Undeterred, Moore is continuing to work on his new movie Sicko, on the national health care industry, and there's Fahrenheit 9/11½ coming out.

And Theo Van Gogh's (who was assasinated by an extremist muslim possibly for his short movie criticizing women's treatment in Islam) Submission is available for viewing at Ifilm.

Namesake - a few comments

2004-11-10T22:27:00.000-05:00

Just finished Jhumpa Lahiri's Namesake, the story of a child of Indian immigrants in the US, who is named after the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol. Gogol goes through his childhood embarassed at having an anamolous name that no one can relate to, except for a literary type in school. But delving deeper into the context, the author examines the issue of parsing identity within a name, an individual's struggle to fit in, to grow comfortable with the Indianism of his parents, and the Americanism outside. Later in life, he meets another of his own clan, who knows and relates to his childhood yearnings and who, he falls in love with.
But the plot aside, its the words that fall in, one by one, as Lahiri constructs complex sentences, observing and feeling the characters, as well as moving the story along. Dialogue in the book is sparse, a mere focusing in on one scene, as if with a microscope, and when done, going back to her story-teller's voice. And it is this narrative voice of this author that stands out.
While Monica Ali in A Brick Lane is methodical in her language and choice of words, precise and faultless in her narration; And Mohsin Hamid takes a complete minimalist approach to prose in MothSmoke; Jhumpa's writing seems woven, into intricate patterns that color the mood and set the pace at the same time.
If you haven't figured it out by now, the book is a big big recommendation to everyone. Meanwhile, I am taking a break from fiction this week to go through two books, The Essential Rumi, 2004 Edition by Coleman Barks(thats for the bedside), and The Cancer stage of Capitalism by John McMurtry (for the subway ride and the rest). Although the later seems to have a very cliche title, the author does a fine work of introducing us to the current stage of political science, physication of economics and followership of the market(s) as the all encompassing paradigm of the world since the 70s- and all this in just the first chapter. Should be fun!

PS: My amazon.com links don't come out right, so you have to go to amazon or do a search to see other reviews of the books I mention. I hope I can sort it out with a favorite-books type plug-in for blogs. I have come across one, and will try to see if it works. Any suggestions?

Limited Edition... prototypes?

2004-11-09T13:55:00.000-05:00

Here's a grand idea. You know how musicians, artists, etc sell limited edition packs, some with interviews, extra footage or if your great enough, just a signature. So, why cant we have limited edition prototypes of gadgets selling as memorabilia. Wouldnt you like to own the first prototype of the Ipod? or the segway?
Oh wait, I already have 7 versions of Mozilla on my drive, and with their EULAs, most software is sold as a work in progress. Hmm... ok, time to get back to work now!

What is serendipity to you?

2004-11-09T02:50:00.000-05:00

An evening of flurries after a burdensome day, the laziness of fall, a big mug of coffee, friends comfortable with your silence, and the constant outpour of emotion that is Rumi.
And the serene sleep after.

Playing handyman

2004-11-07T13:33:00.000-05:00

Ever since the last post, I have the tele tuned to the movie network, but I havent had much time to check anything out. I have a plethora of emails to go through, something that I safely put off for gloomy, overcast days.
I mentioned a project in a previous post. Its actually a complete basement renovation. All 1200 sq ft of a basement have to be turned into two separate apartments, with separate kitchens and toilets.
When I agreed to help out my friend, I had no idea what I was getting into. You see, I am one of those people who have no mechanical intuition whatsoever. If it involves a tool other than a screw-driver, screw it and call a friend. It has been a source of amusement and embarassment for me, for quite sometime. Needless to say, it was a terrible burden on my male ego. I used to fulfill this macho, need-for-control thing by tinkering with computers, and now, everywhere I go, I can rest assured that I will bump into someone with a computer thats acting crazy. If I fix it, I feel proud, if I can't, I just blame malware and Micro$oft.
As I was saying, I had no idea what I was getting into. Dry walls, ceramic tiles, plumbing pipes were in the farthest corners of my mind... like an Aussie alligator hunter. (Thats called a bad analogy, oh well...) In my universe, if something doesn't fit, it means you need hard disk space, not a hammer and a hack-saw.
And its been loads of fun, thanks to people who are willing to help a newbie struggle through the complex rules-of-thumb that dominate the affairs. They probably have very scientific explanations for these rules, but the urgency of getting the work done, didn't give me the chance to delve into the science behind the art.
The worst part of working as a contractor, is getting paid. Working as an independent contractor in IT, it was the same thing. I know why all those big firm contracts are in such big demand, half of it is just the security of finding the money in your bank, on the day you expect it to be there. But working with small businesses, its a pain in the butt to have someone else transfer their cash-flow problems onto your trembling shoulders.
But most of the work is done, the tiling is finished, the plumbing is finished, a few dry walls still need to go in, then the kitchen and toilet cabinets, doors and then paint. And I have no idea how long it will take to get all this done, probably a week or two... lets call in an expert on that one.

Bush won

2004-11-03T22:42:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know its not news to me either. I watched Kerry's concession speech live (excerpts from the speech) and wondered cynically, if this is how all losers respond. And Edwards claiming the fight has just begun... sure buddy, whatever helps you sleep at night!
I was thinking of a to-do list for the next election four years down the road, and I came up with three.
1. Convince more Canadians to move to the US.
2. Setup a fund to help liberals relocate from the coasts to Ohio and Florida.
3. Convince Hillary Clinton to become a candidate.
Canadians can expect more free trade, and a huge pressure to join the US in the missile defense program.
Pakistan can expect continued (soft) support for Musharraf's regime. (He was elected by parliament to hold the top military position and the presidency). Which means the hate-hate relationship most Pakistanis have with the US will continue the same way. More conspiracy theories, more bans on the media, more terrorizing of the masses and a continued march towards modernism - it wouldn't be a bad march expect its more like a run-or-be-eaten-alive than a run-for-cancer-research.
Middle East kingships will be given a few verbal assaults along with invitations to Texas. The Iraqi quagmire will be left without definite authority being established, a model for don't-mess-with-texas rather than the promised exemplary democracy.
Defense spending will increase, meaning more deficits. You cant just print money indefinitely, you know! The puck has to stop somewhere, and in the next 5-10 years Americans will have to cough up the dough, somehow. The dollar will dive lower. Dividend and capital gains tax will be lowered permanently, meaning investors will increase their wealth.
Judges with conservative leanings will be nominated to the supreme court, giving a conservative bias to the judiciary for the next 10 years.
All in all, pretty much the same crap that the world has been putting up with for the last four years. Atleast, we will get continued coverage of Bush's mastery of the english language. (Being a bilingual nation, a Canadian prime minister can be forgiven for delivery with an accent, but what exactly was Dubya's first language again?)
When is lady hope coming back from vacation?

Birthday's over

2004-10-30T10:45:00.000-04:00

I wasn't expecting anybody to remember, but almost everyone did. Phone calls from friends, as far away as Texas and UK, a treat of bihari kababs and a project to keep me busy for the next 2 weeks. What more could I have asked for?

The news from Toronto

2004-10-28T20:24:00.000-04:00

There is a controversy brewing in Toronto these days. Or rather a few controversies.
The first is the incident with Dr. Misri, and the second, the remarks of Younus Khatrada, both accused of anti-semitism, with the former also being investigated for hate crimes. And as always, except for a few heated letters to the editor in various newspapers the muslim community lies silent... well, thats not quite true either.
Pakistani-Canadians are busy in another heated exchange, this time on an internet forum. An Urdu website that launched a few weeks earlier VoiceofToronto.com, advertised in a few urdu-language weekly newspapers that they are holding a debate and a poll. The question that is igniting their passions and rage is:
Should musical nights and melas be organized in the holy month of Ramadan?
The framing of the question is questionable at best, and an eerie reminder of the question posed to the public by a late General to extend his rule on the land of the holy. An arrangement of words, such that the holy is pitted against the unholy, the good and the bad clearly separated. Havent the zealous heard of voting with their dollars? Can it not be solved with individuals deciding for themselves that they will not attend music nights in Ramadan, refusing their money to the attendees, and hence, killing the money machine altogether? Can letters not be sent to the sponsors to convince them that this is not the way to spend their advertising budgets?
And why is a damn mela more of a community issue than the hateful remarks of religious leaders? Or are we too scared, too unconcerned of the yet-another-accusation-against-Islamists?
Why should I be surprised? or disgusted? History is bound to repeat itself. If our elder generations are trapped in a spiral of authoritarian behaviour, relentless dogma and wishful thinking, why should I, even bother to mention all this?
Its a question that I find myself trying to answer these days. The premise of existentialism is that those who do not wish to be helped, can in fact, never be helped. Maybe I should stop caring, give up on the old, and pin my hopes on the young. 'They are past the age where they can change', I can convince myself. Or maybe 'They have never experienced true democracy, debate, dissent and the concept of living with a difference of opinion is alien to them', I can certainly reason well enough. But reason, as Iqbal kept reminding us, is good for the 'how' of the later stages, not the 'why' or the 'what' of the early ones.
Am I, like my predecessors, too willing to give up on the improbable? Scared of the enormousness of the task, will I too, criticize all plans indiscriminately as being partial, and mock efforts to bring change?

The last juror by John Grisham

2004-10-28T01:37:00.000-04:00

What do I expect when the Grisham name appears on a novel? In two words: courtroom drama.
The jacket of the book, The last juror, reads as following.
'... The trial came to a startling and dramatic end when the defendant threatened revenge against the jurors if they convicted him. Nevertheless, they found him guilty, and he was sentenced to life in prison.
But in Mississippi in 1970, "life" didn't necessarily mean "life,"[Observe the misplaced comma coming inside the quotes! They can pay millions to the author, but reading the jacket text...] and nine years later Danny Padgitt managed to get himself paroled. He returned to Ford County, and retribution began.'
The two paragraphs appear together, giving the feel of a thrilling revenge plot. Not so!
As badly written as the book is, getting from the guilty sentence to the retribution, Grisham takes an amazing 15 chapters. Yes, for 15 chapters I read about how blacks were treated in Mississippi at that time, integration issues, the hospitality of the south, a character named Sam who escapes the draft by running to Canada, corn recipes, a growing publishing business, a drunk falling down a window, and other crap that had nothing to do with the story. Infact, all of it can be summed up in one line: During the next nine years, I mixed in with the locals, expanded the newspaper empire, bought the house I lived in, and worried about Danny Padgitt's release. That wasn't so hard, was it? So print that line out, and staple together chapters 23 through 36.
Infact, the novel would be a good example to use when teaching how not to write.
1. The biggest fault as I mentioned was the irrelevant details of the life of the protagonist that have no bearing on the court case, on the killings, on the lawyers. It reads like a rant of a Northern boy living in the South. I can live with a rant, but if that is what the book was about, why was it called 'The last juror', and why does the jacket cover fail to mention that the setting of the novel covers 15 chapters while the story covers the rest?
2. And who is the main character of the novel? The guy who is telling the story (the novel is written in first person) or the last juror? If its the protagonist why do we need to know about a plethora of characters and how they behave at town meetings and lunches, and whether they agree with the vietnam war or not? If its the juror, why do we need to know about the guy's publishing business, and what stories he prints?
3. The protagonist is a Northerner, who only cares about most of the issues (other than the trial) in only a passing way (i.e. wants to sell papers and these stories sell papers). If the protagonist doesnt care, why does the reader need to be reminded, event after event, that the protagonist didn't care about the meetings?
4. Specifics is good when they form a part of the plot, or are used as triggers. A good example is the opening of another Grisham book 'The summons'. Specifics are not good when they are irrelevant to the story. In four dreadful pages we read about the different kinds of churches in the south that the protagonist visits, and the atmosphere in them. And I thought it was about a murderer killing some jurors. Hmph!
Thanks to the Toronto Public Library, I didn't pay to learn these writing lessons. But the baffled look that I wore as I read the book in the coffee shop is enough retribution for this juror. No more Grisham from now on!

Ramadan and October blues

2004-10-26T15:42:00.000-04:00

Lets see now, what ails me today?
The sweet melancholy of changing weather, summer disappearing and the winds getting colder. The accompanying flu, that strikes me in this best of weather increasing my yearning for home. Espacially in Canada, when the maple leaf turns yellow, rustic and red, the streets are covered with leaves, and the winds blow them into your face for a rude awakening. October is really beautiful around me, and yet I suffer... with a runny nose and sore throat.
Birthday blues; Soon, I will turn an year older, and worry about health, happiness, career, job, parents, marriage, my meaning in this universe, my childhood; in short, the whole shebang. (Off-topic, I found an article that seems to sum up my childhood nostalgia. Gratitude to the writer. *bows*)
The Ramadan blues; Everybody seems to suffer from it, yet no one is willing to classify it as such. And dont worry, I'm not going to launch into a criticism of Islamic fasting, the ramadan blues are a gastronomical concept.
You dont eat the whole day. Accompanying this fact is that you (try to) ostracize the bitch in you, observe righteous behaviour (euphemism for not staring at women and denying the pleasures of colorful language), and the mathematics of virtue echos deep within all muslims (someday I will define that phrase). When you finally break the fast at sunset, it ends up being a feast of super-size me proportions (And I have seen this in Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, but a few muslims from other countries have assured me that its a similar undertaking for them, too). With so much rich food going down, the blood flow re-adjusts, pumping more to the stomach, resulting in reduced flow to the other important areas. I dont understand the whole science, but the results are clear. You crave cigarettes like anything and you feel like the whole world has launched a psychological attack on you, reducing you to a state which is half knocked-out, half awake, a low that will chill the leftist in you into submission.
So while I prepare for the next iftaar, be very very nice to the people around you, espacially muslims. In Ramadan, we deny ourselves everything, and as a direct consequence, we crave everything, too.

Its the wind, stupid

2004-10-23T13:05:00.000-04:00

A rationing of thoughts handed out to her,
ingesting glitter from plastic lights,
A small son of Ahura orders,
'bring 'em forth from the darkness'.
eloquence finally personified,
her self-esteem, dignified.

Day-in, day out, as she tells herself,
that she is good and getting there soon.
Dreams, deceptions, works of art,
these words, relics of times past,
they heal, they cure, they fill,
empty voids in me and her,
I give, she takes, and we all feel better,
until the morning-after.

Its the wind, stupid!
seeping in with the light,
it greets and stabs in the same flow,
rocks the shadows and lights alike,
and the floating words ride dust specks,
lost until we meet again.

Toils, rinsed with hot water, repeats,
Until Ahura himself speaks.

My existential anger

2004-10-22T20:55:00.000-04:00

I saw Dustin Hoffman on Letterman yesterday, promoting his new movie 'I heart Huckabees', the premise of the movie revolving around an existential investigator to cure people's problems. Have the psychiatrist follow the patient rather than the other way around. The Globe and Mail and Toronto Star reviews arent raving, but still its on my watch list.
And I went through the day thinking about my own existential being and the frustrations I have been through - all in very comical ways I assure you. Like my 'nakaam aashiq' role that comes out late at night, and the 'pedagogue to the world' role that was firstly my mother's right, and now forms a part of my inheritance.
Coming back from work, I dropped off at the Albert Campbell Library, and on my way home, I bumped into my own room-mates at a coffee shop. Trust me, when the only people you keep bumping into are your own room-mates, you desperately need some change in your life!
So I walked into the coffee-shop, and I noticed her following me with her eyes. And surely, I had her classified even before she uttered a word. She looked South Asian, the dark skin contrasting with the cream-colored man's shirt that she wore. Since the owner is a Sri Lankan, I assume that she is Sri Lankan, too. She looked young, probably still a teenager in high school. Standing behind the counter, she dealt eagerly with her customers, me included. Probably her first job, and a nosy employer.
When she served me my coffee, I stared into her eyes. Big white sockets with black holes in the middle. I had seen these eyes before. As I sat down with my room-mates with my own cup, I wondered about that.
And all my demonized anger, my frustrations, my confusion; that I had been laughing about in the day, came running back. The humor of it all had suddenly evaporated.
Those were your eyes that I had stared into. Those whites, contrasting with the dark skin, the perfect rounds of black swinging here and there, watching everything, noticing everyone. Pure eyes, taking in the contaminated world around them, worthy of preservation, worthy of praise, fragile yet bold, curious yet knowledgeable.
She swung back to another lady, breaking the spell, and I was left mesmerized. My roommate AJT remarked about my paleness. I shrugged.
And as she was dealing with her customers, I felt pangs of jealousy rise again. 'Too soon, too soon', I tried to reason. 'Too far, too far' someone replied. I swallowed, plunging down whatever had been trying to rise.
I wanted a smoke. I desperately wanted a smoke. I mumbled something to my friends and ran to an acquaintance who worked at the library. I grabbed two from his pack, and I raced back.
Back at my seat, I realized I couldn't smoke inside the coffee shop, I had to get out again.
She looked, and I tried not to stare. But it didnt work.
And how she looked... divine, once she was your shadow. The cream colored shirt glowed in the yellow light, paling even her eyes, your eyes in the glow. The starched collar was suddenly brittle like a metal ornament, it would break but it wouldn't bend. The shoulders rested back signalling reassurance, and the eyes were audacious, staring at me, a woman's eyes staring at a man, a resolve not be deterred, a childish curiosity and intelligence, a tamed anger that wouldn't come out through the mouth, it was overflowing from her eyes.
And all my claims at fire, earth and water diffused into a tension that sprang from my gut, and ended in my throat.
Having lost my control over my surroundings, I exited her territory, and lit my cigarette. My roommate suggested groceries, and I wandered in the chinese store trying to make sense of what had just happened, and what had happened then.

Just... disappear. - '21 Grams'

2004-10-17T23:40:00.000-04:00

It came and it went, another day of my days, as I break this habit of mid-october. I draw lines to keep it out, but it seeps in, perforating me in its chill.
A moments silence for the missing emails, chats, poetry, debate, jokes, naughtiness, shivers, highs, fear.
---
A chilled fanta sweats in the heat,
as it relishes its' coldness,
Like an artifact of war.

Plaque colored walls that breath down from all sides,
another moment, another second,
An hour.
Fears that quell fears,
and yet stand shivering on the edge of the door,
one step here, one step there,
A mile.

My filtered thoughts as I rationalize,
my existential angst,
into love unreal,
as I chase down alleys in my head,
and wander amongst the stars.

Distant chants of tibetan monks,
as they light burnt-out fires,
And the silly old moon that never smiles,
trapped inside my skies.

Engraved,
a flying feather on thin air,
an ode to time eternal,
a mask of a pragmatic fighter,
a face beyond my own.

And so I faltered and so I found,
And so I faltered and so I found.

Dearest,
Happy 24th.
M. Zee.

Friedrich Nietzsche killed Jim Morrison

2004-10-12T17:55:00.000-04:00

The history of rock music is an amazing tale of legends, guitar gods; their conquest of culture, undermining political authority and giving the proverbial finger to the forces of conformity. Their excesses made them a living critique of the times they lived in.
While most canadians cooked turkeys this thanksgiving, I read Jim Morrison: Life, Death, Legend. I have not read any other account of Jim Morrison, I havent even seen the 1991 movie by Oliver Stone on the band, so I cant say what this book contributes that the other works left out. But even then, it's a great read. Most of the facts regarding his childhood are sealed by the family, and his life is so short that a complete biography isnt even possible. Most of his poems have never been published and some are only part of private collections. (There is a book out called The Lost Diaries of Jim Morrison, hopefully I get my hands on it soon)
But I found out a lotta facts that people might already know. The title of the post is quoted from another member of the band. The name 'The Doors' stems from the writings of (surprise, surprise!) Aldous Huxley's The doors of perception, who writes
'If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite'.
His father was an Admiral in the Navy when Jim was singing 'The Unknown Soldier', a tragic depiction of the vietnam war. His authoritarian ways might have had something to do with his son's rebellious nature, but the family won't talk about his childhood. He was a great poet and surprised a few people by reciting whole poems from memory. As a philosopher, he was impressed with Nietzsche and even before he had a band, he said to his friend, 'We gotta get to the fringe, and then we gotta get beyond the fringe'. Rolling stones magazine said something to the effect of 'Rolling stones and Beatles are for blowing your mind away, and The Doors is for those who have already blown their mind away', a pun on his annoying, bizzare and oft outrageous stage antics. He would fall to the floor in the middle of the concert as if he was having a seizure, and wake up screaming minutes afterwards. (Kurt Cobain might have been paying him a tribute when he came to a concert in a wheel chair, only to jump out and start rolling.) Mick Jagger, when he was in the US, met Jim and asked for his help in stage craft. (The doors were one of the first bands to outgrow the club stage, and perform in sport arenas)
His grave is in Paris and is the most visited landmark in the city after the Eiffel Tower. The tombstone reads in greek,
'True to his spirit'.

Afghanistan, Iraq, US and lastly Pakistan

2004-10-09T13:58:00.000-04:00

Afghanistan went through with its first election in a long long time. And as expected they ended in a lot of controversy. Having witnessed elections in Pakistan, I know that when the international media calls it controversial, on the ground it's outrageous. Lots of candidates are calling for a re-election, the chances for which are slim. International donor agencies won't be interested in the plight of local candidates that have no foreign friends. Get out on the first oppurtunity without giving a fig about what is left behind; nothing new there, Afghan people have seen it before.
And in it somewhere, there is also a lesson for Iraq. For any government to be accepted as legit, the security situation has to improve dramatically. What will stop the widespread terror from keeping people in their homes rather than come out to vote? Will America be able to guide Iraqis to refuse the calls of insurgents and vote, considering this is the population's first foray with democracy?And if Iraq's own security forces are not ready enough to curb violence, everyone disgruntled with the administration will come out with accusations of foreign manipulation.
Kerry proposed that he will put pressure on the Middle Eastern governments for more cooperation in Iraq. It sounds really good in a speech minus the word coalition, which has been thrown around so much, it has morphed its meaning to co-conspirators. Why would the ME governments get involved in a quagmire, that the world's best military cant get out of? And how would he pressure them when they are riding the high of current oil prices? Saudi Arabia can comfortably claim that it is busy with internal matters (i.e. the hunting down of Alqaeda, not the municipal elections that they readily promised while sweating under American pressure).
Doesn't make a lotta sense, and if you've been following the Democrats-Republicans musical chairs game, nothing does. With slow job growth and heat running out of consumer spending, the US economic revival doesnt seem like a long term trend.
Meanwhile, General Musharraf has put the bill to parliament for extension of his uniform duties and the civilian charge. A civilian parliamentarian putting forward a bill to extend an army general's command. Who says One man cant accomplish much... In Pakistan, our generals seem to single-handedly guide the nation towards posperity, religion and (this time)modernism. Whatever the flavor of the day might be, served with a straight face, no thank-you's, by men in uniform. If they added friendly smiles & milkshakes, McDonalds would get a run for its money.