Melting Smoke

There’s a version of me. That wants to melt. Not like a molten lava cake served to you. But like a smoke. A melting smoke. You won’t get it. It gradually flows towards the destined slope where it touches the shore of the ocean and enters indistinctness.

Without a want.

Without a need.

Without a consent.

There’s another version too. The one that is visible. Shallow. That never melts. That stands like a rock. Can’t melt like smoke. Only – once in a while – when lava inside gets intolerable, it explodes and shakes the earth around –  trembling while faking jolts – and is visibly melted in the sky with smoke. Making a point. Without a sound. Without any further jolts.  

In between the two resides the existential crises of being. The philosophy of life.

That’s cringy sometimes.

Adorable other times.

With that… comes… the art… of spreading… love… and… venom. And venomous love.

The Missing

She can live.
Without him.
Like she did before.
Without another him.
And the one.
That is about to come.

No one dies.
When someone leaves.
Parents live too.
When the kids depart.
And kids divide.
When the parents are buried.

The affairs evolve.
And companions are swapped.
Life partners may change,
The tracks in the park stay the same.
With the autumn death of flowers.
The grass stays and proliferates.

But deep within.
Within the empty homes.
Within the dark nights.
In between the vessels around the heart.
There is an absent voice.
A missing whisper.
A missing heartbeat.

Life remains and breathes.
Though the quality of it diminishes.
The moments it could have embraced
Are the moments it could never attain.

Yet, no one dies.
Except a voice.
A whisper.
A beat.


#JusticeForAmmar reminds the following rules of the world:

1. There is no karma. There never was. Except for some random incidents that happened randomly to make people believe otherwise. Else, million dead bodies don’t kill a single tyrant.

2. There’s only power and nothing else. Those who can exercise power, can exercise anything to attain it perpetually – from one generation to another.

3. Power doesn’t die with a person. It shifts from one generation to the next. People in power gather wealth for their generation. As their fathers did for them. Like Mughals ruled for at least 300 years with utmost glory. If you actually had to take power from someone, you had to annihilate the entire lineage.

4. A single death doesn’t matter. Even a million doesn’t matter. In the end, one of the two oppressors or tyrants wins. Not the oppressed. Hitler killed millions for his power in the name of glorifying a single race. Nothing matters in this game. By the way, Hitler is the person who gets more movies, novels, and books to his name than anyone else. Every year. Consistently.

5. Sometimes, the masses are fed up. They stand and retaliate. Even that doesn’t matter for the masses. When Louis XVI dragged people to hunger, people killed him and his royal family. Maximilian Robespierre stood tall with the revolution, only to be beheaded by the revolution itself. And the revolution ended up in the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte. It was just a journey from one tyrant to another. Nothing else.

Mind you, this is that French Revolution that is romanticized by everyone. Just like Foucault romanticized Iranian Revolution in the beginning only to end up in silence later.

6. Prophets came. And the ones we remember were themselves in the leading game of power. Had followers. Had wars. Had leadership roles. For a common person like you there was nothing except to follow the orders of the one in charge at that time. Or death awaits you. Or gallows of fire after death.

7. 144 were killed once. In daylight. In school. Telecasted live. What happened? An escape. Any karma? No. Any vengeance? Nothing. Don’t be an idiot. Have faith. Sure. It helps to keep going in dark tunnels. But even faith doesn’t matter in these bigger games except to keep masses silent and hopeful for as long as it can.

If 144 dead bodies couldn’t do anything, 1 won’t do anything either. Have faith. Sure. Have hope too. And when you recover, I pray you may neither have faith nor hope. Only vengeance matters. Be it for a couple of days. Because that’s the only dish that tastes better when dripping and cold.

P.S. I know that’s not the way I was back in the days. But the days also are not the way they were back in the days. If the days can change, thoughts can change. Nights can change. If pen won’t kill the thirst, something else will. Be it vengeance.

The Year 1984

In defiance of George Orwell’s 1984, originally published in 1949, Steve Jobs came up with a new marketing idea. A crazy one. To introduce Apple’s Mcintosh. With a Mcintosh and an advertisement, Jobs’ intended to turn dystopia into utopia… “and you’ll see why 1984 won’t be like 1984”.

But we are not here for another advertisement.

Or another Mcintosh.

We are here to know that 1984 was utopian after all. She came that year. Opened her eyes. Her own world may have been a roller-coaster between utopian and dystopian world, but her smile was utopian. Her eyes were utopian. Even her shouts were utopian. With a clear message. A clear advertisement. A clean service for humanity. Even in her dystopian times, that we don’t know of.

It was 1984 but it wasn’t Orwellian.

The Year 2033

It was a sunny winter day. He was waiting for her in the park. On their fixed bench. A slightly cold breeze disrupted the leaves from trees time to time. He had the tea pot ready, as he always brought a tea with him and a pack of cigarettes. After waiting for her for over half an hour – that was typical of her – he saw her coming. He smiled. She smiled too, with her teeth and gesturing apology for being late, but actually not apologizing. Never did. That was her way of existence.

He stood up for her and they shook hands. She sat down and the two hugged. Reluctantly, like always, but longingly. Making sure the other one knows that the other is there for the other one. No scent, as usual, he thought. Though Jasmine was there, he felt.

She brought homemade sandwiches. He always loved her handmade tasteless stuff. However, while sipping the tea, she always thought the same. A terrible teamaker.

She undid her shoes and felt the grass under her feet. He looked at her from time to time. After thinking for ages, he took her hand in his and caressed her the way grass was caressing her feet. He always held her hand. She never resisted. He always thought about it before moving towards her. She never hesitated. Yet, there was this awkwardness, that remained even after the embracement, between the two. And perhaps, that was the beauty of the two. Always thinking of the other one first. Always being present for the other.

Knowing each other for years – directly – and being connected to each other since forever, the two had exactly the opposite roles to play to each other. In her down days, he gave hopeful speeches to her. In his down days, she would stand for him likewise. One was always leading the other. The two had a spectacular way of existing in each other’s lives.

The two talked about their lives. Their stories. Their moments of happiness and how they missed each other in different times. The two shared all the details about their unparallel lives.

He slightly moved close to her and put his arm around her shoulder. She sneaked in him and tilted her head on his shoulder. This is not even a shoulder, she thought while resting.

After sipping tea, he lit a cigarette. One cigarette at a time for the two. They exchanged turns and talked about their past. The past was not a haunting story for them anymore. It was passed. Long gone. They made fun of their past traumas and how bad moments shaped their lives to this.

After all, the two were sitting there in the park in a good sun with a nice grass under her feet. The two were having a good time. Both were well settled in their careers and had a joint account too. For a future destination to travel together. The money was there, enough for a long local trip or a short foreign trip, but the two kept on delaying it due to different domestic reasons.

He kissed her forehead from time to time. Arranged her hair behind her ear. Never missed a chance to touch her. They kept talking. Argued. Fought too. Did all the coupled things.

Before sunset, after it was getting too cold, she stood up. He too. They packed things and both started walking towards the parking. Towards another short break. They will meet again. Next week. Here on the same bench till the end of the winters.

He stayed and looked at her while she reversed her car and left. The new car. She finally had one last year and it is as impeccable as her. He stood there watching her and then her car and then nothing.

He stood there a little longer and tried to remember her. Was she there? Did he actually talk to her? He tried to remember the whole conversation, like he remembered the first conversation in the secluded park. He looked into his hand and tried to remember and feel if his hand held her hand, touched her hair, her ear, her cheek just a little back? He tried to remember the kiss he gave her on the cheek just before she left.

He stood there till darkness. Smoked two more cigarettes in the complete existential crises. The headache was pinching more and more. He was total clueless about his present – the future – there in the parking lot.

He pulled his phone and checked the last messages and the call he made on the bench. He looked at the screen for some seconds and then smirked. Perhaps. The whole existence is an illusionary delusion.

For you, a thousand times over.
For me, never.


Not an inch to claim.
Not a soul to name.
Not a breath to spare.
Not a footing to share.
The world revolves like a circus around.
You reach the destination, no memory to be found.
No people.
No place.
There’s not an inch to claim.
Some nod and get.
Some wink and achieve.
Some smile and have.
Some point and reach.
But, no. Not he.
Perhaps a random parking space.
Or a no-man’s place.
Or a library without a soul.
Or a pit with a deep hole.
To scream the guts out.
A complete mental breakdown.
So to resume the journey again.
To reach a destination without a memory to be found.

MDCAT 2023

Good luck to over 66,000 MDCAT students today. See! You all won’t qualify. There are not that many MBBS seats.

Some will miss the test today.
Some will be asked to leave the center.
Afterwards, a whole lot won’t be able to score competitively.

And it doesn’t really matter in the long-run.

Your life will settle and will make its path on its own. Like a river finding its way from mountains to plains to all the way to the ocean. The final destination.

I too had my share of missings. Couldn’t opt the field I wanted to. Couldn’t get to the college I wanted to (that’s also because I forgot to apply there). Couldn’t even think to apply for the university of my choice because of very low marks in FSc (63%). The only focus was to finish library books in the university (which I did pretty well), and passed out with 2.52 GPA. Failed Preci when I scored 65 in Essay in CSS. And the next time when I passed it all, couldn’t manage to be on the final merit list with an allocation. That CSS journey happened without any teacher, any academy, or any book.

But. Nothing matters. It hurts in that moment. A lot. But then there is this awakening and you get to know how foolish you were going to stay otherwise.

Today, there isn’t any remorse of those missings. Nothing at all. Never left a room like an idiot with a standing ovation. And this matters to me the most. Because when I see those who are what I wanted to become, I feel peaceful. I am way better off with the world I have inside my mind.


It looks like I am writing for those who are not going to make it. Maybe because I can relate to them more. This way, you can relate to me as well. That’s the sad part.

Good luck with life. It’s messed up no matter what.


Once upon a time, a Chief Justice went against the Boy. The boy got angry and dragged the chief by his collar and threw him out of his office. This angered the law fraternity.

They stood up. Turned around. And burned the citadel down.

The boy had to run away out of the country with a tail between his legs. Didn’t face courts again even when he was ordered to be hanged till death.

That was a time of martial law. Direct martial law. Nothing in disguise.

Today, the Chief Justice isn’t even ready to take such a risk even though he knows a whole majority will stand with him. But no. No my dear.

And this is not a time of martial law. This is worse. This is the devolutionary process passing at a uniformed pace.

But. Don’t worry. Just wait and watch. Countries and nations pass through these stages before becoming something. Nothing stands forever. Neither good nor bad.

#SakiNama who was about to become #Rasputin but was denied through transparent polling.

The Art of Selling 101: Sugar

First, you make sugar. With cheapest labor. Subsidized electricity. And rent seeking.

Then you share your output with the cartel members. Numbers. Tons.

Then you export the sugar. Best is Afghanistan. The whole logistics get its undue share. Particularly the boys and the bureaucrats.

Then, sugar shortage is created in the local market and is widely publicized. Which isn’t even a lie.

And then, you import the exact same sugar that you had exported. At much higher rates.

This is how this business of sugar works here. The same has been successfully experimented on rice and wheat in past. Ideally, it’s one commodity per season. You don’t do all in a single time. No. Don’t be a greedy idiot.

This was lesson 101 on selling a product. Twice. It’s B2B to BC Selling.

Boys give free pass and route to such exports. Like Ehsan Ullah Ehsan got. Oops! I didn’t intend to deviate.

Since deviated already, have you ever wondered why it’s always Narowal or Sialkot sector that gets firings from the neighbor? Why not Lahore? Is it because DHA is just over the border? Or is it also a business of war working like a cartel?

Buzz off mate! I said no oops-i-did-it-again today.

Anyway. Bureaucrats do all the redtapism to make the impossible, possible; without a burden on conscientiousness. The only burden they afford is on national exchequer.

While these subsidies on elite businesses are generated through extra taxes on everything that can’t be taxed. The politicians approve these subsidies. To divide a blame of wrongdoings, they approve such things through cabinet meetings.

That’s the crux. You can arrest one man. But you cannot arrest a whole cabinet.

That’s how the cartel and its logistics make money.

By the way, a big bureaucrat died recently. Yes, all praises. In awe. Obviously. Death of a big gun is always heart wrenching. But that death reminds me of an incident that happened in Punjab not long ago. Pretty low but nothing unusual from a usual bureaucrat. That has been mentioned here on this page. But for now, offer your condolences and prayers.

Hush now. May you all rest in peace too.

آپ سب آزاد ہیں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے بند دریچوں میں
اپنے گھر کے اندھیرے میں
اپنے سسکتے خواب میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے چھپے رازوں میں
اپنے جنونی خیالوں میں
اپنے انجان امراض میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنی مسجد میں
اپنے مندر، کلیسا میں
ان سب کو ڈھانے میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے چھپے مسلک میں
اپنے مرتد سوالوں میں
اپنے مزہب کی سزاؤں میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنی محبت میں
اپنی نفرت میں
اپنی یک طرفہ آزمائش میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنے رنگ میں
اپنی نسل میں
اپنی خسلت میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
اپنی جزا میں
اپنی سزا میں
اپنی قضا میں

آپ سب آزاد ہیں
رخسار کو چھونے میں
ہاتھ کو تھامنے میں
گھائل ہونے میں

آپ سب کو یاد ہے
جب سدرہ المنتہیٰ تک آپ کو لایا گیا
لازوال حسن دکھایا گیا
اور پھر پٹخ کر زمیں پر مارا گیا
اور پھر پیغام نازل کروایا گیا
کہ آپ سب آزاد ہیں
آپ سب برباد ہیں