Sad Skies

Some times the sky makes me sad. I don't really know why. It just is so damn beautiful. Maybe it's the clouds. Maybe it's the knowledge that what is there today will be gone forever tomorrow. Like those clouds, constantly forming and reforming, changing shape, dissolving into sheer nothingness. Maybe it's just me being silly.

"We have a short time to stay,
As you, or anything, we die
As hours do, and die away
Like the summers rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew
Never to be found again"
("To Daffodils")

After the rain. (Mine, Islamabad)

Dolly's photography (Suburbs of Islamabad)

Doors and Keys

That's life. The answer to life, the universe and everything. Its all doors and keys. The doors are generally inconspicuous. The keys may be hidden. You can stand outside, kicking and screaming, getting angry and frustrated that you're not getting what you want. You can even act unaware, and deny that there's anything on the other side of that closed place. You may believe that getting through is impossible, or that it's someone else's fault that you can't get through ....

Or you can look for your key ... and walk right in.

Pentonville Road, Islington. (Catherine Cartwright Jones)

Written and Published March 2007

Justice is said to be blind. Unfortunately, when we’re talking about Pakistan, it also happens to be deaf, dumb, and slightly retarded.

Perhaps that is why, over the decades, we ourselves have become our worst enemy. A long time back, Faiz Ahmed Faiz penned a beautiful piece of poetry: “Hum dekhein ge” {We will watch}. He talked about Indian occupied Kashmir and how he hoped we would watch it liberated one day. On Friday, the 16th of March 2007, this rallying cry rang out over the radio, as our press was attacked by our very own “saviors”, the Punjab Police.

Sab Taj uch’halay jaein ge, sab takht giraey jaein ge,
Hum dekhein ge…

{All kings will be dethroned, all rulers ousted; We will watch…}

Haven’t we remained silent long enough? We slept through the war in Wana; we slept through the American “operation” in Bejaur; and we slept through Bugti’s murder. We even slept as our “agencies” kidnapped our own people and gave no explanation. When will we finally wake up?

Now, even our freedom of expression and freedom of press is threatened. The common man has no rights, for any minister, or a minister’s family member, might fanicfully humiliate or assault him publicly while he performs his duties (case in point: Federal Law Minister who beat up a waiter at Marriot, Islamabad and his son beat up a fellow passenger on a PIA flight). And why talk about the common man anyway when the country’s chief justice has no protection, no standing?

It is time to stop waiting for someone else to take charge. It’s time to take a stand for what is right. It is time to bring a revolution in our own lives; to think like a nation, rather then individuals. It is time to fight for Justice.

Aur raj karay gi khalq-e Khuda, jo main bhi hoon aur tum bhi ho
Hum dekhein ge…

{And the men of God shall rule, for you are one, and I am too; We shall see…}

Memories of Me

My biggest fear is being forgotten. Abandoned. Not "belonging". My biggest fear is that once I'm gone, no one will ever remember me. My biggest fear is not mattering enough to even warrant a memory.

The "Happy" incident reminded me of something else, and I set about rooting through the boxes I've made for myself.

I call them "Memory" boxes. There are four of them now.

I have everything. Amusement park tickets, Bus ticket stubs, memorabilia from every trip we ever took as a family. I have every card, every letter I ever received. Even little notes passed in class. I have the sash I wore, and the tiara thingie, the "Lady of the Evening" award from our high school "Farewell" Party. And I have the (still plastic wrapped) gift from the first McDonald's Happy Meal I ever had, when I was six or seven years old.

But that's not the interesting thing. What's interesting is that there are post-it notes (or little bits of paper) stuck on and around most of these things I've collected. Penciled onto them are comments like "Meenah wore this..*blah blah*...on..*date*", or "...gifted this to Meenah Tariq on...". These are mostly on the stuff that dates to when I was around thirteen, and before that.

I seem to remember reading somewhere about "Time Capsules", around that time. What you do is, you put stuff that matters to you, with notes explaining, and dates, into a non-perishable container. You then bury it in your garden. And you wait for someone, some day, decades hence, finding it, and being awed by the person you were.

I think that's where it started. I didn't bury my memories in the garden. But some one, some day, when I'm gone, will go through my boxes. And from "My Memories", they will become "Memories of Me".

This diary belongs to Happy

I saw a store named "Happy". Kitchen ware, decoration pieces, and lights. It took me back in time, to what seems like ages ago.

A precocious child, I was the center of my universe. I thought a lot of my self. Who I was, who I'd grow up to be: not in terms of professions, but the person I would be.

When I was twelve years old, I decided I'd always be happy. If not inside, then definitely on the out side. Anyone who would ever look at me would think 'there goes a happy person'. I'd never let anyone see me down, or sad. I'd never let anyone guess what I was really thinking. I'd never let anyone in that close. I would be the target of their envy, for always smiling thus.

Notice all the "would"s? I was twelve, for Gods sake!

On the first page of a miniature diary, I printed neatly: This diary belongs to Happy.

No shit.