bleedcity

on track

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Thu, 01 Nov 2012 16:51:00 +0000

it has been a little over a year since i last wrote here. it has also been a little over a year since my world changed.

i think i'm on track.

trendy dengue

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 18:36:00 +0000

The city is taking cover from mosquitoes and I hear frequent comparisons to the great plagues mentioned in the scriptures.

I find myself giving into my ascetic subself and walking around carelessly amidst these striped machhars like I've got Mospel running through my veins.

I believe I've got something stronger. I know it comes from the goodness of raw foods, because they retain the goodness that comes from the soil. The original source of this goodness remains hidden to me, and I go about my heathen ways.

And why would I wish to know? The rush of this life-substance is so great that I celebrate with every passing moment, and sometimes reason is all but lost in the revelry.

Clinic-owners from all over Lahore were gathered in a meeting called for by the chief minister in the recently troubled plains of Punjab. Tauqeer sat amongst them, and his voice was heard amongst those who instantly spoke out against the proposed slash in prices. "it costs us more than that!", shouted Tauqeer, getting suddenly worried.

His wife, his sons. The money!

Imran "the champ" khan found out about the imposition soon enough and fought late into the night over flustered phone conversations. He lost the battle, and as a result many of his clinics were shut down the next day.

Meanwhile, Tauqeer had spent the night doing some math....sleeping now. complete later. remember.

on killing

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 19:32:00 +0000

we are all impulsive, to some degree. let us dive into the grey muck and find treasure at the bottom. if not, let us bury this topic once and for all.

Part I

raised by predators in the jungle, there was one who knew little except what he knew about himself and the ways he had learnt from his kind. he adopted their techniques without excess thought.

as soon as he had hunted down a large animal on his own, he was allowed to pick a mate from the clan, provided that she was willing. he picked one with strong legs and an ample bosom.

they made many children in quick succession and their dwelling became very crowded. the hunter would leave at the break of dawn to hunt for his family, and would return after the sun had set.

many winters passed and the hunter was now weakening with age. he was doing his best to provide for his growing number of children, but he knew that he needed help.

his oldest son, saf, was fourteen years old. mostly unnoticed by his father, this young cub's loins had begun to stir at the sight of his mother and many sisters, even though many of them had not yet bled. he was a lively thing, and he created much din in the nesting place.

seeing that his oldest was of age and growing increasing restless with having to stay in the cave, the old took him along to teach him the ways of their hunting tribe.

on their first hunt, the hunter found that saf's senses were sharp, and that he moved swiftly through the thicket that surrounded their nest. the old man found them big game to hunt, and together they felled a monster. it took all their strength to drag it back.

the thrill of the hunt left saf even more excited than before, and the stirring in his nethers increased two-fold. he was now eyeing his mother greedily, while his father napped.

saf was confident that he could be a better hunter than his father, so he decided to leave the nest when all were asleep, eager to bring back more meat. he pictured bringing home the meat and placing it in front of the family. he pictured his mother and young females...

he took with him his father's spear and some meat to lure in the game.

a few steps into the thicket and suddenly he stood still. there was enough meat in the house to last till the next bright night, he realized. did his father know that what he sought to take from him?

so he crept back into the nest and killed his father.

the man had fight in him, despite his age. the others woke up from his cries and the gurgling sounds as the blood gushed from his throat.

the mother woke up too, and watched, unmoving and quiet.

saf had it all. he had the woman, and soon he would have more. he also had hunters in the making.

soon, he started worrying that one of these young hunters might do as he had done, so he killed them all.

of the burden

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Tue, 10 May 2011 18:22:00 +0000

He described it particularly well, or maybe I was overly fond of the route-cause analysis he employed in his arguments. He would go back in the sequence of broad truths and challenge each one, smallest first.

It probably wasn't the lateral thinking I've been trying to pair with someone other than my Corporate Strategy Professor lately, though I do think it was a rather intelligent technique. It was very effective in the short-run and it was as if he was massaging thinking capabilities I seldom used. It was a pleasant change.

But I have my own process, and it is fast, though, owing to the speed I may just conclude that it is imperfect.

And what a perfect illustration the above serves of said imperfect process. The self-doubt that leads to the ability to consider and accept, to a large extent, any unorthodox line of reasoning.

Because suddenly I'm not sure any more. Not because of this occurrence, but because of that dreaded fork in the road looming closer than ever now. The wait is driving me insane, and I fear that I will find it hard to truly believe in what I choose. Commitment is a hardened but jolly matron in an all-boys school dormitory.

So I find myself listening to these tunes, rationalizing and systematically taking apart a few lost ideals swimming wantonly in my fish-bowl of a head. The logic we hold dear to our hearts, and the ability to communicate with each other by assuming so much.

These assumptions are a privilege, not a birthright.

II.

Hope is something that I believe we are born with. It is strengthened by the fairy tales that fool us as children, and it is the adhesive to a strong family unit, that interdependent system of hope-junkies.

It is fostered, and nurtured. It is protected. Forced smiles and excruciating small-talk at the dinner-table are commonplace because the sum of the whole is greater than the parts. If everyone pretends to be happy, then there is hope. I guess it is true. If everyone is willing to make that effort...

But back to those whose fantasies have been irreparably shattered by life-changing events or by the continuous, low-impact bludgeoning of higher, more unpleasant truths. Poverty, Illiteracy, inequity and injustice to name a few!

The nomad and I concluded at some point that the newer generation of aware publics was now attached to nothing. They are a lonely bunch with the burden of fixing accumulated wrongs spanning half a century. The pressure is on us, now.

III.

I am concerned that a large part of us will give into the old norms. They will succumb to the greed that they have no control over, because they were never taught to question. They were never given the choice.

I talk of girls being raised in fear of dishonour and shame.

A conservative father would use an emotive appeal to reason and if you have a sister, this is enough to silence you. This silences me, but is it right?

Girls of seemingly impeccable character who independently decide on sticking to the path of virtue and chastity. Do they really have a choice in the matter? I wish to state here the classical comparison between economic power and political power. The former uses positive, tangible economic benefits for a course of action while the latter uses a negative threat/fear of punishment or reprimand. These girls are brought up in a culture of fear; it is the kind of fear that takes a back seat as meeting mommy's expectations becomes an automatic function.

I speak now of limited, if not completely non-existent, freedoms and liberties. I speak of rights.

But educated mommies raise privileged girls who tend to enter more efficient markets, where pricing is on the core business and not on the archaic premiums on desirable traits. Of course, from the other side of the fence these girls are troubled girls of loose moral character. And the grass is always greener on the other side!

Perhaps these girls are subject to just as much coercion as the prudent lot.

In any case, I am interested in studying the apathy that defines the prudes, because they tend to be apathetic, apolitical, and lacking in their sense of civic responsibilities! I believe it may be a gross generalization on my part, but save for a few outliers this is what I've seen and known.

IV.

We are losing people; valuable minds who could have been shaping the much-needed reform in this country. Educated girls get married young, hedging the risk of spinsterhood. They fear this state, because of their fear of judgement. What will people say?

Let us reconsider education:

My wandering mind makes a dangerous comparison between these purportedly educated young women and those lost youths who, for lack of other options, exchange their lives for family insurance packaged in explosive, deadly jackets. Free size.

I believe both are equally helpless.

We are left with little competence, and we must in our limited capacities slave away at removing the grime of our fathers, who compensated for their inadequacies by competing aggressively with the proverbial Joneses.

Just a few hapless souls weighed down by a large mass of cultural primitivism, we are those enslaved children of Israel under the rule of whips.

Do we have a Moses in the building?

offloading

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sat, 07 May 2011 18:34:00 +0000

Industrialized society has ensured that I have spent most of my life in institutions surrounded by people of my own age. As I start de-constructing the various groups of comrades I've known, I can make bubbles within bubbles to arrive at a respectable amount of people with pretty much the same socio-economic background as mine, though other regressors like education of parents and major life experiences will vary.

This sample makes up the demographic to which I belong.

Things now begin to get complicated. The word under scrutiny today is premium.

There are perceived premiums on certain attributes that we possess as individuals. These premiums are relative, of course, but for the purpose of understanding, we will assume a set of generally accepted traits and talents that are valued by our society at large.

We'll consider only a few of these, though in my opinions there can be millions if one were to truly codify the world in ones and zeroes.

Consider beauty. It is relative, but in my sample, there are individual features that hold premiums. In fact, beauty is too vague a term and to remain objective and proper let us use the term physical attractiveness. It is a disgusting notion that we harbour innate biases but we are generations away from being free of prejudice. A thick set of curls on a fair-skinned, slim torso is a pleasing sight to us lowly ethnic groups/populations. I choose my words carefully, because:

"...the term 'race' is not applicable to a species as genetically homogeneous as the human one"

- UNESCO 1950

Great. That makes life simpler. We are all governed by the same genetics and subsequent drives. What turns us on may differ, but the fact remains that we get turned on.

For me, recently, a half-Egyptian with features previously described did the trick. Damn, you should've seen the hair.

But we are complex beings. My generation and newer models are much sharper than the antique processors of our fathers. We are also more complex, and demanding. We aid our arguments with research, such as:

"...it was found that physically attractive men and women were perceived as more sociable, dominant, sexually warm, mentally healthy and socially skilled compared to unattractive people."

- Perlini, Bertolissi and Lind, 1999)

As we drove towards the edges of the city, and into the heart of Sindh there came a point where she remained quiet for a few minutes, staring at the desert landscape rolling lazily past. I could hear her nails rhythmically tapping her can of Carlsberg to the beat of typical sunday classics. The baron was playing for us melodies from simpler, happier times.

I glanced frequently at her tresses and the bright rays of Karachi summer amplified her beauty. From beyond the golden-brown, I could make out the orange from her imitation wayfarers. This was enough, and I should've soaked in the image for longer.

Instead, I asked her what she was thinking.

'Do you really want to know?" she asked.

I persisted.

"I was thinking about time and space."

She didn't need to. She shouldn't have. I had already accepted her premium as one of those fleeting good things that happen to a person- a delightful experience that I would cherish just for the aesthetics of it all.

It is shallow, and this simple, primitive drive makes for a flawed reasoning system. So are we really better off with our i7 processors? I'm pretty sure this is a truth that my father realized at the same age, with little mental distress.

I can assure you that this truth distresses me greatly. It has been my belief that it was intellect feeding my ego all these years, and fuelling my arrogance and disdain for all things normal.

But things are becoming clearer of late. There is nothing intellectual in reserving big words to impress hot chicks.

I want a perfect body, and I don't believe in the soul. So I want a perfect mind, instead.

Except I realize that the soul is nothing but an irrevocably imperfect mind. If you are able-bodied (if not beautiful), think vertically and grew up with people in a society of more than just a few, you are not you. You are them. Every me, and and every you.

Those of us who fight to suppress our natural drives are fighting a noble cause. Keep it up, find a partner fighting for the same cause and start a brave new world on an island.

The big question, though remains: what will guide your actions? Is the pursuit of physical perfection enough? Is gymming a religion?

Or can the pursuit of knowledge be an end in itself?

What's your premium?

Harlot

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Tue, 03 May 2011 15:17:00 +0000

I was conceived out of passion. My mother was cruel and didn't want me. My father died when I was a babe and left me in the hands of friends and followers. He was a wise man, but I cannot say the same for those who came after.

I was beautiful, and I was valuable. Kings of distant lands sought my favour, and I realized early in life that I was very special. They all seem to have my best interests at heart.

She paused, and a sad smile passed her bluish lips. She took out another Morven cigarette and lit it with the remains of the last one.

Corrupt uncles fought to be my guardians. They would contest in public and tell the people their plans for me. Some would take over by force.

Some of them dressed me up and took me to parties where I mingled with the finest of dignitaries. I would stay up late and my education was largely ignored. Others were unbending and harsh, and I was not allowed to do much except follow rules.

I forgive their shortcomings, and I forgive their inadequacies. I appreciate that they tried to the best of their abilities, or if they didn't, I appreciate that they pretended to.

I'll even forgive them for being weak. They never realized their own strength, and their own courage. Instead, they give into pressures from foreigners, or succumbed to greed.

I began to slowly understand my guardians for what they really were.

Pimps.

Her voice was getting shaky, and she paused for a while. I got her water, and she gulped it down before continuing.

Would you do that to your daughter, your imaanat? What about to your mother?

She reached for her pack of cigarettes and found it empty. She scowled, and I offered her my imported Dunhills. She saw the fancy packaging and jeered a bit.

Do you have a daughter? You do? Haha okay. This might sting a little bit, then.

She went on to explain her theory on how we all pimp out our daughters.

I'll admit that she made me uncomfortable. It wasn't her speech as much as her weathered face and sunken, somnolent eyes that gave me chills. She was beautiful, and I could not look at her for too long. I tried to focus on what she was saying and stared down at my notepad.

...and then you send them to college, still monitoring their every move. Be home by this time, be chaste. Do well in college. Who will marry you?

And you sell them of to the most eligible bidder. You celebrate with grandeur beyond your means as she leaves your house and gets into the bed of another. Oh, but you're progressive, and you smoke smuggled cigarettes. Maybe your daughter sleeps around and offers a trial run to potential breadwinners?

On the surface she was tough and unshakeable. She was like a stone. But as her eyes began to water I realized that she had never had the childhood that she deserved. She did not get the love and education that should be every child's birthright.

I have been ravished by my own and by others. Who will have me now? Sure, they still come because I know many secrets. They have their way with me, and they leave. They all do. Who would make this illiterate their own? I have borne many, many children, but they do not think I am their responsibility, for there are other bastards who have benefited much more. What can I teach them, given how little I was taught? I feel like I am beyond repair. I feel forsaken, and worthless.

I am Pakistan, and nobody will fight for my dignity.

---

I write this emotive and somewhat childish piece in the light of OBL's death. I am awash with mixed emotions, the net of which is overriding fear and indignity at being Pakistani. As our government remains quiet, I can only hope that this is not taken as an admission of guilt.

Whether Osama has been dead for a while- and there is enough evidence to support this- is now inconsequential and subsequent surfacing of proof to support this will be suppressed. It is no secret that in a set-up, the better (read: richer) lawyer wins.

Maybe we should be glad of the intellectual incapacity of the average american, but who will quell the reservations of prosecutors at the US Dept. of Justice? Who owned the land? How was the land acquired, and from whom?

There is general agreement as to the best course of action for Pakistan: to deny any involvement in, and knowledge of, OBL's whereabouts.

---

I leave y'all with a question:

So how many of you of you get up and leave Packistan if given the chance? That is, if you weren't weighed down by that little green booklet that signals red for most international authorities, and suggests that you shouldn't be passing through any ports.

I'd like to sign off with a noun, but given my location, any geopolitical pundit would surely consider this a pun.

'Peace'

THBT:

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 12:22:00 +0000

Good is objective; that morality is an independent truth and that Religion is a vehicle through which morality has historically been institutionalized. By seeking to preserve and perpetuate their monopoly (on morality), religious institutions without strategic leadership devolve into simple aggressors who seek to strengthen their hold by discrediting competing belief systems in their characteristically absolutist fashion.

Similarly in politics, the State seeks to preserve its monopoly on the legitimate use of of force.

Of the fastest-growing religion we have this to say: it borrows heavily from the original franchise and through recurring emphases on finality ensures that any progressive reformers of today are not called prophets, thereby sealing off the Abrahamic repository.

We say that man’s glory knows no bounds. He climbs mountains, and he cuts off limbs to survive. Man goes to hunt, and he is the most fearsome predator. We believe that man need not share his glory, for it is the manifestation of his free, animalistic spirit. We celebrate individualism and circumstance, and the insomnias that accompany our disbelief as we try to break free of your chains. We feed our souls with music and love, and think that too often is such beauty attributed to the unseen.

We do not question your unconditional devotion to your Maula, and we cringe when you disregard our sensibilities. Please accept that we exist, and as this period of divine dormancy stretches further our ranks will swell.

Yours Sincerely,

The left.

monday

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 20:36:00 +0000

here's to your devilish concoction, saeen.

we understand.

to the nights you must have spent. the anger, and the refusal to acknowledge what stares at you through the haze. but strengthen the haze- the fog of ready ingredients- till your stomach turns sour and you can fight it no more. drift then into a calming oblivion, and wake up, hung about your cheap escapism.

to stare at the truth and inner beauty and pretend it doesn't exist. must be a lonely world. to look at paintings majestic, to hear music of soul and pretend that all you see is grey, and all you hear is a buzz.

that buzz, friend is the ego that lies bruised and takes the support of the devil. but it is his piss that you grab, and while it may numb the sensations you have yet to feel, these will persist. these will make sure that they are felt.

we deplore thy self-defecation, and we urge you to get up, and stare up at the heavens and cry and scream. run, till you tire yourself, and then run some more.

true sleep will come, and the morrow will bring with it tidings of a chaste beginning, a sober silver lining on these murky clouds.

cheap fuck. x

violence.

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 13:59:00 +0000

you're here, 3 flights up. i could be upon you if you chose to run. i would pounce and stifle your screaming.

are you scared?

but we've stumbled upon this great fashion of vicarious living; projecting through objects and people that seem to be no better than objects but like clay urns with the insides painted, hold complex and exasperating beauty. how do i get to you without breaking you?

and perhaps an even greater fashion of penning down inspired words with a purpose. echoing, mimicking, learning, evolving.

god is in poetry but prose is the devil's domain.

in other news: the chills have returned, and i no longer bask in the cinders of a triumphant december carnival.

themes for consideration:

-brats connecting emotionally.

-crooks with winning personalities

...can you breathe life into the dead?

and a soliloquy to follow: to those who would be powerful, to those who would take it all!

but for the beating in your bosom, this mind would have taken you anywhere. you are caged in the rhythms of your pathetic mortal existence.

dance away you stupid, worthless thing. you don't even understand that you might as well! such is your vanity.

and so weak! you struggle with your breathing, still. you addicted, needy thing. the resigned, low tones and i barely make out the 'oh well'.

you don't deserve this.

they killed a Wali yesterday, and something in me stirred. this time it's personal.

a graduate in journalism, this pathan was not quite thirty and was living with his brother.

the afser speaks of the bastards that killed him with a fury i always knew he possessed but that i had never seen before today.

i persisted and started with my usual theory on civil duties. but he just will not vote. it was hard to decide which one of us had better manners- and the question of footing will rest on this matter- but he is fast becoming one of my favorite police officers.

in the familiar parking lot, in the pleasantly chilly karachi afternoon, the mountain-boys posed with their guns, armed to the teeth in menacing gear. boys in the big cities trying to play the part. needless to say i could relate.

to every person, every song.

relate.

backlogs.

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 23:40:00 +0000

where have you been?

doing what, exactly. you call these girls broads but you've got a board up for fun camp.

unreachable.

omgwtfbbq

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 19:54:00 +0000

nothing like an overdose of beef to get the creative jewses flowing. turns out that us kashmiris might just be the lost tribe; long-forsaken children of israel.

oh, and i was reminded of words read long ago, today, but i bit through the hunger-pangs and resisted.

at the base of a passion-less disposition lies an immense fear of disappointment (rejection?). and that very base remains strengthened, and lined in place, with one's ego. after all, if you love one thing, or anyone, and face an off-hand dismissal, what truly makes one crumble? is it not the bruised ego and wounded pride which speaks, then?

but i doubt the meat played a bigger role than the voluntary alienation.

WHAT IS THERE TO DO WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE YOU'VE DONE IT ALL?

but you (I) haven't. me theory is that i've exhausted the supply of distractions afforded to me. it's always two steps back to square one.

oh, and you: get married already so we can move on with our lives.

...please don't.

wassup chengez? it's been good hanging, my furry, feline friend.

the word, is brooding.

tired. x

december

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 20:40:00 +0000

the secret's out. too many people know already; they're looking in, and they're doing it too.

the internet is public.are you reading?

it's been a chilly period, and well, i want a pet. i feel like the human connection is grossly over-rated. like meat in a diet- it's just a small part of all that you need.

i grow sick of the mainstream, and the comparison. it's been fun swimming with the fish. fish-eat-fish world out there; throw your crab-crap off the boat, please.

speaking of; it's time to revisit Ghadir Khumm and other points of relevance in history.

the dim studio lights up, the camera starts rolling and after a brief introduction, the host quickly gets to the point.

Host: ...and what say you of all this?

well there is much i would say, and will. it's really quite simple. you've got the more eloquent of these modernist, progressive 'muslims' saying hey, man...we really need to sit down and think, and talk and UNDERSTAND. hey, man, it's a personal matter...HEY, i think it's all about interpretation man, pass the dooby.

while you've the leftist bunch going Ali, Ali, nobody's talking about a whole lotta other shit.

who's praying, anyway?

Host: excuse me, sir?

see you have to admire the spirit. and plus i've spoken to the boys down at the card factory and hope to be rounding these chimps in at 21 to get a decision that'll determine their rights. if this bill passes...'Not Applicable' will, Inshallah be an option, and we hope to eventu-

Host: WHAT did you just say?

... remove the option altogether. pretty soon they'll be talking about it. we'll just need a few opinion leaders to start off what should Inshallah become a chain reaction.

Host, taking off his glasses: dude, you just said Inshallah. Twice.

Yeah, I'm trying to kill off God. I need all the help I can get.

karachi nights

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 20:45:00 +0000

the lights were out in the parking lot tonight. the lifts weren't working either- something about residents not coughing up their monthly maintenance bills used to pay for these facilities. the big billboard at the top of one of the buildings was discussed and it was agreed that it had brought home Rs. 1.6 million a year of income to the association as formed under government stipulation.

waqas's father had been the CEO of said association when the money was rolling in. after winds knocked billboards across the city down, the government decided to have them enforced (at the builder's cost, of course) and to have them taxed. once the money- and we're talking massive sums- started pouring in, the suits nearly wet their pants and got greedy.

the obvious reaction to greed of any sort is rebellion. an ego-battle follows where either the parents discipline the child, or the child disciplines the parents. yes, the latter does happen. in fact, it happens more than we realize.

those 'wild kids' that to this day get away with being just... disrespectful. the parents end up serving the child's whim instead of the other way around. at some point, the chubby little thing probably realized that their parents were greedy, or rather hungry for whatever social gain they could see in their offspring.

my daughter goes to harvard. la dee da diddle doo daa.

wondering how i strayed from the building story: the money stopped pouring in and spoilt residents are too used to not paying their bills. result? no lights in the parking lot, and a lift that doesn't work.

FREE-LOADING.

ok so, what's this talk of the americans at KPT? they shifted their embassy? okay...

they have a new one in KPT (I don't know the area exactly, but i'm assuming it's that chunk under/around the netty jetty). okay, fine.

it has a huge underground structure of some sort that extends about 40 floors downwards like that of the umbrella corporation from resident evil.

wait. what?

supposedly, there's also a tunnel linking this bunker-superstructure to the actual port underwater somewhere where submarines can offload marines so they reach the lair without stepping onto the port.

man, i love conspiracy theories when they are this close to him. mai kolachi's right there.

talk of drunken secretaries to ministers and policemen who live out their fantasies at the station. karachi's a diverse place.

my hip friend speaks of another world. it is a prettier world with dance and music. it has alcoholics and those who will trouble themselves to get collectively, and artificially untroubled.

the same forces govern this pretty world, though. there are conspiracy theories and theorists. there is ego and there is disciplining. there is the government, and there is greed.

greed is good, and it should have been the only quote on that paper today.

on a tangent, my dad's question, or one-third of it: how do you explain beauty? (and compassion, and time in a god-less world.)

beauty i've thought about lots. beautiful things may often turn about to be a source of grief and unhappiness.

but where did i say i wanted happiness? or that beauty was linked with it?

we want beauty. it may be sad beauty, or evil beauty. we might reconsider evil, but anything else goes. fuck it, with the english language at your disposal, who's to say anything's evil, anymore. the better lawyer wins.

but yes. i seek beauty. i could push it a whole lot and say beauty is what every man seeks to find. happiness, grief, sorrow and despair are only what the weary traveller meets on his way.

daddy, beauty is the goal that you walk towards, and the path that you walk upon. all that any man really needs, is beauty.

but even as i write, i sense the presence of gibran in my words.

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?
And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

for the watchmen, beauty is such, and for the injured it is such.

he was a wise man, but with an aching heart like the saeen's. s-baba sits in a stupor of spirits and longing with quiet tunes to pay homage to the beauty that is kept away. he is not the master of this bird yet and she must return whence she came.

but lovers are a sad bunch. they say lots, and worship and ultimately...love. it was the brother who took on brad pitt for the sake of helen, the ultimate BABE. yeup, i'll use capitals for this.

see now i appreciate beauty.

9NOV

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 20:36:00 +0000

I like to think that I've been too busy living the crazy, upbeat life of this metropolitan to have the time to blog about it.

It is not true.

However, if wasting time is part of a precise process that will lead me to precisely what I'm heading towards, then I'm really quite helpless, aren't I?

It's confusing, but think of it this way: what you do decides the future. What you do not do is just as, if not more important. I've been doing little, but there's a lot that I haven't been doing. There's a lot that I could do, but I don't. I'm glad that in the continuum of responsibility, I am far from being completely reckless.

Though that is not to say that I'm getting my jollies off mediocrity.

I sense that my time here may come to an end. It may not, but there is a strong chance that it will. The possible end to this journey is now within sight. I see an oasis in the distance. It is either where I set out from, or it is a place completely new. It may be a mirage, and this desert may be never-ending.

such bland text. crap, even by rambling standards.

you see that, though? The self-doubt is a dead give-away. I am getting weaker by the day. I am slowly but surely heading to the same place that I spent all summer digging my self out of. My family, and the clean, welcome air of Lahore was my guiding light.

I am tempted, with my layman understanding of endorphins, to think that exercise will solve my problems. This may be so, but the problem may be a bit more complex.

Or it may be very simple, a notion that my superego would carelessly dismiss. simple, you say? nay!

Oh, and there's a whole lot of stuff I need to do. A check-list has come into play. If I am really to leave, then I will make sure that I take care of all unfinished business. you, and you...and you.

but mostly just you...

we're being forced to grow older and I don't like it. but if it is to happen, then let me have this last dance. grant me frolick, teenage dreams and absurd fashion. complete childishness is what this would-be adult is asking for.

I need a damn lantern.

political

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 21:32:00 +0000

It's tense here in the windy city. A few burnt cars and a confused political party.

It was midnight in Karachi as four men congregated in the car park of an apartment complex on Boat Basin. The weather was pleasant but the mood wasn't. A young man, probably twenty five, fished out a rolled joint out of an empty cigarette pack. He lit it up, and started speaking.

As with most discussions amongst men, the smalltalk crept surely into the realm of politics. The oldest of them, an allegedly honest government official had begun defaming the MQM.

'It's a mob', he says. 'They killed their own guy.'

According to him, a US convoy had visited Grandmaster Altaf Hussain and had spoken of plans for their joint 'revolution'. As planned, Altaf would go on air and invigorate the party to get them on board for this inqilaab. He worried that this would include propaganda for the spread of immorality under the banner of secularism- an incurable evil.

Conversation drifted to other insider dealings and Daud Ibrahim came up. It was concluded that he was a champion for the Muslims in India, who, were it not for him, would be getting their womenfolk raped (they still do, of course, but that the situation would be much worse); that he was the only 'fuck you' to the Shiv Sena. Somebody offered a Babri Masjid quip.

And then back to Daud. Apparently, Javed Miandad's winning sixer had won his heart.

super saturday

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 22:38:00 +0000

The festival of Eid marks the end of the Islamic month of fasting and is celebrated by Muslims around the world. It is an occasion that gives Christmas a run for its money and is symbolized by the same basic themes: dressing up, getting together with family and gorging till you pass out.

Koran Burning Day, scheduled for this Saturday by the New Dove Centre-Church in the United States of America has been met with much public criticism, including that by the current president of Pakistan and of the USA.

While the statistical significance of Eid falling on the 11^th of September on the Roman calendar is interesting on its own- this happens once in x thousand years- what makes this a Saturday to watch out for is the fact that on the same date, a Pastor and his fifty odd followers will be orchestrating a world-wide Koran-burning.

The event is bound to spark protests- many of them violent- in Muslim communities the world over. What’s worse is that the American government, a champion of all sorts of civilian rights, cannot legally stop it from happening. The underlying hypocrisy, and moreover the sheer absurdity of the entire scenario, however could form a thesis of its own.

Is it just me, or does anybody else have a bad feeling about this Saturday?

the feudals

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 18:56:00 +0000

Two gunmen slipped out through the high, wrought-iron gates that protected the mansion within and headed towards my car.

...

I parked behind the dozen odd luxury cars already present and was greeted by barks and howls. Caged and crazed, the German Shepherds served as a second line of defense, and as menacing receptionists forewarning against any funny business. Not only was I keen on not being funny, I wanted to leave as soon as possible.

I was intercepted by the elder son at the manor entrance who, after giving me a quick glance, nodded dismissively and went on his way. I was glad, for I was busy making note of the slender, ornate columns that stood outside the door- grandiose, and borderline gaudy.

I was here to defend a friend, I reminded myself. A friend who listened patiently whenever we argued, a trait virtually nonexistent in my generation of the feudal families; raised voices leading to threats of force were the norm.

Going over the conversation I had had with the kinder feudal, I couldn't really remember much of it, except that I had put my best cards forward in refuting his notion of a supreme deity. He had listened, too carefully it seemed for he had then broached the subject with his closest friend. In this case, a friend's friend was not necessarily a friend.

As expected, I was assaulted with insults and jeers as soon as I entered the room, mostly pertaining to my beliefs, or lack thereof. I sighed a heavy sigh and went to work.

After a good hour of yelling and my best attempts at diplomacy, I had managed to maneuver the discussion to a relatively calmer, and in my opinion, more relevant topic area. Using a cocktail of schoolboy charm and flattery, I had gotten the ill-tempered youth to dive into an area of his expertise; while I was a mere commentator in the dark realm of politics, the domain thereof was his birthright. I was no match for his innate political acumen.

I wanted all I could get. After all, I had given up dinner with fairer company to be there. I was eager, therefore to know where my ideals for a secular Pakistan fit in with the leadership of the morrow. I spoke hurriedly of progress and modernity, of Turkey and of the future. I had gotten my comrade's attention.

I was disappointed, however when he offered no conclusive insight into my queries. Considering that we had previously argued over the validity of his faith, it was hard for him to accept that abandoning our quasi-theocratic state of affairs, or affairs of state could be the way forward.

Throughout, in his traditional shalwar kameez ensemble, he had made statements on his unshakable faith but was ill at ease when forced to balance his faith, political agendas and the habits he had picked up studying in Britain.

And so, staring definitively at the bottles of premium scotch on the mantel, I left.

This kid was just as confused as I was.

of cricket and corruption

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 00:31:00 +0000

One thing after the other, and I'm suddenly taking my mother's words seriously:

It's the wrath of God, love. We are all guilty.

just another article on the lynching

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 19:25:00 +0000

Any self-respecting, 'humane' individual would respond to the Sialkot lynching videos with a variant of the following phrase:

'I hope all those merciless attackers- those murderers- die a horrible death'.

Ironic, isn't it?

But if you still don't see it:

It would appear that our natural reaction to what befell Mughees and Muneeb would be one of anger; uncontrollable anger so potent that one's insides weaken. Fury so vivid that the red pales to, if not completely white, then to a very light gray.

It is this gray that frightens me. Sure, my stomach felt a lurch, but it possibly won't at the copy-cat lynchings in say, Sheikhupura. It is highly probable that my curiosity is satisfied, and that my thirst to know and see humanity's latest lowest is quenched for a long, long time.

I will not google the next uncensored lynching video.

It is beyond doubt that our nation is diseased. To this we all seem to agree, but differ on our diagnoses. Though young in my years, I too learnt of said disease early in life when my first love moved away.

We believed, at 15 years of age that we would stay together forever. This childish notion was brought on by a combination of excess emotion and ignorance. While the former can be explained away through the teenage hormones, the ignorance was in the assumption that we would stay the same people, that we would feel the same way.

Through the gradual decay of our castles in the sky in the face of circumstances we could not help, we changed. While one grew stronger, the other weakened. Lo and Behold, an excruciating, unexplainable divide, bridged only by a misty indifference.

We are not a whole, you say?

Understanding that most of us don't speak in colors or relate well to seemingly trivial narratives, a simplification is in order.

I ask you this: you would hang all those who laid a brick, stick or bout to the brothers from Sialkot, but for what crime?

They were burning 'witches' back in the day, an offensive launched by the church. As with any institution, abuse is a natural consequence. Justice is a term thrown around.

As with any institution, ignorance is the most effective opiate for its army. And what better way to propagate ignorance than by suppressing rounded education, and allowing by means of filters and censorship only a particular doctrine to be spread and taught?

Everyone fasts in this country. If you don't fast people look at you with contempt and even disgust. But if you're in Sialkot and you're fasting, you're welcome to join the rest of the devout in beating two teenagers to a gruesome death.

back to this

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 18:59:00 +0000

whirlwind. from the big city to the small. to the mountains and back home.

home.

funny word. it's where the heart is, they say. it's ironic that without the big city this sheep is pretty lost. or too found for comfort. i miss you. and you, and you...but if we're going back in time, i miss you the most.

it's strange to be back home for this long a stretch. they throw at me free love and wads of cash. they show concern and i show disdain. i'm a wretched thing.

i'm being stubborn. what point i'm trying to prove is beyond me. that i can do it all, on my own.

when in reality, it's quite the opposite. it happens by itself, really. right place, right time.

oh-so-lost.

but the point being: every defeat leaves its mark, and i have fallen one too many times. this war has left me weakened and as I spend these months recovering, i will chant a new mantra...

fight only for something worth fighting for.

in retrospect: you were worth it all. in comparison, you were above these grey beings. (am i now doing what i always do and hate myself for- this need to worship?)

so let us gather our strength. let us build our muscle and soldier on. let us not be fooled by shiny things, and let us fight for true beauty.

this inconsistent bastard. x

windy

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 13:56:00 +0000

Voice of Reason 01 -

mehboob: ...remember when we talked about the straight path and virtuous life decisions?

me: there's no reason to believe that it would happen that way! that's what they all think- that's the deception, innit? i know you and your plans, this would only work if everybody did it. any negatives elements can and will exploit your system while you're selling your idea. furthermore, and in line with yin-yang philosophy and that newton feller, there's always them to opposing forces in either equilibrium or constant flux, take your pick

mehboob: but our cause is just and fair.

me: your cause is a cause, and that is all there is to it. you think you're the only ones selling virtue? claiming to be the life choice? pah!

...and yet this track...how did he KNOW? those two notes on the bass. and that line...maana keh teray qaram behisaab...

mehboob: what's that now?

me: oh nothing, nothing. just a little ultra-perceptive to rythms and vibes.

mehboob: wali ULLAH!

me: tsk. and plus it's not like I can, anyway. i'm not supposed to!

mehboob: but that's a direct contradiction!

me: i know it is. there are forces, of course but those of human desire and ambition. our thoughts constantly and without bondaries. c'mon man, kleinenberg is a God in his own right. forces of human bodies swaying to those rythms. RYTHMS. there's a point for you if you want it.

mehboob: might as well. yes?

me: well yeah, again, man. humans. i want to worship. not a spinner but this storm, sure. storm, there you go. but i'm bored of this drift. throw something else my way.

mehboob: ...you think miss current is worth it, then?

me: nobody's worth it, really. but in the moment, anything's worth it. i feel like i might be a moment-maximizer.

mehboob: freakonomics.

me: akhh man, don't remind me.

mehboob: haha. caughtchu.

me: tsk. from YOUR side of the fence, fool. i don't WANT to be there, or think I should.

mehboob: uhh, no, you know you should.

me: you're wicked. you know that, right? cruel. sadistic.

mehboob: hahaha. no sonny, you don't have it easy. :)

me: how do you know?

mehboob. scroll up. capital G?

me: @#$@#$@#

mehboob: exactly. nice pattern, mr. piano-man.

me: why thank you.

mehboob: so? your windows need taping. it could be worse tonight.

me: thanks.

mehboob: playing that again...you're losi- what is it?

me: just realized that this could be schiz 101. goshdarnit.

mehboob: bwahahaha. you and your words, yaar. honestly.

me: go AWAY.

mehboob: whatevs.

what now, hero?

me: going to tape the windows.

mehboob: hahaha

me: fuck you.

may and before

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Thu, 13 May 2010 22:30:00 +0000

past 3am on a wakeup-at-6 school-night. this does not bode well! quiet distress, and the damn apples. uh-oh.

it's been long, and much has happened- but has it now...has so muchreally happened?

i think of the months that passed and of what stands out.

fixation.

of goo goo eyes and the great rush. chemical romance? those tantric rhythms and rhymes- this is like a...

go away, come back another day. or, on second thought, don't. akh!

think, think- of anything but this! what of recent accolades, that morph seamlessly onto your mantel. what of logic, and reason?

i WISH. and i don't like thinking I have a passionless disposition, or a fear of rejection backing it. i don't like thinking that i'm too proud to get off my horse to pursue the elusive, to really get into the muck and mud. i can do dirty, i think.

the doe runs far into the thicket, wary of the encroaching shine. lest the armor be removed, and reality rears its ugly head. quick, think of the circle. of the merry-making and elixir. the clearing in the woods- saturday! lalala.

elixir. see now, on a conceptual level. very dorian gray in it's deceptive forever-young-ness. check it: to feel young (frisky?), every time. till you die. that's called forever.

forever young, but the receding hairline would perhaps beg to differ. crows feet? when do we stop playing, and let loose? the fearless, bold and reckless. battered and bruised, skid-marks to the casket, grave, whatever.

it's between being the freak and ring-master, really. to lead the circus, or be in it.

to fool or be fooled. to eat, or be eaten!

yada yada yada

it's sad that you deny me, sir that middle ground! the cave, the mis-match, the detachment. far from the madding crowd! cafe de hunza, and fresh air. the breeze, the berries and the beloved.

maybe tomorrow.

barkley: whose gonna save my soul now? how will my story ever be told.

he was the son of a big man. a big, communist man. a man with many children and many factories. I wonder often of his relationship with this big man, his big man.

enough.

all-star, all-nighter.

eager

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 16:41:00 +0000

spring creeps into this swamp, and the nymphs now speak in excited whispers of big waters and surprise. there's a distinct buzz in the air and it's not the damn mosquitoes.

here's to the end of a harsh winter!

plan

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 21:24:00 +0000

figure if i can fit enough things into m'schedule i won't have time to spare. this thinking business is what gets to me. think, think...wham.

to be reminded of the bitter truth, again and again! my failings, and then some more to follow.

missed lunches, more pretties and pokes. well, hullo shawty. sit and stare, and do nothing.

i hate me: actor, opportunist. the stage is where i belong. well, that's taken care of!

oh, love-for-sale world.

what's the point of all this, anyway- ungodly hours and self-pity.

cheers, cuervo. x

late night blues

noreply@blogger.com (wali sheikh) — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 23:31:00 +0000

to be the same again! we grow quieter with age, I reckon. by that logic, those who lapse into childhood, and those who never grew up- mao mao?

so what of growing. i pine for those days of abandon. duties, akh!

and we came to understand beauty. t'was a cruel truth to find- to have known and thrown the best of them. the resilient, the steadfast. the pure. we ask you of these others. of their shapely limbs and so what of their clothes and shoes. we bow to thee the righteous and stay awake in quiet homage to her strength.

would you listen to these blues the boys cooked up. in remembrance, in longing and in quiet resignation. consumed by our monsters, we're done-for little cookies! ha ha.

another little missy to prove the point. going in to lose, headfirst without a chute. again. all of you on a silver platter, pickings and morsels. for you, anyway.

bloodshot. x