In the name of the constitution. Article ABC. Section D. Sub-section E. Paragraph ii/ante. States. The state has power. Authorized by the sovereign. That sovereignty belongs to God. So, challenging it is treason.
Torn apart. Abrogated. Need of necessity. Sensitive times. Security state. Secured. Dismissed.
Heathenism!
Adjourned.
Dismissed. Closed. Ordered. Need of time. In the name of unforeseen circumstances.
Constitution this. Article that. Section this. Sub-section that. Para number X with unknown ante in your arse. Did you get this? No one gets this.
I don’t get the judgments. And the orders. And their jargon. Colonized English. Outdated rubbish.
Disgusting.
“You are out of order. This court is out of order. This whole trial is out of order. The verdict is out of order. The judge is out of order.”
“Order! Order! The court can put you behind bars.”
“You order me? I order you. You and your order is out of order. And the bars… In your arse.”
Sometimes, it feels like His Highness is buried in that office-cum-tomb of the un-Civil Secretariat of Lahore. With Anarkali. Where bulks and bulks of old gazettes, journals, nothings, and orders are placed to provide evidence that nothing has changed since 1857.
Not even noting. Please. Put up. Urgent. Amend. Seen. Submitted pls.
O’ shut up please!
“Anarkali! How you doing?”
Month: December 2022
Messi – The Finest Epilogue
It was Ramzan of 2014. Hardly 3-months old, M. was in my lap, facing me, and I was watching the game. The defense of Iran was too stubborn, and Argentina was unable to break-in. And then, Messi happened. It was a goal with Messi striking a curve from outside the box, and the ball following the divine order, cracking the wall. All the 11 players of Iran – in a single picture – could be seen watching the ball go in.
I took a picture in that moment of pure joy. A little blurred and unclear, but majestic. I was shivering with excitement. She was laughing. And Messi was celebrating.
One by one the opponents were defeated. Mostly with a goal’s lead.
Then came the final. I remember Higuain’s chance to make history, but he failed. Not once. The assists were perfect, but he couldn’t make it. Before the final whistle came a free kick with Messi getting ready to shoot. I remember putting all my energy in that one, but it went way up and into the crowd.
With the final whistle, it wasn’t only the game that stopped. Beats were missed. Hearts were broken. It all went down. Devastation.
It’s not about Argentina. It’s not about the game itself. It’s personal. My decade long journey of football up to this lifting of the trophy by Messi – is personal.
Apart from La Liga and UCL, I quit watching international games. I knew it was over because it was relatable. Once a failure in such a crucial stage remains a failure forever. 2018 was not even followed properly. There was no hope even when Maradona was cheering from the stands. Doesn’t matter. Relatable.
Then came 2022 with Messi already in the lower performing strata. Ballon d’Or went to Benzema and overall statistics did not look promising enough. But there was something in the air around the Arab world. It felt that the desert was in the mood to complete the finest script in the finest way.
A script where Gvardiol becomes a hero after losing to the greatest of all times.
The match against Saudi Arabia was a perfect start. A perfect way to the destination onwards. It felt so perfect that there were no bad feelings after the loss. In fact, it looked like a perfect prologue.
One by one, the script went wild. With strange outcomes. Incredible upsets. Rise of Morocco. Fall of all the other giant players in the arena. One by one. The assists became assists from unimaginable angles. Playmaking became unplayable for the opponents. The script became incredulous by the finals. As crazy as Di Maria scoring and running and crying.
We didn’t get it in 2014 and 2018. It was supposed to be a perfect ending like this. A World Cup win in 2014 would have been midway through the career. Now, it’s a flawless epilogue. Final nail to immortality. Where to compare this? The epilogue of Tolstoy’s War & Peace? The Count of Monte Cristo of Dumas? The final touch on Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci? The moonwalk of Michael Jackson? Or the final presentation of Steve Jobs like let me introduce you to the most beautiful and artistic intervention of mankind on your screens? Or the 108th minute goal by Lionel Messi in the World Cup Final?
Up to you. It can be a debate of GOATs for you, which is not even debatable. Or it can be scratching the past events for comparative analysis, which is not even comparable.
It is about a person who never glorified himself. Never competed for himself. Never made himself bigger than others. Because he knew how he landed in the fields of Barcelona long ago from Rosario with all the disadvantages in his biological fate.
It’s personal. A story of hope. A story of a little man dribbling among tall boys defying their masculine powers and snatching the earth beneath their feet. Defying odds. Defying powers. Defying rules. Defying the whole game. And becoming immortal.
Too good. Too good to believe. Too refreshing to inhale. Too peaceful to sleep. Too beautiful to wake up to. Because if this can happen. M. can happen too. Relatable?
It’s nothing.
And it’s everything.
Porn Ministry
On a serious note, why can’t we have an official Porn Ministry? Formally? Why to hide this competency behind leaks?
We can make. We can export. Content. And we can have Foreign Direct Investments too. Can attract big companies like… you know… hubs and tubes. This can work. We can be out of the debt trap which is becoming a dead trap.
Negotiating debt payments can be easier. Won’t have to beg. Wink. Bingo.
Adopt your weakness. Adapt. Nurture. And make it your strength.
Open your legs. And the world can be yours.
Walli – Mothing Around His Own Fire
That year was hard for him. It took him by his soul and shattered his existence. That year made him realize that he had lived all his life in lies. Lying in lies. Washing in lies. Sleeping in lies. Even his collar was a lie. Intact and clean lie.
He started to believe he was unlucky.
He thought, if he had to suffer, why change the tormentors? If the previous tormentor was as cruel as the next one, why did he move on? And who on earth moves on with one tormentor to another? Walli does. But he isn’t a stupid being, mind you.
That was all fine though. Suffering is a way to excellence. To Prophethood. He believed he was Nietzsche’s’ Übermensch already. And he believed he should proclaim prophethood. Soon. A Prophet who will denounce all religions. ‘O my dear villagers! I hereby decree myself the Prophet of none. To undo. All your beliefs. I hereby order you all, to fire the townhall, and roam around it, until you are all exhausted, and are ready to jump in the fire, so that no one – no Prophet – in times to come may come to give you warnings of hellfire.”
Would that proclamation be enough for the whole village to save it from hellfire? He guessed. He always guessed.
However, there was one among the whole village he never wanted to suffer. Here or hereafter or whatever is after that. He knew sufferings are irrationally divided and they cannot be imported or exported but he wanted to inhale all her sufferings. He wished he could. Inhale. Her. Sufferings.
He knew, she would suffer with all her sufferings she brought from skies for herself. He thought, why not burn down the whole village under a direct command of a new Prophet? The finality of sufferings must be in suffering. In fire. In hellfire.
But he missed the point. He always misses the point. He was her suffering. Enhancing the domain of suffering of the Prophethood to the entire village was based on a wrong analogy. Only he needed to be burned alive. He. Was. Her. Suffering.
The only dot constant in his life was her. And he, like a moth, was roaming around her. Without seeing her. Without meeting her. Without talking to her. He was her suffering, and she was the fire he was circling around.
So, he must die. Like a moth. Wandering. Tired. Exhausted to death. Happily.
The point is, there was no point. Wrong decisions to ignite a chain reaction of suffering. And see, here is he. As restless as ever. As alone as the first betrayal. Punished without the original sin.
Or maybe, He was the villain of his own story. Or the story of the entire village.
The fire was ready. Townhall was ready to be destroyed. He bent down and looked in the fire. The reflection of fire in his eyes was the reflection of fire outside and the universe was in a dilemma about the real fire. Herein. Within.
Up till now you thought this was in the imagination of Walli. No. He proclaimed.
“O’ Spectators of all the sins and all the evils and all the pains and sufferings! Remember that I happened to be Prophet with the shortest time period. Because she happened to be my story. And if I am a failure, a villain, I denounce the prophethood, and I give myself to this fire.”
For the utmost love. To the unity. In another life of Walli’s journey.
Random Numbness (Dec 2022)
Things became boring. Bajwa left ceremoniously. Faiz left unceremoniously. No DG. No DJ. No two sad faces in uniform to meddle in politics without meddling in politics.
Khan is left with nothing but mistakes to remember. It’s been over a week since he announced resignations from two provincial assemblies, but nothing.
Doesn’t even feel like mocking him anymore. With Faiz gone, he’s pretty much done. Until he finds another Faiz.
Meanwhile, the little Sharif is still ruling the country with his hand gestures. No middle finger. Only hands. He’s on top with the new Chief in town. No worries for him until someone sees the boy in a mirror. Snake. Like all the previous snakes who had milk and then they wanted the cow too.
Aren’t they the holy cows themselves?
Then is Zardari. Looks irrelevant but isn’t. His ‘khudday line’ aged well for the boy who was thinking to rule till 2029 – but ended in 2022. Couldn’t see his due 2023.
And then is our Fazlu. He’s sad about Joyland. Doesn’t want to ride along. Couldn’t handle his tongue about women. Typical. Why do these men with beards have to sniff every arse in every town? This business of sniffing needs some scholarly researched articles. To cite. For bickering.
It is boring. There is no fun left. April was the best month of the year. With Joker replacing a Joker and all the midnight drama and fun and everyone seeing the actual culprits who were named and shamed throughout the year.
Blessed days are always remembered when they are gone.
Honestly, let’s halt. For a moment. Omit April.
Khan would have installed Faiz. For sure. The later would have re-installed the former in Fall 2023. Faiz would have given an extension in 2026 to 2029. And Khan would have all the time and all the watches to enjoy and sell. By that time, Ghafoor would have updated the game to 9th Generation warfare with so many unemployed youth sniffing each other’s arse online.
But the dream turned out to be a nightmare with all the relevant boys becoming irrelevant. Only the Joker in Islamabad stays intact with the country breaking down financially. What a shame! For comedy. Of errors.
Anyway. With external loans around $99 billion, the country is on a verge. Still, loans are being taken for roads and unnecessary development projects. Extremely useless loans which are not going to help achieving SDGs or sustainability.
For a peek, go to the World Bank’s official website and see the portfolio of Pakistan and the loan-based projects this country is running. Useless. Pathetic. With billions to be paid in years to come.
Meanwhile, local development is designed only for the sake of ribbons to be cut before the election time. Right on time.
Ah! Solutions. Yes. You crave for solutions. 1st rule of the page is, do not talk about solutions. 2nd rule of the page is, DO NOT TALK ABOUT SOLUTIONS. 3rd rule is, to know the problems, accept them with heart. 4th rule is, to unite with relatable common macro problems. 6th rule is yet to be designed. It will be something a little closer to the history of errors. 7th rule will be something around solutions. 5th rule is left intentionally for unintentional needs and wants.
Until then, suffer!
Eminemizing
One said, “You only write in pain and not when happy.”
The other said, “You are never happy.”
And Tyler Durden said, “We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.”
And His Highness thought, “What about the generation of men being raised by maids?”
‘I love the way you lie.’
No. You don’t need the next answer because it will be further down the road to nowhere. But Tyler could never be wrong. Anyway, this is about Eminem being an anti-depressant by hitting on the painful nerves of misery, loss, hunger, threat, fear, illiteracy, fanaticism, blood, nothingness, and oblivion.
All the content in apostrophes (‘) are lyrics from different songs of Eminem’s. Let’s try… ‘I shouldn’t have to rhyme these words in the rhythm for you to know it’s a rap.’
The other day, some words – of real intellect eh – were thrown randomly and were taken properly. Life is a disease. Sexually transmitted disease. It is as random as a cat getting under a vehicle on a highway. Random highway. Random truck. Random cat.
‘All I ever wanted to do was just make you proud, now I’m sitting in this empty house, just reminiscing looking at your baby pictures.’
Majority of the kids come in this world – at least in this part of the world – to prove that their parents could reproduce. Manhood. Womanhood. A complete biology of being someone who doesn’t matter. These kids come to give a final badge of fulfillment to a couple. A couple, who may not be able to move along in the long-run and may keep on falling daily until death of one. Or both.
‘This is my life. And these times are so hard, and it’s getting even harder.
Trying to feed and water my seed, plus,
Teeter totter caught up between being a father and a prima donna.
Baby mama drama’s screaming on and,
Too much for me to wanna,
Stay in one spot, another day of monotony,
Has gotten me to the point, I’m like a snail.’
There is the other side of the story of existence too. Children are taken as kids only and their stance doesn’t matter. Because the unwritten rules are written by the ones in power. Something like patriarchy. Where no woman can be a Prophet. Same way, no child was a Prophet to command the adults of the world according to what the minors wanted. Want. No philosopher was a child to philosophize the ideas that are compared with the purity of God. Like jumping in a puddle of muddy water being hailed in the heavens. Something like that.
‘I can’t tell you what it really is. I can only tell you what it feels like.
And right now, there’s a steel knife in my windpipe.
I can’t breathe, but I still fight while I can fight,
As long as the wrong feels right, it’s like I’m in flight.’
Children are medals for the parents. And the grandparents. They are trained for a race to beat others so that the shine and rise for their parents, so that they can bicker, among others, about their elite genes. That’s all. The free souls are not free from the beginning. The homes, all homes, are not less than animal farms themselves. Orwellian animal farm was macro level. But this is micro level institutionalization of domestic farms all over the world where children are raised and trained to be domesticized competitively.
‘Lonely roads, God only knows, he’s grown farther from home, he’s no father,
He goes home and barely knows his own daughter.’
His Highness is at His Lowness for some time now. Or maybe it is the lowness that persists the highness and moves around and it all is monotonous. Absurd.
‘Now you’re in each other’s face. Spewing venom in your words when you spit ’em.’
Wait. Wait for your time. Your destiny. To arrive. It is all about waiting. We – the spectators of our own lives – are here to wait only. Wait for the green light. Wait for the queue to shrink. Wait in hospital – either on the bed or outside in the corridor. Wait for the kid to grow up. Wait for the meal to finish. Wait for the day to come. Wait for the time to run. It is all about waiting. And we will be judged and punished for waiting. Sometimes, waiting for too long. Surviving in waiting for too long.
‘Look. If you had. One shot. Or one opportunity. To seize everything, you ever wanted. In one moment. Would you capture it. Or just let it slip?’
Obviously, you won’t let it slip. But it will slip, nonetheless. That’s the take. The cake.
‘You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay ’em.
But you won’t take the sting out these words before I say ’em.
Cause ain’t no way I’ma let you stop me from causin’ mayhem.
When I say I’m a do somethin’, I do it.
I don’t give a damn what you think.
I’m doin’ this for me, so fuck the world, feed it beans.’
Since the beginning, right from the first human, a Prophet, humans are solving problems. In disguise, creating more. Every generation came to struggle against the odds. Initially, it was against giant animals. Then came food scarcity. Then came kings and emperors. All generations led to a failure gradually. So came Noah’s Ark. The world was decided to be flooded and ended for a new beginning. One shot. Or one opportunity. Let it slip with the ark.
‘I promise to focus solely on handlin’ my responsibilities as a father.
So, I solemnly swear to always treat this roof like my daughters and raise it.
You couldn’t lift a single shingle on it, ’cause the way I feel,
I’m strong enough to go to the club or the corner pub.
And lift the whole liquor counter up ’cause I’m raising the bar,
I’d shoot for the moon but I’m too busy gazin’ at stars, I feel amazing and I’m not.’
More will come with the same struggles. More philosophies will be written down to solve the same old problems. But a single philosophy will not turn down the tyranny or fascism. Words and books and philosophies will be hailed and remembered in the libraries. That’s all. Nothing will change anything.
In the end, it is just a race. From birth to death. Death doesn’t matter but neither does birth. With a little this and that here and there, everything is almost similar. A little less or a little more but the same food in different utensils. With same mental trauma for everything, the whole previous generation is raising the next one to be the same one so that they can also be traumatized in due time. What else is the option? Nothing. There is no option. The whole design of the Matrix is either kill or get killed. And this race always ends with death.
‘His gift is a curse, forget the Earth, he’s got the urge to pull his dick from the dirt. And fuck the whole universe’.