Woman with Three Children

A poor woman was passing with her three children, laughing and blushing; and you realize it’s not about poverty at all. Not even if some are without shoes.

But other times, you see poverty ridden faces, freckles, hunger, unliveable homes, and medical problems; and you realize it is all about poverty.

There was a big banner of a big landlord contesting in upcoming elections under which the woman with three children was passing. That landlord has everything. Yet, the banner was all about begging for votes. And you realize, poverty is not even in the equation of begging.

And finally, all of a sudden, it’s all about death. The milestone. The full stop. The laughter will die. So will the hunger. And poverty. And begging. And everything.

How important is life? We know that. But death is more important. It’s an end to everything that causes pain. It’s an end to everything that gives vanity. And pride. And the develish desire to keep poor poor. And rich rich. And sick sick.

A laughter is about a joke. A joke that can make you laugh once or twice. Or thrice. Then it dies. A pain isn’t a joke. It never dies. It never tires itself away. But if you look in your past and relive the painful moments, they don’t feel painful anymore. They feel nothing. And sometimes, they feel just like another joke that lived it’s life.

But then there are some perpetual pains. That live forever. Makes you numb. You don’t even need a drug when you nurture your everlasting pains.

That poor woman laughing with her three children, is a woman who lived that moment. Before death. And the landlord shall face a defeat. Will become a defeated face in his society. And he won’t be able to laugh.

And I would stay the same, looking outside my window for faces and feces all at the same time.

Guess who had the last laugh?

Death. For everyone. To everyone.

Rs.25/- per Cigarette

The air His Highness breathes – and common people too – has been heavily taxed. It’s Rs.25 per cigarette for Dunhill smokers now. Rs.500 a pack. This is inhumane.

First it was the burning of fuel. Now, it’s the burning of soul.
Which means, you cannot drive. And you cannot be driven.

And what’s the purpose of driving if you cannot buy a pack of cigarettes? What’s the purpose of breathing?

If people are not going to standup now, trust me they are never going to stand. Ever. Tobacco is one of the most important ingredients of life. It’s not a luxury. It’s a need. Like bread and butter. Just because a certain foolish population doesn’t know about that, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist the way I am SPEAKING.

And Mr. Dar! Wherever you are! Fuck you too!

No Rest in Peace for you, Mr. Musharraf!

You get hired. You get brainwashed. You get commissioned.

Over the years, you become patriotic only to sell patriotism with a gun in hand.

Step by step, you rise on echelons of barbarity until you become the chief of barbarians.

Then you kill. You kill people in hundreds and thousands. Here and there and everywhere. For rupees, as well as for dollars.

You even start killing those who were made by your predecessor. You sell Jihad the other way around. You bring a whole bloody war at home.

Then you rent. You rent the land and the air to kill more. You abduct. You torture. You make mass graves for mutilated dead bodies.

You get land. You get real estate. You get money in all the possible forms for your services against humanity and fellow nationals.

After you are done with blood and have accumulated your share of blood money, you retire.

Then you leave the very country for which you sold patriotism and nationalism for decades.

You never come back to the land of pure again, even when the law calls you to payback. You don’t come back.

And then – like everyone – you die. You die as a billionaire in another country. Not in a drone strike. Not in a mass grave. Not in an unidentified torture cell. You die an elite death for which everyone works.

But you die. Your legacy of violence don’t but you do.

May you meet all those you killed before time.
May you be abducted on the first door up there.
May you be taken in chains.
May you suffer.
May you rot in hell – if hell – for the rest of your existence.

No rest in peace for you Mr. Musharraf!