So I've been AWOL for a bit.
And it's PROF SEASON! Take out your rifles... And shoot me. Put me out of my misery. Seriously.
Khair. Onto the reason I have resurfaced. I have a bunch of outbursts. And I can't be one of those people who posts statuses every two seconds, so here I am sitting here with my tired eyes because I want to give this blog some TLC and CPR. But mostly CPR.
So this song was stuck in my head today.
Blue October - Into the Ocean
And another thing. BABIES! NOTHING BUT BABIES. Due to this manga, I spent three hours of my life that I honestly CAN NOT spare cooing over all the babies.
Click if you dare
Tootles.
Friday 4 October 2013
Tuesday 5 June 2012
An Old Essay
Before you start reading
this, stop for a few seconds and look down at your hands on the keyboard.
Think about the number of adages you can come up with that relate to using your
hands; having a hands on approach, grabbing life by the horns or even knowing
something like the back of your hand. All of them refer to your tactile sense.
This is because your sense of touch is most reliable amongst all of your
senses. Touch is the first sense that develops in the fetus, meaning it has the
most time to mature compared to your other senses. What do they look like? Are
your fingers long or short? Tapered or crooked? Are your palms square or
rectangular? The way they look just might be the marker that represents your
personality traits. Your hands say a lot about you, for example my square palms
and long fingers indicate that I am an air hand. The owner of the air hand is
logical, creative and possesses the ability to visualize and implement
innovative concepts far beyond the grasp of many of their more grounded
counterparts.
The hands are generally overlooked when a person is scrutinized – by themselves or someone else. Sure some people are regarded to have lovely hands but I want to show everyone that hands mean much more to me than aesthetic appeal. A crooked middle finger, knobby knuckles and a callous on my thumb may not mean much to you, but to me they tell a story of how my hands are made for sketching or how I wrote out answers for every question in a three page list for my history exam in three days. My hands can be used for tasks that require precision such as playing the piano or embroidering a cushion to performing heavy labor; and all the marks and scars left behind tell a story of our myriad of pursuits.
Gestures are the most basic form of communication; they can be used on their own or they can enhance your words. When I am speaking, I use my hands as a visual aid. It gives me the confidence that people actually understand the sentiments behind my speech. My hands allow me to forge bonds with people – to show them what I cannot express with vocalizations. When my grandmother passed away, my mother was beyond devastated. During the entirety of the funeral a frog had taken up permanent residence in my throat. I could not put into words the amount of grief I was in; much less produce a few words of consolation for my mother. I wanted to show her my support – everything was secondary to her needs to me at that time. All I could do was to grab her shoulder or hand tightly as numerous mourners came and went. My voice had deserted me. Touch is what broke the vicious cycle of miscommunication. My hand squeezing her shoulder was enough to let my mother know that I was there for her – vocalization of my turmoil was unnecessary. These words in particular describe what happened that day: “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” This verse from the Bible illustrates my epiphany of not only growing older but more mature.
My hands are a portal to channel all my rampant thoughts into corporeal form. Creativity has always been an outlet for me – for both negative and positive emotions. It helps me keeps a pseudo diary for the timeline of my life - like those growth charts etched into your doorways, not really accurate but they serve their purpose. Every night, before I go to sleep, I lie in my bed thinking of the day that slipped through my fingers – more time lost. If I’m feeling particularly restless, I grab my pencil and draw a picture of my life on paper. It doesn’t have to be Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel or Dante’s Inferno; it’s the sum of the mix of emotions that cause a ripple in the pond of my mind. With my fingers, I can control my personal therapy session without paying a psychologist an arm and a leg. With my drawings and writings, I cause reactions in people – elicit a visceral response that is completely primal. The reaction I cherish the most is when I can induce speechlessness. If the person who is examining my work comprehends the meaning behind it, I consider that piece an ultimate success of my hands that relayed my vision wholly on to paper.
Throughout this succinct and continuous journey that I call life, my hands are spectators – to my successes, to my tears. Every line is a path to major incidents when a clenched fist was all that was holding me together. All these lines on my palm make a map of my entire existence. My hands give me so much and yet ask for so little in return. Not only do they give me the ability of building my own world, they shape who I am.
The hands are generally overlooked when a person is scrutinized – by themselves or someone else. Sure some people are regarded to have lovely hands but I want to show everyone that hands mean much more to me than aesthetic appeal. A crooked middle finger, knobby knuckles and a callous on my thumb may not mean much to you, but to me they tell a story of how my hands are made for sketching or how I wrote out answers for every question in a three page list for my history exam in three days. My hands can be used for tasks that require precision such as playing the piano or embroidering a cushion to performing heavy labor; and all the marks and scars left behind tell a story of our myriad of pursuits.
Gestures are the most basic form of communication; they can be used on their own or they can enhance your words. When I am speaking, I use my hands as a visual aid. It gives me the confidence that people actually understand the sentiments behind my speech. My hands allow me to forge bonds with people – to show them what I cannot express with vocalizations. When my grandmother passed away, my mother was beyond devastated. During the entirety of the funeral a frog had taken up permanent residence in my throat. I could not put into words the amount of grief I was in; much less produce a few words of consolation for my mother. I wanted to show her my support – everything was secondary to her needs to me at that time. All I could do was to grab her shoulder or hand tightly as numerous mourners came and went. My voice had deserted me. Touch is what broke the vicious cycle of miscommunication. My hand squeezing her shoulder was enough to let my mother know that I was there for her – vocalization of my turmoil was unnecessary. These words in particular describe what happened that day: “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” This verse from the Bible illustrates my epiphany of not only growing older but more mature.
My hands are a portal to channel all my rampant thoughts into corporeal form. Creativity has always been an outlet for me – for both negative and positive emotions. It helps me keeps a pseudo diary for the timeline of my life - like those growth charts etched into your doorways, not really accurate but they serve their purpose. Every night, before I go to sleep, I lie in my bed thinking of the day that slipped through my fingers – more time lost. If I’m feeling particularly restless, I grab my pencil and draw a picture of my life on paper. It doesn’t have to be Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel or Dante’s Inferno; it’s the sum of the mix of emotions that cause a ripple in the pond of my mind. With my fingers, I can control my personal therapy session without paying a psychologist an arm and a leg. With my drawings and writings, I cause reactions in people – elicit a visceral response that is completely primal. The reaction I cherish the most is when I can induce speechlessness. If the person who is examining my work comprehends the meaning behind it, I consider that piece an ultimate success of my hands that relayed my vision wholly on to paper.
Throughout this succinct and continuous journey that I call life, my hands are spectators – to my successes, to my tears. Every line is a path to major incidents when a clenched fist was all that was holding me together. All these lines on my palm make a map of my entire existence. My hands give me so much and yet ask for so little in return. Not only do they give me the ability of building my own world, they shape who I am.
Spoons
okay daddy. just put down the chappal.
This guy is what a lot of kids these days face. Be it a tearful amma or your old grandpa dropping hints like cartoon anvils, pakistaani bache get strong armed into these professions many many times. I use the word(s?) strong arm loosely. It can come in the form of guilt trips, long lectures, last wishes and well... strong arming.
Now I'm not saying that EVERYONE has such parents, so drop those pitchforks you were aiming at my temporal lobe. Yes, I said it. TEMPORAL LOBE. This is the point where I break down and confess to you how my family foisted off dreams of me garnished with an MBBS degree on me. This isn't strictly true. Another story for another post.
Lets look at this logically.
On one hand, there is this boy/girl (I typed out unisex being before I realized I could use the boy/girl phrase without sounding like some sort of bigot), who has just started applying to school and his/her parents tell him/her to apply wherever but not to forget medical and engineering schools. This kid has a myriad of talents and is slightly uncertain (as most of us are prone to being) about where he wants to go (forget the slashes and no I'm not a sexist either). He gets in everywhere. Practicality overrules any hint of dreamer in him and BAM! he's in an engineering program! He's unhappy and keeps thinking of these sketches he used to make and regrets not being able to study Art and Architecture. He drudges through five years and graduates. Now you just have a man, an engineer who doesn't feel passion for his work and will probably develop a mid life crisis and a comb over.
NOT THE COMB OVERS! ANYTHING BUT THE COMB OVERS!!!
*Ahem*
From the parents side (who have incredibly high standards for their beloved kaka) Pakistan has only a few universities worth actually going to (that coincidentally cater to the sciences). I spy those pitchforks again, so let me just reiterate: NOT MY POINT OF VIEW. Parents just think they are looking out for us, because in there heads these two professions seem to be the only ones that could provide stability for our futures. It would give them peace of mind to picture us buried under stethoscopes and power tools (okay not REALLY but you know what I mean). They may not realize it but these 'fondest desires' of theirs are extremely passive aggressive and tell the kid that if they go to med school they will have brought home all the gold from Eldorado (even though tuition may be equivalent to that these days).
So a little less pressure on the chillens, yeah?
Friday 27 April 2012
The Search for Divine Intervention
What can I say... At this stage in my life, one of the major issues I ponder upon in places like toilets and trees is religion. A disclaimer before I start: Whatever I write is for me. Not trying to enforce my views on anyone. Constructive criticism is appreciated but negative comments telling me to go die are not.
I was born into a middle class that identified itself as 'Muslim'. Religion was something passed onto me along with the shape of my nose and the propensity to gain weight at the drop of a hat. Too much biology. Not enough spirituality. Yes. My family taught me the difference between right and wrong and while morality overlaps majorly with every religion, the divine part of Islam was limited to: the text books our school forced on us and the Qaari Saab who listened to us parrot back the strange words he taught us while fiddling with his mustache entirely too much.
I was supposed to pray - to believe and show that belief through certain rituals and supplications. A cacophony of countless supposed tos. I grew up being told to observe numerous things for every aspect of our lives. Lines were drawn that freed us and limited us - molded the way we look at things. Islam is not simply a religion, it is a perspective.
Do you remember story time? When a teacher would gather us around and tell us stories from the Holy Quran. I listened to the tales that our teacher wove with rapt attention, whether it was Moses, Jesus or Mohammad. They weren't simply messengers of God to me at that point - they were great men, trying to convey a message no one wanted to listen to. Conductors that protected their nations from losing their way. Crusaders that are littered throughout the annals of history but we don't encounter anyone like that anymore. No one stands out. Don't we need guidance anymore?
Being a leader only works when their presence and words seep throughout their followers. But then again... There is a slight possibility that there are just too many people to reach on a large scale.
Note: Must get people to stop reproducing.
Getting back to matters at hand. As I grew, the rational part of my mind tethered the part of me that wanted to run madly to the edge of the cliff and take that leap of faith. After all, who would willingly succumb to faithlessness? Treacherous mind that I have, it wanders to places that would make more than a few conservatives gasp. I doubt. I question. Is that so wrong?
I do see God everywhere. I just don't see Him in me. Not yet.
I was born into a middle class that identified itself as 'Muslim'. Religion was something passed onto me along with the shape of my nose and the propensity to gain weight at the drop of a hat. Too much biology. Not enough spirituality. Yes. My family taught me the difference between right and wrong and while morality overlaps majorly with every religion, the divine part of Islam was limited to: the text books our school forced on us and the Qaari Saab who listened to us parrot back the strange words he taught us while fiddling with his mustache entirely too much.
I was supposed to pray - to believe and show that belief through certain rituals and supplications. A cacophony of countless supposed tos. I grew up being told to observe numerous things for every aspect of our lives. Lines were drawn that freed us and limited us - molded the way we look at things. Islam is not simply a religion, it is a perspective.
Do you remember story time? When a teacher would gather us around and tell us stories from the Holy Quran. I listened to the tales that our teacher wove with rapt attention, whether it was Moses, Jesus or Mohammad. They weren't simply messengers of God to me at that point - they were great men, trying to convey a message no one wanted to listen to. Conductors that protected their nations from losing their way. Crusaders that are littered throughout the annals of history but we don't encounter anyone like that anymore. No one stands out. Don't we need guidance anymore?
Being a leader only works when their presence and words seep throughout their followers. But then again... There is a slight possibility that there are just too many people to reach on a large scale.
Note: Must get people to stop reproducing.
Getting back to matters at hand. As I grew, the rational part of my mind tethered the part of me that wanted to run madly to the edge of the cliff and take that leap of faith. After all, who would willingly succumb to faithlessness? Treacherous mind that I have, it wanders to places that would make more than a few conservatives gasp. I doubt. I question. Is that so wrong?
I do see God everywhere. I just don't see Him in me. Not yet.
Friday 3 February 2012
Those Three Words. Are Said Too Much. But Not Enough.
It all started with a conversation. Thanks go to Mehrow Umer.
Today, I shall wax poetic about the wonders of the Urdu language.
You know how in English "I love you" is the phrase that is assigned so much weightage and yet so little? Let me explain. People throw it around like they are playing catch with each other, applying it to almost every facet of their relationships - making it slightly bourgeois. There isn't any development you know?
This is where Urdu comes in. In Urdu, there are literally degrees of love.
It all starts with Pasand (stage zero), which may range from the appreciation of form, to respect for someone's intellect or the affinity you experience for a certain personality. It is the most basic feeling you build on. It's not quite love but it's all about getting there.
It hurtles into Mohabbat, love in the most fundamental sense of the word. It's when you are overrun and awed by someone, when you look for someone in the corridors and gasp inwardly every time you discover something new. When you understand so little, yet are still willing to push boundaries. Magic, is what it is.
Then comes Pyaar, recognizing yourself in the other person - exploring the depth of that connection you formed when you first met or even locked gazes. It's about establishing an unbroken connection - solid and enduring. It's not having to say anything, while saying everything. It's just comfort - lacking the unsure spattered all over the beginning chapters.
Ishq is the third stage, which I think is the personification of passion - the point where you're ready to throw caution to the wind and just... leap. It's just the thrill... that passes through you and reverberates through your entire system at a mere thought. It's the trust between two people. It's falling together.
And last but certainly not least is Deewangi. When I write this word, all I can think of is madly spinning round and round in the pouring rain and just... losing yourself. You just cease to exist individually and meld. You're the same half of a universal whole. It's complete and utter surrender.
Fin.
There you have it folks. Until next time.
Today, I shall wax poetic about the wonders of the Urdu language.
You know how in English "I love you" is the phrase that is assigned so much weightage and yet so little? Let me explain. People throw it around like they are playing catch with each other, applying it to almost every facet of their relationships - making it slightly bourgeois. There isn't any development you know?
This is where Urdu comes in. In Urdu, there are literally degrees of love.
It all starts with Pasand (stage zero), which may range from the appreciation of form, to respect for someone's intellect or the affinity you experience for a certain personality. It is the most basic feeling you build on. It's not quite love but it's all about getting there.
It hurtles into Mohabbat, love in the most fundamental sense of the word. It's when you are overrun and awed by someone, when you look for someone in the corridors and gasp inwardly every time you discover something new. When you understand so little, yet are still willing to push boundaries. Magic, is what it is.
Then comes Pyaar, recognizing yourself in the other person - exploring the depth of that connection you formed when you first met or even locked gazes. It's about establishing an unbroken connection - solid and enduring. It's not having to say anything, while saying everything. It's just comfort - lacking the unsure spattered all over the beginning chapters.
Ishq is the third stage, which I think is the personification of passion - the point where you're ready to throw caution to the wind and just... leap. It's just the thrill... that passes through you and reverberates through your entire system at a mere thought. It's the trust between two people. It's falling together.
And last but certainly not least is Deewangi. When I write this word, all I can think of is madly spinning round and round in the pouring rain and just... losing yourself. You just cease to exist individually and meld. You're the same half of a universal whole. It's complete and utter surrender.
Fin.
There you have it folks. Until next time.
Thursday 12 January 2012
Musing Dipped in Lactic Acid
You look at them struggling. Thinking maybe you can do it better.
You keep searching for something that isn't there. A face which by all means you should have forgotten by now.
You wish you could draw the blinds.. turn away from this world of hurt and novocaine..
You keep searching for something that isn't there. A face which by all means you should have forgotten by now.
Who are you kidding?
You wonder what if? then shake your head and smile inconspicuously - don't tempt fate.
You wouldn't change it for the world.
Monday 9 January 2012
Dramatic Solos
You came to me in a dream
You came and it looked liked someone had beaten You up
You came to me and crushed me to Your chest
You crushed me to Your chest and said You were glad
You were glad that it was me You found and not that Khusra
That Khusra that wanders these roads at night
And knocks on Your door every so often.
Fin.
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