Misogyny & Misandry

Just to add the nuisance gender to the loop; when women of upper and upper-middle wasted hierarchies sit in their kitty parties, they discuss maids. It’s a beautiful topic. A little sensitive too. Arousing. Intense. Seen. Smelled.

Yet, it stinks.

But what do men do?

Well, in the same hierarchy of bastards, one corrupt talks to another corrupt about the corruption of some other corrupt. That’s one of the routine habits and also a way of making acquaintances.

“Heard about you very highly.”

“Likewise.”

Though the only thing they have heard about each other is under the table corruption and jerking. Fuckin’ bastards.

Such meetings are usually held during official hours, when non-corrupt civilians suffer around the corridors, in halls, in waiting areas, in dust, and on hard benches.

Two – or more – corrupts talk as if from a ‘minbar’. “Haye Allah!” in a casual tone. “Oh, my goodness!” when being sophisticated.

For such deeds, they don’t even need evenings or nights. Because evenings and nights are for maids. And drinks. That’s how the two genders are connected.

Misogyny and misandry, gaslighting the cigarettes for patriarchy, together, with a couple of drinks served by maids.

And somehow, kitty parties are better. At least maids get paid for being discussed. While the general public gets nothing for being arsed by the bollocks.

There is no side to be taken. Neither in politics, nor in history. It’s truth that stands. And the truth is: every single one of you stinks regardless of gender or pronouns you pronounce to feel yourself affiliated to another spectrum.

Feminism

If you are a feminist, and you earn, and are (or could be) independent, and still believe that a man is solely/primarily responsible for the household, then I’m sorry, you are not a feminist.

And if your inspiration comes from religion, then I’m again sorry for your cherry-picking, because religion offers a lot of other things to men too – which are obviously outdated.

And if you employ housemaids – underage or not – and misbehave with them, shout at them, and love to discuss them at your kitty parties, then again, I’m sorry, you are not what you portray yourself to be.

If you expect a man to provide, he can expect you to take up certain responsibilities too. But that’s patriarchy and misogyny – and no free-riding.

Feminism is equality. Equal opportunities. Equal responsibilities. Equity, if equality cannot be attained, but a definite division of labor.

You cannot demand equality when it benefits you and tradition when it doesn’t.

Feminism is a principle. Not an identity or a badge on social media.

Talks

That’s why it’s called a round table: to at least give a physical and visual perspective that everyone sitting at this table is equal and has an equal say.

Other than that, as Muna Khan wrote in Dawn: there is no neutral position between the oppressor and the oppressed.

Very simple. Clean. Understandable. You can analyze this statement based on historical events or current affairs.

But in Pakistan, you cannot even get this. Today’s oppressors are yesterday’s oppressed. And vice versa. Everyone here has his/her day. And then night.

It’s a vicious cycle where Pakistan is tied perpetually.

Imagine: people here get their higher vote bank / mandate only when they are thrown out of power with mixed charges. That’s it. That’s the sanest Pakistan can be every single time.

But honestly, the debate is simple. The oppressor here is one institution that starts with a G. Spot. It’s very sensitive, yet very insensitive.

And the oppressed is the general public that isn’t in the upper echelons of society.

The rest – a small fraction of the population – are those who keep on changing their position in the doggystyle format for their gains, benefits, and turnaround.

The rest is bickering.

All rise!

Bundia Family

In Pakistan, there’s also a ‘Bundia’ family that is repeating the same mistakes generation after generation, producing bastards and puppets to rule the country and exploiting everything and anything.

This Bundia family isn’t against the military because it’s the military itself. It’s not against the conservatives, as it is conservative. It doesn’t own farms, but the revenues from all kinds of bananas go into its account. And it can kill the labor whenever there’s a revolt. Or no revolt.

This family, which is not known by the bloodline but by the traits of similarities in uniform and atrocity, has produced so many bastards with pig tails that the number is tough to make part of the census.

And it shall rule for one hundred years. And more. In solitude.

P.S. There can be some typos. Or there can be some idiots.

Not current but perpetual affairs of Pakistan

Looks like it’s a typical game of optics on that old chessboard of boys.

Since the current two pawns are showing eyes to each other and not following the directives of the 28th Amendment, boys moved the third pawn, which was apparently stuck in a corner of the board, just to convey a message.

The message: if we can move him that much, we can move him to the end of the board too, to transform it into a queen.

The message must have been delivered, I guess. The Supreme Court, which cannot do anything until told by the adjacent city, will shut up now. Job well done, as directed.

Now the current two pawns will behave. If not, they will suffer. Like the ex-pawns did since the 1950s.

Much ado about nothing. Or maybe something. Who knows! It’s a martial dramatic society named as a country on the map of the world.

Remember that old saying of His Highness? It’s nothing more than Tom & Jerry fighting to rule the same house. Remember Tom & Jerry? We never saw the lady who actually owned the house. We only saw her boots. What a coincidence.

Looney Tunes… continues.

Dead Children Society

Parents smell their children. They inhale their presence deep into their soul. Maybe it is an addiction. Or affection. Maybe it is the fulfillment of being. Maybe it is because the two are one. Whatever the reason, it is the ultimate form of love and honesty.

Parents breathe in their kids.

And then there are those who sniff kids too. They prey on them. They plan and target and then unleash their ugliness on those who don’t even know what they are being put through.

Just like another incident. Just like the previous one. And the previous one. And the…

A raped kid has raped parents.

A bleeding kid has bleeding parents.

An unstitched kid has unstitched parents.

A dead kid has dead parents.

Just like a special kid has special parents.

Imagine yourself at the other end of the eternal torture. Parents do. They imagine this all the time.

Imagine your kid being raped. Imagine your kid in a coffin. Imagine your kid bleeding. Imagine your kid missing. Imagine your kid being lowered in the ground.

Imagine your kid’s school being live-telecasted with bullet sounds on TV.

Imagine the everyday tragedy of the children of this land.

A missing child. To a raped one. To a dead one.

It’s this society which is dead. It’s stinking. Isn’t it? Utterly grotesque.

This is the rape capital for children.

Welcome!

You can rape kids here. Anywhere. On streets. In shops. In mosques. In schools. At home. Anywhere!

So welcome again!

Again, and again!

To another 100.

To another century.

To another victim.

Everyday.

Twice a day.

Because it is a dead rapists’ society.

From incident to incident to just another incident. From child to child to just another child. From rapist to rapist to just another man.

There needs to be an overhaul of minds. Not just physical punishments. But un-learning and re-learning. With this police force, this bureaucracy, these intelligence agencies, this rotten educational system, overpopulation, and the barbed militarization of the country, Pakistan will keep producing victims. Because it’s the shed that’s breeding such minds and men.

A child in the morning. A poor person at noon. And a woman at night.

And tomorrow shall bring just another day.

Just another incident.

For us. To mourn.

Fathers

Beyond the pages of literature, poetry, short stories, and novels; are the fathers who work all their lives.

Without a promised paradise beneath their feet, they create heaven for those dependent on them. Day in and out.

Sometimes, while settling their siblings and their children, they remain unsettled all their lives. Without a hint of complaint. Because men don’t cry. They improvise. They pretend. And they work. A little longer.

There are times when they listen to wishes and demands while nothing in their pockets.

There are times when they are out going shopping with empty wallets.

Other times, they delay things until the next salary.

Sometimes, they keep on looking at the petrol bar in their vehicles, as if it would burn less if stared.

Sometimes, they are fired from their job. That alone is an intense trauma.

Sometimes, they are not fired but abused. And blamed. And insulted.

They face ugly realities. Harshness. Rent-seeking and bribes.

Of course you don’t know that. Because they won’t tell you how the food on the table was earned. With sweat and insult.

They don’t know how to make ends meet, yet they do. For you.

They don’t know how to deal with the police, yet they do. For you.

They don’t know how to handle court matters, yet they do. For you.

Loans. For you.

Other times, even after fulfilling their obligations, they have to rebuild the lives of their divorced and separated children. They have to pretend for longer. They have to act for longer. Even after the end credits have rolled.  

They rarely retire. 60s. 70s. Working. Sometimes, they die while making ends meet and pretending they’re doing just fine.  

In the end, if retired, they’ll be found somewhere in the corner of the house. Alone perhaps because the world they created has moved on. Here and there. Everywhere.

These fathers then create another world. A lonely one. Where they pray, and walk, and keep an old, withered hand over the children even when continents away.

And then one day, they depart. Without a tear. Without a sound. As if they never existed.

Then we remember them. In the digital world. Wishing to die early so we meet them again. Telling the world what should have been told one-on-one. With a hug. A walk. A talk. And some political disagreements.

To all the Dads, Papas, Abus, Daddies, Babas, and Fathers out there – above us and among us – living and flying. Happy Father’s Day.

CCD – The Rule of Force, Not Law

It was January 2019 when a family was gunned down by CTD. Two men, a woman and a 13-year-old were killed. An entire family with two young girls unharmed to mourn for the rest of their lives.

Such tragedies define a state. And ours is crueler than most; it loves to define itself over and over again. Dead bodies don’t hurt its conscience. Only dissent does.

Now we have CCD.

It has recently killed a 9-year-old girl. A different organization. From different political parties. But the same ruthless state. Why? Because it’s the power behind the curtains of civil and un-civil establishments that run the usual and unusual affairs.

After all, it’s a security state. That runs on gunpowder. A state whose violent tentacles are spread all around. A militarized fort with a wall of skulls around it.

A country is for people. People are not for country. This upside-down narrative flourished by nationalism is the foundation of the massive graveyards around the country. As Iqbal said,

ان تازہ خداؤں ميں بڑا سب سے وطن ہے

جو پيرہن اس کا ہے ، وہ مذہب کا کفن ہے

May a country burn to ashes, may it not survive, if its thirst for the blood of its own people never subsides.

CCD has killed and thrashed a lot of innocent people over time. We are reading. Every now and then, an innocent person is gunned down. Because there is no law and order to follow them or to be followed by them.

You cannot bypass the law. Because if you do – even with the right intentions – it will lead to chaos. This land is already a jungle, and wolves are ruling it with wolfish instincts.

We have seen the bloodshed of Rao Anwar. We remember his 444 extrajudicial murders.

No wonder they fight over toilets. Such trash and poop they are. This actually happened. A CSP had a tussle with an MPA’s son over the use of toilet. Initially, MPA tried to cool down the matter. Then he didn’t. in the end, MPA’s poop won over the CSP’s trash. A very competitive match though.

Any organization, action, or team that passes the laws and regulations, is not a relief. It will lead to chaos. If CCD helps tackle crime by bypassing laws and courts, it will haunt us in the end.

As Sir Thomas More said that if you cut down every law to hunt your enemies, what will protect you when power turns and comes for you? Here’s the exact dialogue from the movie “A Man of All Seasons”:

William Roper: So, now you give the Devil the benefit of law!

Sir Thomas More: Yes! What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?

William Roper: Yes, I’d cut down every law in England to do that!

Sir Thomas More: Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned ’round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws, from coast to coast, Man’s laws, not God’s! And if you cut them down, and you’re just the man to do it, do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake!

Laws have loopholes. Courts fail too. But that doesn’t mean you make them null and void. You build them. You improve them over time. Gradually. The ways we have adopted are the ways of a jungle. Or perhaps, even jungles have better law and order.

The law is not an obstacle to justice; it is the only thing that makes justice possible.

The moment a state allows its agents to become judge, jury, and executioner, every citizen becomes a potential victim. Today it is a suspected criminal. Tomorrow it is a dissident. The day after, it is an innocent child caught in the crossfire.

No nation can build peace upon fear, nor order upon impunity. If those entrusted to uphold the law are permitted to stand above it, then the greatest threat to society is no longer crime; it is the state itself.

The Wounds

How can I explain this to you? How can I make you feel what I feel? How can I make the sunshine over your arms, the way I intend the universe to behave, in a perfect setting, so I may make you feel with my explanations the utter desire and longing of being with her.

And then be humiliated by her.

She put pen to words. She conceived them through him. Me. Even if she hated them. Sometimes.

To be burnt with a matchstick. Sometimes, a paper. Sometimes, a short story. And sometimes, a novella.

Even then, worth it.

Do you know you won’t be able to read those pieces. Never. They are not even ashes anymore. They don’t exist. The magnum opus – gone.

But once, they did. And they made a hell of a play. A smile and a tear. A longing in her eyes. For the writer – though the writer was nothing but a source. She did all the wonders. She conceived. Through him. chapter by chapter.

How can I explain this to you? How can I make you feel what I feel?

I’ve seen her naked. I’ve seen her soul. I’ve seen her desires. I’ve seen her darkness. Her wounds. Her stretchmarks. Her perfectly imperfect formations. Her scent and smell. Her taste. Scars. Light. Darkness. Everything.

I’ve seen her naked. Right in front of me. Not in darkness, but in light. Not in light, but in darkness.

How can I snap and swap to make you feel the rhythm divine?

Of course, I miss her. But do I want to be with her? No.

I just want to miss her.

And keep on missing her.

So, the wounds may never heal.

Because healing is widely exaggerated. It’s pain, separation, and divorce, that matter. Not otherwise.

Maybe someday. In another world. When we are both not entirely messed up before making an insane point of chaos.

We’re a Generation of Men raised by Maids

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?”

Oh. Freudian slip. Nip. Sorry. Does that hurt? Oh Father! Forgive… them!

But don’t you see the evolutionary – devolutionary, actually – downfall of the species being laid out through the passport to heaven?

Instead of mending gender roles and taking the corrective path, absolute destruction has been chosen. That is being imposed. Otherwise, there would be labels. This and that. Can’t give examples; would spoil the fun.

Gone are the days of:

!مائے نی میں کنوں آکھاں

Instead, the next generation of poets will eulogize their maids. Motherly maids.

It’s not a generalization. Not a sweeping statement. So, scratch your knees while reading this.

Fathers will remain fathers. Bad, corrupt, lazy, angry… but pretty much the same, with a slight inclination towards betterment. They have modernized themselves. Adopted new roles. Mended their ways. Corrected old mistakes. Buried many of their fathers’ behaviors – to pave a better home for the next generation.

But the thing is, you can’t impose. Just like it’s wrong for men to impose themselves and their wishes, it’s wrong the other way too.

And most importantly, as Ghamidi has clearly mentioned, the single biggest purpose of marriage is to raise the next generation in a protective and safe environment. The rest of the marriage ingredients – love, affection, deep internal regard, and the cringe stuff – are crap. Illogical. Inorganic. Unnatural. By sheer hit-and-trial maybe, some out of hundred work. That too in the short run. In the long run, it’s old age, vested interests, lack of options, dependency, self-image, kids, and impotence.

You’ve heard about daddy issues. Mother issues. Imagine a future of maid issues. Kink.

This will go bad. For sure. And honestly, it should. Please. Be my guest – out.