Saki Nama – Page 17

Insects!

When they are in apparent power, they rejoice arrests of opponents.

When they themselves are opponents, they talk of freedom of speech and civil rights.

Nonetheless, they all got naked within a span of a year. Some months. They all.

Last time they were all united was for Extension of the Chief.

First time they were all united was for 21^st Amendment in the Constitution for Military Courts.

They all know who unites them.

They all know who divides them.

They all know who operates them.

They all know who uses them.

They all know who disgraces them.

They all know who flushes them.

And they all know who gags them.

Yet, all these puppets look forward to them. They all.

How pathetic and how miserable they are all?

Now, one is arresting. The other one is protesting.

Just like a year back; arresting one was protesting and protesting one was arresting.

How to take a side among insects?

How to define a principle when there’s nothing to differentiate?

Hear! Hear! Rao Anwar is Innocent.

How many times this page has mentioned Rao Anwar? May be 444 times. Or more.

Anyway, congratulations. The judicial brothel, where judges sell themselves for some price, have acquitted Rao Anwar. No wonder, the murderers are always safe here. Like Ehsan Ullah Ehsan was.

This is a big nexus. Rao Anwar is police. Judges are the judiciary. Orders came from Rawalpindi. Landlords were safeguarded. This is a whole nexus that the judiciary has maintained today.

Anyway. There are some methods to kill.

One is, kill and pay. It takes some time, but it works. Always work. It has some religious support as well. Don’t Aww!

Two is, kill and don’t pay. Kill more. And more. Countless. Now, you cannot pay all the families of victims. Like, you cannot pay families of 444 murdered ones. In such cases, trial will be long, but you will be acquitted. Because you are an asset. An asset that keeps the violent machine of the state greased.

So, the brothel has done its job for another butcher. Or butcherer. The two words are confusing. Isn’t it mate? Don’t mate!

Hundreds of thousands died in 1971 and not a single person was blamed or punished.

70,000 died during the military experiment during War on Terror and no one was blamed or punished.

144 students got murdered in broad daylight in a school and no one was punished. Parents were shutdown. The mastermind was kept in a safehouse and was strategically freed.

So, 444 killings and nothing happened. Simple analogy. Simple history. That’s why history is important.

Congratulations again. The naked dance in and around Islamabad and Rawalpindi is the reason that this country is in a pathetic state of affairs. No wonder, just like before 71, a lot want to get rid of it. A lot.

Now a hint.

Remember those who proudly put badge of the national flag on their dresses. Mostly officially, behind their large desks, in luxury offices. Or on their uniforms. Remember them. Because they are the exact culprits with bloody hands of civilians. This country has given them so much.

Even blood and flesh. To fill their thirst and hunger.

Given them land to make mansions. And bury the useless ones.

To make huge towers. To avoid the poor ones.

To raise a breed of dogs. To avoid a breed of humans.

Remember them.

Because, when you will be out – and you will be soon – you must not go into collateral damage. You must know where to strike and who to put down. To burn the citadel down.

Power Outage. No Outrage.

No satire. His Highness is like James Bond, going ‘all-in’ in poker.

His Highness actually wants the country to default. No pun. He wants power outages or blackouts for permanent. He wants hundreds of ships and cargoes lined up in Arabian Sea for months for clearance. He wants the whole economy to go down into the final depths like Titanic.

Only after the complete disaster, will come the actual reincarnation.

A new constitution, not this garbage.

A new Penal Code, not this colonial leftover.

A new administrative setup without idiot in the hierarchy of bastards.

A new police system of humans with repercussions to face for every failure.

A new public setup without twitter queens and kings.

A new military minding its business precisely. Not that business. No. You get it?

Or a Public Private Partnership (PPP) kinda model through which defense and some other burdens can be outsourced. To China perhaps. Let it be. Even in worst case scenario, it would be better than this. THIS.

Anyway, the point was, no satire here. This blackout is beautiful. Waiting for the night with a clear sky to see the stars and their faults.

Life is beautiful without complications of electricity, water, gas, inflation, and dumbs-in-charge.

Marla’s Smoke

When Marla wraps her fingers around a cigarette and lights the fire in dark mode, and inhales the first puff of the fresh tobacco; you feel the urge to meet her. Cross her and come by again for eye contact for a conversation to happen. That never happens.

But whatever happens, happens in slow motion. Black and white.

Only the smoke remains afterwards. That you can inhale. Second-hand smoke of Marla’s cigarette. A fine epilogue, nonetheless.

Into the Wheat Crisis

Wheat crisis isn’t a political failure. It’s a bureaucratic failure.

This hierarchy of bastards of bureaucracy lives in cocoons where they can’t see or smell the poor. The vehicles are guarded. The whole hierarchy is guarded. And they themselves are never short of any kind of food as it arrives at the door step on its own. In different forms. Gifts. Thanks. Favors.

So, they are clueless. They are clueless about the situation as much as they are clueless about their jobs – where they keep on swinging from one department to another until they are retired and completely retarded.

Such crises will keep on surfacing till this colonial setup is going to sustain. It’s wheat today. It will be sugar, rice, and other stuff in future. Near future.

Just know the problem rightly.
It’s a bureaucratic failure.
Not a political failure.

Uncensored State

That wasn’t a joke that the state is a brothel. With new revelations, the whole state is running on asses with asses onboard.

Safe houses. A new term where ‘deals’ and ‘deeds’ are ‘done’. And recorded. With men in charge for men to discharge.

From PM house to CM houses to all the big guarded buildings to the boys hidden behind barriers and barracks – it’s a brothel. Like cloud computing. Not an actual cloud. Not actual computing either.

Biology. Sucks.

So, it wasn’t just Faris Shafi’s lyrics or Orya’s philosophy of life or Khalil-ur-Rehman Qamar’s dramas or afterlife lecture of some Mullah – the entire state is running on dicks. With dicks. Around ducks.

Too bad. You cannot meet in a park and cannot even book a room without nikah nama. But they can have all the facilities in the most sacred places of the state.

Bloody civilians. Too bad. You cannot even afford yourself in a brothel.

No wonder, everyone is pious here. Yet, everyone is a hypocrite. From snorting to escorting with beads in hand and a whole new sensational world in mind.

That’s why there is no debate that tires a mind further. Masturbation is fine. Mental masturbation isn’t.

This Whole System is Out of Order

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?”

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.