Archive for February, 2007


Blogword No. 35: Wait

You are real!

I can see it, feel it! For your vibrancy and life speaks for itself!

Yet in all the celebration, my smile is strained and my soul heavy.

Somehow between the time that you were a dream,

To the you here and now,

The pleasure in your arrival loses its glow

When I recall the moments I spent in wait for you!


Pillow Talk? Re-Heally!!

Lying in bed, with an arm wrapped around a pillow, am stifling an urge to reach for a cigarette reminiscent of a movie setting of a post coital fag except that there is no post, no coital and definitely no fag… I can imagine my dear mama’s amazing baritones rising to fever pitch with every phrase as she reminds me of the name and kame (okay so I meant kaam but hey, kame rhymes) of the family I belong to starting from the relatively pious-er side of my relations, my dad’s ancestors, who migrated aeons ago in the age of sufis and mystics from the city of Hamdan in search of the Divine truth through Kashmir to finally settle among the various Khans, Shahs and Khattaks in Kohat. Then the tale takes me to the pious wealthy, Sa’daat who are my maternal ancestors; land lords, merchants and traders from the cities of Mash’had and Tehran, with their bearing, honor and pride bringing them the same kind of wealth and reverence when they came to the land of the pak and pure. My ears shall burn with how even the men in my family have never touched (Masha’Allah) any products or by products of tobacco or alcohol despite having the means and the opportunity and how could I forget who I belong to, being a girl no less, who claims to be smarter than most of the world, and reach for a cigarette.

It’s embarrassing to confess that I listened to this particular story just last year, after 12 years of trying my first cigarette and lighting up with friends then and now since and yet, the one time I get the dose is when I have a friend’s cigarette case in my bag, monogrammed with her name no less. I ask you would I be insane enough to tell my mom to open my bag and get whatever change she wanted if I had been hiding cigarettes.

But what was I talking about. Oh yeah, post coital fags… Re-reading Bridget Jones probably had something to do with and realizing that minus the booze and the smokes and the shags, I could probably pass for her…sort off…

Although shall need one hell of a hair cut and probably an appointment with a do it yourself blonder kit. And for some reason, a drastic session with a scissor seems quite exciting much like days of an age past when I used my mother’s sewing scissors to trim a cousin’s hair… And before you shake your head that way, answer me how a kid is supposed to understand that the 3 inch strand that hung below the edge of your pixie cut was very much the style as touted by Marina Khan in a drama.. I simply thought the hairdresser had missed a spot… But why  the excitement… I’m assuming anything would be more exciting than standing in front of a mirror, just knowing that the end of the 10 minute battle to bring your hair down, you will end up winding it up and trying to stuff it into a clutch or a scrunchie or whatever those infernal torture devices are called and still spend every alternate moment trying to brush away those strands that refuse to stay where they’re supposed to… makes me think quite favorably of Britney Spears shaved head… for about a nano second…  *sigh* Quite honestly, my vanity shall not now allow me the undignified persona my countenance assume every time my hair is shortened…  woot a predicament!

Am reading extremely strange chick literature these days… It seems so much more appealing than pondering the power of strategic thinking in locking out competitors or simulating dynamic competitive strategies… anyway, hence the strangeness of my writing… rather have read a whole plethora of stuff by Sophie Kinsella and can now confidently express an insider’s view of the workings of the mind of a shopaholic, a flight wary blurter of secrets to a stranger and an un-house trained lawyer mistaken for a housekeeper. Bloody Brilliant!

Anyone else notice how ponderously pondering this post is plodding on with no head and no tail and probably not much in between which would place a certain level of doubt on its existence in this sphere of existence. Of course you realize I am not speaking of alternate or parallel universes here where an existence without form could probably make more sense than seeing arms legs and a body appear under a head or a head appearing over the rest eliciting screams of horror, rage and cause a meltdown in the fabric of society.

My drollness be exceedingly killing… I like this impressionism of no braining that I can do with such ease. Makes me wonder how much of it is actually a put on act or is that put out… Although how one can actually put on an act without the required head, arms and legs to put through the holes in the act defies any laws of physics that I may or may not remember from the time I ruled the kingdom that was called Beaconhouse. Jeez, I was such a snob about that school. Still am but what does that have to do with put on…? Ah, yes, put on as in the uniform as in every time I wore it, I was esh-peshul. Not that I am not special otherwise but why is it that it makes people give me a funny look where their eye starts twitching and a vein throbs somewhere in the vicinity of their temple when I refer to being special. Don’t really get the smiles and the pats I get too! Oh, hang on a minute, I get special now… Ugh… and in rambling such as I do, special has another meaning altogether…. But to revert to put on and put out, one can manage to put one out if one is putting one on just as easily as one can put out quite convincingly if one is putting on…. Profound!!!

Although, for saving my skin from a certain kind of police, ask me not to translate put out… the mind spins right now with the strangest platitudes and phrases being put out there… Even as I go to form a link somewhat with the first paragraph… as a friend put it, putting out could lead to….. Never mind!!


From The Book of Rage:

New morning, a new day, a new life; though is it?

The arguments do not renew me, but make things clearer,

There is focus, reason, possibly order,

But is there a new day to dawn tomorrow?

And who’ll hold me to see it so I don’t slip away?

I cannot scry what is so important,

Yet all portents point to something significant,

One always leads to the other, but not reveresed.

I’m falling back to what is real, that I’m alone,

That I have one friend, myself and no more,

I want others around, but is there need.

Only at the end of the day, when I’m alone,

And I need to let go, and let my mind go,

I’ve always wondered?

Things to be thankful for,

And many others that mean nothing,

Because I am certain that I am one of them.

Nevertheless, we live on, and time passes,

As does time for rest and sleep,

Floundering in the darkness,

Wondering where to go!

Someone jerked me into reality,

I wondered vaguely if it was friend or foe,

Contradictions in all they say,

Contradictions in their stories,

Is there truth in what they say,

Or in what I believe.

From The Hidden Away Pages of A Little Black Book


All These Questions…

PhD Comics


Blogword No. 34: Dare

One word that has the alacrity to question one’s own sense of self and the audacity to issue a challenge to another’s honor! 

Ambition, appetite—all such words signify some one sacrificed to some one satiated. It is sad that hope should be wicked. Is it that the outpourings of our wishes flow naturally to the direction to which we most incline—that of evil? One of the hardest labours of the just man is to expunge from his soul a malevolence which it is difficult to efface. Almost all our desires, when examined, contain what we dare not avow.

In the completely wicked man this exists in hideous perfection. So much the worse for others, signifies so much the better for himself. The shadows of the caverns of man’s mind.

– Chapter 9 – The Man Who Laughs – Victor Hugo

 It’s a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton Kirk, to go that journey! We’ve braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come…  But Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I’ll keep you. I’ll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep and throw the church down over me; but I won’t rest till you are with me…I never will!”

 – Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte


Blogword No. 33: Story

I’m a consummate weaver

Your imaginings my skeins, strands of dreams, whispers of magic, laced between the tips of my fingers

I sit here by a fire and draw a picture with the wisps of smoke that curl above it

Watch with me and see how the flickers within the flame burn red and orange and gold with the words I speak

Feel the stillness as the wind stops and then stirs,

Wanting to move on and unable to resist holding on for just another moment to see where I could take it

See how my hands move, picking out stars and jagged moons and all the slivers of light

And bring them to just where you can reach for them!

I draw on what you think you might see

And dare you to look till they come to be!

Visions, creatues, places and things, more than magic

Far beyond this world!

Do you see the black and gold visage of a dragon; 

And the splendor of the one who rides him?

Spraying the fields below

With ambers and reds, bright blues and greens

Iridescent gleams of jewels that line your kingdom

Yet pale against the wonder in your eyes and the smile on your lips 

I may not be Scherzade of a thousand tales

But when I am with them, I am their only window to the world!

For the little glowing faces in the stillness of the room;

Away from the grownups,

I am the one who holds all the keys to the realm they dream of.

I am the story teller!




It is unbelievable how much Garfield’s sentiments echo mine…  Coming from someone who at the moment cannot even call her voice her own, there is something to be said about laying claim to it all… 

Living without a voice sucks…  For someone like me who loves the sound of her own voice, unable to even scream in frustration is murder…  *sigh*  What I wouldn’t give for faintest whisper that sounds like me instead of this infuriating croak that emerges every time I open my mouth…


Soap Scraps

Alright people!  The soap is off the air.  Tune into some other blog now for your weekly kicks.  This version of ‘The Stalker and the Gora’ is being scrapped.  You heard it right here folks.  It is over, finis, kaput, bye bye…

Amid the rising crescendo of heartbroken wails and sobs, I fear I must confess to heartbreak far greater than yours.  Nothing cools ones ardor faster than realizing the abject immaturity of the person in question.  No matter how charming or how easy on the eyes…  Besides when a crush makes you feel like an old hag, it gets real old, real fast. 

As per my last mention, it has been confirmed that cute neighbor dude be seriously younger than I am and as conversations have progressed my sleeping brain cells have been roused enough for my sensible side to take over which means that there will be no more gawking, staring, stalking, lusting after thereof of said neighbor dude no matter how tempting the notion.

Cannot of course stop the walk since that would be way to obvious a give away, besides truth be told it’s fun even on days I don’t see blondie in his gate but have to keep conversations a little on track.  The few conversations I have had with the kid lead me to believe that the game could get out of hand if I’m not careful and I don’t think I want to be responsible for breaking his heart so early on in life…  I would be pretty hard to get over. 😀

Nonetheless, it was fun while it lasted…  Besides, just because hopes of something more lie dashed among the ruins that is the difference between our age (and mental and emotional intelligence)  doesn’t mean I can’t have a cute gora dude as a friend…

February 2007