Ass Always

Boys are of the view that allegations without proofs are not acceptable.

Now who’s going to tell the cat that allegations with proofs are not allegations. They are…

Let’s not tell. Let’s eat at home. In this peace without a piece. Of hyperinflation.

But we can write essays.

For example, a long time ago, Hamood ur Rehman Commission came up with objective findings against allegations. But then, it was preferred by the state to keep the allegations as allegations so that the narrative of allegations without proofs may sustain as unacceptable. The report was snubbed.

We can go on with another essay. When allegations by the parents of the murdered children were dismissed with the escape of Ehsan Ullah Ehsan escaped.

Or we can go on with another essay when court called Rao Anwar to put him on trial based on allegations of 444 murders. But then – again – the court decided to let the allegations sustain.

Right now there is another allegation. The government – PPP and PMLN – is violating the constitution every single day. 90 days have passed. Yet. No shame. Not even among Bhuttos for the Bhutto who allegedly held the constitution in this same parliament.

And the boys – ass always – are on the wrong side.

Allegations. And alligators.

I almost forgot. There’s another allegation. India doesn’t want to come for the Asia Cup. Other countries have agreed with India. But the government says that the tournament should be played in Pakistan as everything is alright. Alright?

No. The government and the boys are of the view that everything isn’t alright and peace is not peaceful and elections can’t be held.

Paradox. Dilemmas. Pandora boxes. Same day, different views on different mics. Such is the mess.

In the turn of the events – nothing new in the turn – you must know the villains of the past are the innocents of today. And innocents of the past are villains of today. Ther is no messiah. Ther is no man. There is no institution. There is no one without allegations.

But who’s going to bell the cat with a little whisper in the ear that allegations with proofs aren’t allegations.

London, Westminster Abbey & Coronation

London.

It’s the city of Orwell’s Animal Farm. Marx’s grave. Dickensian. Shakespeare’s plays. Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray. Tolkien’s Hobbit.

It’s also the city of Churchill. Margaret Thatcher. Newton. Florence Nightingale. Alexander Fleming.

It’s also the city of Judi Dench. Daniel-Day Lewis. And some other spectacular people on screen.

It’s also the city of V for Vendetta. When V decided to bomb Westminster Abbey and the Londoners cherished.

It’s also the city that played an integral part in Crusades. World Wars. And everything around bombs and bullets anywhere around the world. Including lies to be bombed in Iraq.

London it is. Living its moment of Ertugrul. Of the past that’s long gone. And lost. Like the Ottomans.

But London kept its royal bloodline. For the sake of a show. This show. And some Netflix stuff. And some mixing of royal sperms in unroyal wombs. To keep themselves in the news. Like today. A mockery.

Thorn. Crown. Glorious. Past. Faith. Mary of Magdalene. Jesus Christ. Hallelujah!

World is an Evolutionary Being

There are two extremes. On one side are apparent liberals and on the other side is everyone else. For last some days, some cruel comments on past figures are being thrown without seeing the historical norms of that time. But history isn’t as clueless as these commentators.

Aisha RA was born in 613 AD. Some say she was married at 9. Some mentioned 12. According to various other sources, she was 15. Some even point to 18.

In an article by Nilofar Ahmed (Dawn, 2012), who has done some extensive research on this topic, the age of Aisha RA is widely mispresented. Hisham is the narrator with Aisha RA married at 9-years of age. Many believe that his narrations are weak and not according to historical facts. Long story short, according to the findings of Nilofar Ahmed, Aisha RA was 18 when she got married, and moved with the Prophet PBUH at the age of 21.  You can read her article for more substance.

Even if not, the debate is useless. Because that was 14 centuries ago. The world was different. There was no 16-year education at that time. Not HEC for verification. No schools and colleges selling degrees. People used to get married early. Very early. Average life span was decades shorter than today.

By the way, do you know there was not a single woman alive at that time in New Zealand? Yes. Because it was not founded yet. Just giving you some substance for future idiotic theories.

Another idiotic content on the internet is regarding Jinnah’s marriage. He’s also being labeled with ugly words. Well, according to major sources, he married thrice, and all his wives were around 18 at the time of marriage. But again, those times were different. For example:

Gandhi’s wife was 14 at the time of marriage.

Nehru’s wife was 17.

Prem Chand’s wife was 11.

Rabindranath Tagore – the voice of women rights and writer of national anthems of India and Bangladesh – married when his wife was 10.

So? Should we burn all their words and books and their entire countries? No. You may disagree. But you should know the times were different. The whole human race didn’t move directly to 2020s with Harvard in the West and nothing in the East.

All those using words like “pedophiles” have biased hate for those they are labeling. Nothing more than that.

Almost forgot, next time you move your bum like Elvis Pressley, remember that he married Priscilla Presley when she was 14. But don’t bother. You may disagree and keep shaking your bums. At least bums don’t lie.

Aristotle believed that women were inferior to men. Same were the ideas of Rousseau and Schopenhauer. With complete disagreement with them on this, you cannot throw their rest of their works.

To be clear, one thing is certain that women have suffered for ages. Today’s roar for women rights and feminism definitely have substance. And such roar has taken turns to rationality, equality and modernism with time. Still, you can have disagreement at certain points and instances. But nothing can be dismissed as a whole. Not any historical personality. Not any philosophy.

Usual deviations. And trespasses.  

By the way, people also use right words for wrong reasons. Like philosophy of Nietzsche was used by his sister in collaboration with Nazi regime to support their brutal war on other races. They even used the idea of Nietzsche’s Übermensch for their Aryan race.

By the way, someone has overused this Übermensch so much that I am refraining from Nietzscheism these days. Remember those golden days when His Highness himself was Zarathustra? Forget it.  

Now a question of etiquette – as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch? As Zarathustra must leave now for another sermon in another village.

Audio Leaks

It’s another disgusting age. This time of audio and video leaks. Most recently, audios are taking a lead. Thanks heavens. Otherwise, it would have been a naked animal farm.

Sometimes, leaks are against judges. Sometimes against opponents. Sometimes against others dissidents. Rarely against the one on lap at the moment.

And never against the military.

Because it is the military. The intelligence. Setting another line of moral degradation of the society.

First, they came up with a plan of renting the state.
Then they came up with plans of Jihad and blasphemy and playing with fire.
Then they came up with plans of enlightenment modernization and abductions.
Now, the plans are to listen, record and leak.

Apparently, they are neutrals. Indifferent. Far away from politics. Hidden inside Cantts and DHAs. Yet, they are clearly listening to everyone. And they are clearly behind this mess of leaks.

Once, a PM defended the eavesdropping. Now he’s not defending anymore because he’s been excommunicated.

The current PM on the lap is fine. He got angry – a little – when his own conversations got leaked from the PM house, but then he was fine.

It’s time for all the civilian idiots to sit and shut the establishment first. Else, nothing is going to change. They will keep on listening. They will keep on releasing. They will keep on robbing lands. They will keep on building an empire.

You can’t pass the check posts without being checked.

You can’t enter their housing societies.

They start with Phase-I and then keep on expanding beyond X.

They start with Askari I and then never stop.

Today, the country has more Cantts than proper cities.

People just don’t get it. It isn’t much different like the situation in Palestine. Or Israel. Or whatever.
It’s like Apartheid of South Africa. Or Kashmir since 370. But no one gets it. Except His Highness.

Next time, when you shed some crocodile tears for others, spare a few drops against the evesdrops and all the mess that stands and builds around. Until then, know the problem. And sleep corrected.

Instant Orgasmic Cricket

Someone missed a century. Couldn’t touch the last ball. Millions missed an orgasm for the night.

No one will remember the great innings of Imad. And his useless sacrifice. Or chacha’s knock.

Imagine if someone could have played a similar, almost-orgasmic, innings from New Zealand, Pakistan would have definitely won.

Our great opener couldn’t make a century after staying for 20 overs. Their Chapman came at 5th and made a century in the 18th. Don’t take a bow. You can never get this.

By the way, isn’t this the most dead pitch in the world?

Anyway. We have had a recipe for years now. It is the recipe of juggling.

Drop the 3rd one who was an opener.
Put a new 3rd.
Put the other opener at 4th.
Bring 7th at 5th.
8th at 6th.
And keep Shadab no matter what.

Keep on juggling so that no one may settle. May never settle. And the argument stays intact that they all fail and the openers are the only two saviors we have.

The last major trophy we won was CT 2017. A remarkable win. The stars of that tournament were disgraced – some due to their own self and some due to politics of favoritism. Remember those stars? They didn’t get such hype on social media and they stayed in the domains of cricket. Fakhar. Sarfaraz. Hassan. Aamir. Malik. Imad. Junaid. And others.

The thing was, they were not juggled. Only Shahzad was replaced – justifiably – and then there was no stopping for Pakistan. A 180 runs win against India in the final.

But bless you. You may not remember those days. Now is the time of reels. Shorts. Short term span. And instant orgasms.

Another T20 home series is lost with ‘big stars’ in the squad.

Congratulations. Wake up now. The dream is over.

Just Randomly

A lot of facilities – tangible and intangible – that you have today, were once prayed for madly.

You have a handful of things today that you begged for secretly a decade back.

Since, we grow by forgetting us and our previous surroundings, we keep on asking for more. Without being thankful. Without being happy. And without being at peace.

But then, there are those who have nothing. They are on the greenbelts. Getting injected. Snorting. Snoozing. Haven’t had a bath for months. Totally in a mess. Have you ever seen them sleeping?

They sleep like babies. Even in cold and scorching weather. In sunlight in summers.

Some questions and doubts rise. Are they better or us? Are they having a better sleep than us? Are they at a higher level of peace? Are their dreams as nightmarish as ours?

And now I am wondering not what I am writing, but why.

Walli – Chapter 9 & Blade Marks

Do you wonder when you see a wrist with multiple, shiny, parallel, horizontal scars? Blade Marks or wrist cuts. Maybe you don’t. Why don’t they look unattractive?

Behind every cut is a story. Obviously. Could be anything. Lost love. Breakup. Goodbye. Death. Depression. Something.

Mostly, it’s love. Lost love. About the one you think is the one until the one becomes ‘the one lost’ and so… blade marks. Idiotic. But a huge portion of literature and poetry has been all about love, which has its branches and breaches deeply rooted in lust; but we prefer to call it love.

Writing, talking, and thinking about lips. Gait. Voice. Hair. Complexion. Height. Eyes. No one’s talking about the intellectual capacity of the other one or the conversations that talk beyond the universe. Maybe because that is not what love is.

There’s no ‘one’. Neo was the last ‘one’. Next is… wait.

Anyway, back to the blade marks of the lady behind the counter. Offering ice cream. Wonder how she executed the whole process? To let the pain bleed. Leaving the body. Making tiny paths through the sink. Dumping. Into the gutter.

Yet, pain stays. Because it cannot be bled out. It needs to be kept inside. It needs to be nurtured. Taken care of. Because it stays.

109 billion have died so far in this world. Your ‘one and only’ can’t be from those 109 billion. ‘The one’ must be alive in your time zone to initiate a love affair, that usually starts from lust. You can call it crush. Or cuteness. Or whatever your level of being an idiot is.

Comes the current 8 billion. 4 billion is the other gender. Then 3.99 billion are those you never meet. In the end, it leaves around 50 or so options. Out of which, max 5 would consider you as a partner. And then comes the one. Can lead to divorce. Pretty strong chances. Or it can be a suffering prolonged till one of the two dies. As vowed.

What if you find love later in life? After marriage? Then what? Extramarital affair? For the one?

By the way, if you convert ‘the one’ with ‘another one’; you may score a century.


The algorithm that runs the systems has its errors. Some errors are as idiotic as poetry. There is no ‘one’. It’s an illusion. That’s fine though. People must have reasons to live and reasons to die. I have some. Cigarettes among them.

However, Walli has a major reason. The one in which he has specialized with comprehensively crafted research of 9 years. It will be 9 years this April. This pain starts with M. It’s all in the name of M. Remember that story?

When Socrates had to die to live forever.
When Masur Al Haj had to be insulted to be elevated forever.
When Nietzsche had to get mad to become enlightened.
When Hussain had to bleed to live for generations to come.
And when Dante had to leave for hell so he could write divine comedy.
You don’t remember? You don’t remember Walli?

What if the wrist is clean? No blade marks. No wound. Nothing. Only blue veins neatly passing through the system that generates those illusions? Does that mean no story? No blade marks, no pain? No.

Some bleed once. Some bleed twice. And some bleed forever. They nurture their pain and keep it near their heart as a sacred message for the heavens and hells together.

Have you wondered what if you die with these cuts? Don’t you care about the trauma you give to the pain? Don’t you want to keep it alive? Don’t you want to live by it? Stand by it? And finally, die by it?

Walli doesn’t have blade marks. But he has a story. That story starts with M. And it lives as it didn’t pass through the sink. It lives.

She lives.