When you think about it... The weirdest thing about life is life itself. When you finally feel like you've sustained and successfully survived a major blow, when you assume-presumptions always have disastrous results-that you've finally obtained the right to be accustomed with the reins of your very own destiny, you feel victorious, robust, you feel like you can endure much more, you take your triumphs as
your personal miracle. You strain for self-actualization, And for a split of a second, you actually delude yourself into a falsehood which encourages you to believe that you've achieved it, for real. And then, after all the hopes, after being so near it, after having it all but within your reach, you're forced to face the harsh realities life provides you so ruthlessly with; the same life that, at a point, cherished every dream you ever dreamt, every hope you ever hoped, every desire you ever desired. Every things gone, you're plunged into a terrifying depth of everlasting darkness. It slipped right through the tiny gaps between your grasping fingers. You feel broken, you feel empty. You can't seem to fathom how to go on, why to go on, and what to go on after. Every things lost. Every light diminished, every boat immersed What, now, is the point?
Friday 3 August 2012
Tuesday 31 July 2012
Naani Ammi. My Iron Lady.
My very first memory, right as far as I can remember, is that of my maternal grandmother, my Naani Ami, cooking me Aalo Ki Tikkiya. And of my incessant whining that the Tikkiya isn't as round as I wanted it to be. (Yeah, I was an irritating kid.)
Nothing's changed. I'm seventeen years old, busy as any teenager, fighting my way towards the college of my dreams. But one thing that hasn't changed, that probably never will, is the eagerness with which I go to visit my Naani every Saturday and have her scrumptious Aaloo ki tikkiyas.
My naani. The one person I love so much, it frightens me to death when I even so much as think of a life without her. If you talk of idols...I'd think of her in a microsecond. She is, I can say with utter conviction, the centre of my haphazard world. After my parents, she is the one I owe the most. I can never thank God enough for blessing me with such a woman as my grandmother.
She is the eldest among her siblings. She took care of them all as only a mother could after her parents passed away. She got married at a young age. She did her Masters in Botany after her marriage to my Naana, who passed away while he was doing his PhD in London, leaving my Naani as a widow with two toddlers and no one to lean on in the city she did not know all that well. She returned to Karachi and eventually became a proffesor of Botany. I'll never quit being awed at her strength. In a society where a widowed woman was badly looked down upon and consistently made the target of tongues that lashed viciously out at her every action, she worked harder than can be put in words to ensure her kids' future. Only when my mother got admission into NED and my uncle got into University Of Chicago did she stop working the whole day around. Nobody can deny that she was a woman of substance; the spirit of hardwork and determination she instilled in her children and us consequently, is something we'll always be in her debt for. She raised her children like a queen. She taught them all the moral values that they could ever need. I see the way my mother lives her life with poise, respect for others, and in total discipline. And no doubt about the fact that it's all because of her. I can look up to her for guidance and I will always find it there. She was, and still is, a flawless being.
My Naani was the one who made us appreciate the beauty of our religion. It is due to her lessons and teachings that despite spending a large chunk of our childhood in UK, we have a very special bond with Allah. I rememer how it used to irk us the way she would make us sit around the table and read the Qura'an for half an hour after Maghrib. Every single day! I appreciate the value of it now, ofcourse.
She was the one who used to watch movies with us. Her favourite movie of all time is The Lion King. She was the one who taught me how to bake. How to sew. How to boil an egg. She used to tell us bed-time stories. She used to tie our hair and get us ready for school when we refused to leave her place even though it happened to be a school night. She used to make me homemade icecream. She once even tried to interpret my dreams once, haha.
She is my best friend. She's coming from Chicago this thursday, and I'm besides myself with sheer excitement. I can't really articulate my feelings well when I see her come back after six months or sometimes even a year. And it's absolutely wretched whenever she leaves Karachi again.
I can't imagine my life without her.
Nothing's changed. I'm seventeen years old, busy as any teenager, fighting my way towards the college of my dreams. But one thing that hasn't changed, that probably never will, is the eagerness with which I go to visit my Naani every Saturday and have her scrumptious Aaloo ki tikkiyas.
My naani. The one person I love so much, it frightens me to death when I even so much as think of a life without her. If you talk of idols...I'd think of her in a microsecond. She is, I can say with utter conviction, the centre of my haphazard world. After my parents, she is the one I owe the most. I can never thank God enough for blessing me with such a woman as my grandmother.
She is the eldest among her siblings. She took care of them all as only a mother could after her parents passed away. She got married at a young age. She did her Masters in Botany after her marriage to my Naana, who passed away while he was doing his PhD in London, leaving my Naani as a widow with two toddlers and no one to lean on in the city she did not know all that well. She returned to Karachi and eventually became a proffesor of Botany. I'll never quit being awed at her strength. In a society where a widowed woman was badly looked down upon and consistently made the target of tongues that lashed viciously out at her every action, she worked harder than can be put in words to ensure her kids' future. Only when my mother got admission into NED and my uncle got into University Of Chicago did she stop working the whole day around. Nobody can deny that she was a woman of substance; the spirit of hardwork and determination she instilled in her children and us consequently, is something we'll always be in her debt for. She raised her children like a queen. She taught them all the moral values that they could ever need. I see the way my mother lives her life with poise, respect for others, and in total discipline. And no doubt about the fact that it's all because of her. I can look up to her for guidance and I will always find it there. She was, and still is, a flawless being.
My Naani was the one who made us appreciate the beauty of our religion. It is due to her lessons and teachings that despite spending a large chunk of our childhood in UK, we have a very special bond with Allah. I rememer how it used to irk us the way she would make us sit around the table and read the Qura'an for half an hour after Maghrib. Every single day! I appreciate the value of it now, ofcourse.
She was the one who used to watch movies with us. Her favourite movie of all time is The Lion King. She was the one who taught me how to bake. How to sew. How to boil an egg. She used to tell us bed-time stories. She used to tie our hair and get us ready for school when we refused to leave her place even though it happened to be a school night. She used to make me homemade icecream. She once even tried to interpret my dreams once, haha.
She is my best friend. She's coming from Chicago this thursday, and I'm besides myself with sheer excitement. I can't really articulate my feelings well when I see her come back after six months or sometimes even a year. And it's absolutely wretched whenever she leaves Karachi again.
I can't imagine my life without her.
Wednesday 18 January 2012
The Rant Against The Burger Community.
"I'm so sorry, I cannot have Gol Gappay. I'm a total burger, you see."
(-This mentally challenged moron I met once.)
"Don't mess with the Burger Death Squad."
(-BurgerTips, Facebook. Also, WTF?)
"Argh, I'm so in love with him, pakka burger hai woh."
(-A damsel in distress, over this despicable dude.)
...*Takes a deep breath*.
Okay. Okay.
WHAT in the love of GOD is going ON in here? What the hell is wrong with the world in general and our doomed, ill-fated, done-for society in particular?! HAVE YOU PEOPLE COMPLETELY LOST IT?!
Fine. Everyone is totally at liberty to do whatever they may so desire. But DENYING GOLGAPPAY? Are you freaking kidding me? And for what, exactly? for the sake of being called a burger? This, lads and ladies, is a blatant, screaming proof that the world has indeed gone mad. The sanity of this hapless planet has plunged into a tenebrous abyss; with no chances of returning whatsoever.
Now, allow me to enlighten you about why I believe you're in some serious need of therapy if you like/consider yourself/want to be considered as...a burger.
How exactly do you delineate a burger anyway? See, according to Dictionary.com, a burger is
noun
1.a sandwich consisting of a cooked patty of ground orchopped beef, usually in a roll or bun, variously garnished.
2.ground or chopped beef.
3.Also called Hamburg steak . a patty of ground or choppedbeef, seasoned and fried or broiled.
....yeah.
Correct me if I'm wrong, YOUR definition of a burger is a person who is rich as hell, dresses well, lives a classy, lavish life, smokes, drinks (this trait depends on whether you find it cool or not. I, for one, do not.), and has a sexy demeanor.
Right?
But, erm, I really don’t think classy people forget their roots. Neither do they seek or need flimsy excuses to chastise others in a pathetic attempt to raise their own self-esteems. If you ask me, what you need is to ponder upon and treat your raging inferiority complex. Condemning people who just don’t speak as eloquently as you- No, wait. Slurring your words at the 'r' does not make you sound American. Nor will going to London and returning after barely two months give you the possession of an explicit British accent. Are we clear on that? Sure, accents are hot. But faking one will further pronounce the fact that you're nothing but a loser with highlights of a moronic wannabe.There's a huge difference between eloquence and fake accents, almost the size of your butt.
Speaking of butts, what exactly goes on in your mind when you brandish your assets so blatantly in hopes of making heads turn?
Not sermonizing or anything, but recent antics of a certain Veena Malik (*snicker*) should induce SOME caution in you. Walking into Karachi International Airport's Domestic Arrival's area, clad in a tank top and denim shorts...Seriously? And then you whine about helpless pathans staring at you? Have you, perchance, noticed that it’s solely YOU providing them of such a remarkable view? Lecherous looks must make you feel wanted, I suppose…
I'm not even going to end this post by adding a "This post is satirical in nature. No offence meant. Just kidding." as a foot-note. Hell no, I am not kidding. The likes of you are precisely the reason why this society is so much at fault. If you consider the people you live in the vicinity of as below your 'level', you're sick.
Burgers are over-rated anyway; Bunkababs. Burns Road. Enough said.
Monday 14 November 2011
Six Tips For The Kewl Community:
Utterly repulsive as you are, I regretfully state that you nonetheless occupy a chunk of our society where your unfortunate existence thrives alongside us normal, sane earthlings. I shall, henceforth, insinuate six tips that just might make you a lot less loathsome.
l. `l`yypyynG lYKe tHii$ will not, I repeat NOT, impress any kEwwL gUurrLL. It will, however, get you a virtual kick in the balls it you ever ask make a move on her on facebook. We do not need a constant reminder of how impossibly illiterate you are, so kindly cut on that. You may be quite competent in using your keyboard as a bagful of scrabble alphabets, but trust me when i say that it won’t make you appear as any less of a loon.
2. Wearing your patloon three inches below your waistline, such that the perverted effort of making your underwear visible is almost always painfully obvious. It does not make you a gangsta, it makes you appear as merely gay. Pay heed to this little piece of revelation, bro.
3. Riding your bike with the silencer thrown away to produce that ungodly roar, will not get you your "bachi". (..the terms people come up with these days..unbelievable.) It will just shed light on the fact that you are a pathetic citizen. Ever heard of noise pollution? Or, if not, does the term mentally ill sound familiar? lt should..
4. Staring, or dare I use that despicable term "poondi", will not get you anywhere. In fact, the only thing it will accomplish is getting that poor victim at whom you’re poondi-fying, in deep shit. You see, the bonga looking guy next to that lady might be a black belt who just MIGHT gang up on you and beat you into a bloody pulp the first chance he gets. Or worse still, he might turn out to be her ten-year-old brother who tells on her the second they step into their humble abode. You wouldn’t want your future bachi's cell phone confiscated, now would you? How will you then send her those contemptuous miss calls, you low life cheapass?
5. Screw you, when she says she doesn’t want to frandship with you, she MEANS it. WHY on earth must you be a rejection-loving masochist? This incomprehensible nature of yours is exactly what makes you a retard of the creepiest variety.
6. There exists a feminine community which would do anything to be a guy. So when you purposefully insult your Y chromosomes by making hearts every freaking where, it makes people gag. If you’re under the delusion that it makes you look 'kewoot', please come out of it before someone drags you to the operation theater for a sex-change operation.
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