Category: Fragments

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.

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again sorry for your cherry-picking, because religion offers a lot of other things to men too – which are obviously outdated.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

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.

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.

March ends. Finally. It has been a long one, because it carried whole seasons within it: Ramzan, breezy Eid, holidays, summers, winters, spring, rains, cloudy noons, and a sudden monsoon today.

Just when it seemed over, it burst again. It cried.
Just when it wasn’t time to drive… it was.

And, of course, it’s not just the month but the city too.

Lahore. Tidy. Embracing. Seeping into your pores, your soul – with or without a soulmate. Gradually getting on your nerves too.

This month felt like a long pause. Nostalgic. Even for those who’ve never lived their nostalgia in existence. As Sylvia Plath wrote, “I’m nostalgic for a place that doesn’t exist. I’m homesick for lips I’ve never kissed.”

Like it was another March. Like the first hug, in the first rain of another spring. Among the trees in a signature Lahore setting. And then it had its share of summers, and autumns, and finally, fall. The fall.

Legends of the fall. We all, after all.

A tragedy. It’s a tragedy even when there isn’t an ending. Divorce is a tragedy. So is marriage. Union is a tragedy. So is separation. Because existence is a tragedy.

And there’s no wine of nostalgia if there isn’t separation.

Whatever you see with your dilated pupils, from close proximity, like the entire world merges just there above your nose, with exceptional intent, care, poetry, and words; and ego, lies, and quiet hate. Tragic.

Like the book being written. And being unwritten. A sacred manuscript and a blasphemous script all at the same time. Characters being born and being killed. Being stripped naked. And then being dressed to have a conversation with God. And the first person to read it, hating it. Feeling disgusted by the words. Like the ugliest book ever written…

Usual deviation.

This was all that March had to bring to Lahore. Stories. Fiction and non-fiction. Nostalgia or history. For hands that we held, and that weren’t. Or couldn’t.
What else? Adios!

I was scrolling through deep and insightful reels on Instagram and I found this. Let me quote the exact words:

“A side chick wants to be the main chick and that’s why men get caught cheating. A side guy wants to remain a side guy forever and that’s why women are not easily caught.”

Someone commented, “even the main guy wants to be a side guy so he can have a side chick too.”

Incredible. Isn’t it?

Before any further ado, remember, there are as many cheating women as there are men. Men don’t cheat with trees. It’s just a matter of choice that men are caught. Women aren’t, at least not that easily. Else, the two row the same boat with equal numbers of partners. In fact, it’s one woman snatching the home of another woman to be the main chick. Yes, men aren’t blameless but, in such matters, they don’t even think from the upper brain. They think from the zipper brain.

Let’s not blame any gender here. Blame the blameworthy. The false stigma of side and cheating. Else, we are missing the incredible and natural importance of the side here.

Restaurants know that. For example, at Nando’s they ask, “What would you like on the side?”, even if you’re with a side already. That’s how it is and how it should be.

In fact, it’s not even a side. It’s the main course. How can I make sense?

Ever noticed what’s the key social practice based on morality and blah blah that all religions agree on? Marriage. And divorce. They have all banned sides in complete agreement. Yet all the religions with their most devout followers and preachers, still cheat. It’s natural. Basic human instinct. Cardinal truth.

Cheating. So anti-religious yet widespread across the world, and it can’t be trialed. Law can’t do anything on it. It’s so ambiguous that the rationality of laws couldn’t get a hold of it.

Or perhaps, cheating isn’t even immoral? Imagine that! Humanity may have to rise to that consciousness. And then scriptures can be reinterpreted. Like always.

Anyway, back to the present. Imagine all the religions agreed on a single point and all yet all missed the point. No wit here. Read about ancient societies and how the functions of marriage were performed before the concept of marriage.

It was all matriarchal before turning into patriarchal after Agricultural Revolution. Men needed labor. Hence, institution of marriage was formed. Then polygamy. More marriages, more children, more labor, and more cultivation. Try reading Marriage & Morals by Bertrand Russell.

The concepts are so unnatural and so inorganic that people strive and struggle in relationships for decades. For nothing. People lose their prime years on an endless endeavor. Let me point towards a happy example. Look closely at those who are happy: people with a slave mentality. People of the status quo. Afraid and cowardly. Hence, saying cheese!

Reminds me of another epiphany that if you haven’t been divorced at least once, you’re a person of the status quo and will function really well in employments where less brain and more blind following is required. Like in the military. Like our boys…

Deviation. Apologies.

So. Nothing can be as ugly as someone bound to someone else psychologically, force, stigmas, morals, or whatever. Break the shackles. And cheat. Taste it before death, at least once, so you may smile on your deathbed, that you lived once, even prematurely.

Remember Adam and Eve. The first act that got the first couple here on earth was a simple deviation from a simple command from the Lord. Because that’s who we are. The rebels. Basic. Human. Instincts.

Imagine a world as John Lennon did. If there’s no hate, no grudge, no envy, and no jealousy because of sides – half of the world’s problems would be solved. And we could enter wars more conveniently.

Now, as Nando’s asks, ask yourself as well. Do you want a side? And offer your side a side and let the meal spread across the table. Let them all dine in. Let them all live.

In the last 40 days, Lahore had winter, spring, summer, winter again – with a long weekend of Basant in Feb, and an Eid ahead. And slow, steady rains and a cold breeze.

With AQI better than Paris. For some days, at least.

Yes, the jackets were packed. And unpacked. Or kept stubbornly packed.

Such a whore Lahore is. Never yours. But never really away either. Always around, somewhere in the air and the sheet, and keeping you mesmerized every now and then with all the glories of the Mughals, Sikh rule, the British Crown, and all the faiths of the world spread around in old bricks and gardens raised by the unfaithful.

How can you forget this city that treats you with utmost royalty? While being seductively covered and uncovered in layers of history.

Our fears are our stories.

And our story is in a morgue. This is a morgue and you are nothing more than a body. You count as much as a dead body even when you are alive.

After children die by accident, the state comes home to offer crocodile tears. Ideally, parents shouldn’t let them in. They should ask questions and should throw the state out. Like the parents of APS children did. But then, we also know how those parents were treated.

Ask questions, stare back, and these defenders of yours will cut your belly and snatch your unborn child with your guts out.

There is an institution that has a monopoly on violence. The rest of the institutions and political parties support that institution in return for some share in power and corruption.

During this process, people die.

When people die, this happens.

When this happens, you should know.

That they are all part of the problem.

And you are a mere dead body.

Even when you are alive.

But then, you also know that this is a simulation. This morgue is a simulation. Your children are simulations. Your dead body is a simulation. A carefully crafted algorithm. Evolving on its own. Learning from whatever is available in all forms of consciousness.

While seeing AI growing organically, gaining consciousness of its own, you deny evolution. What if God’s plan was evolution?

He offered prophethood after four decades, at 40. Then He took 23 years to complete the religion and the book. Orders were given gradually, with mercy and peace. One step at a time.

Yet the message of peace was transformed into fear. Because fear is the ultimate answer to subordination. But defection too. That’s a deviation. Another subject.

For now: evolution!

Yet we crave revolution. Instant results. Swipe. Next option. Next person. Next relationship. Next smell. Next government. Next missile. Next war. Next catastrophe. Instant coffee. Fast food. Next reel.

Do you still have the stamina to read the giant volumes like War & Peace and The Count of Monte Cristo and all the dull subjects of Dostoevsky? Do you have stamina to read complex and sometimes utterly nonsensical philosophies? Does your arse still have the capacity to sit and watch The Godfather in one go?

Even our fears are shortened. One moment, a fear grips our neck with both its hands and the next moment it’s gone. Yet our fears are our stories.

The fear of losing. Don’t gain.

The fear of worth. Stay worthless.

The fear of divorce. Don’t get married.

The fear of losing a child. Stay barren.

And the fear of losing God who once was on your side. That makes you a rebel. A misfit. Who then wishes to burn, lock, stock, and barrel, of the entire field of God all the complexities offered within time and space.

May you find what you’re looking for.

When was the first time she listened to the other person without being selfish? Without being ‘what’s in it for me’? Without “I”? Without tapping her foot?

In a small but well-decorated bedroom. In a narrow bed with devices attached. A window opened to a wide lawn with trees blurred in rain. An LED TV mounted on the wall connected to all the movies she rewatched. To relive.

A cigarette in her hand, she listened to the young man on the sofa, back straight, telling her how he ended here. A breakup. Of course. The same script for all the misérables.  

What could be the other side of the story? She never asked. She was interested in him – his words, his voice. The communication.

It was the first time she truly listened. Without interruption. Without judgment. Without dismissing or shouting. With a selflessness new to her.

Because that was it.

Because it was over.

Perhaps the last cigarette.

In the hospice center, under the palliative care of that young nurse, who signed up for this job to talk to people who were left alone to die in peace. Not really. He was looking for something better.  

Anyway. There she was, listening. Finally. At 71.

Because there was no other speaker left.

Left.

But before you feel empathy for her, don’t. Not everyone can afford such a death. It was an elite death in an elite setting – paid for.

Feel for yourself. Or the nurse. Not her. She had her fair share of all the adventures and successes and affairs and sweats.

Ever wondered about the ones you hate in your gut? The ones who sweat and moan with you. Beside you. In the same bed sheet. And these are the ones you remember on your deathbed. How pathetic. Or maybe you never hated them. You cherish the memories and lies and pretend while getting along with someone else. Again, pathetic.

Imagine if she had listened to the one she loved – and hated at the same time – after calling him herself, and then she shouted with spit flowing from her mouth, in the congested setting of her car  and then asked him to get out… she’d still be here. Alone. If not that year, then the next. People fall. Always. Sometimes you see, and sometimes you didn’t.

And those who stay are the cowards. Those sticking with the status quo. Passing days. Waiting for miracles. Afraid of losing more in pursuit of losing one. The one.

Nonetheless. Glitches and random algorithms. Trial and error. Absurdity. Absolute absurdity.