Blood Moon

Clouded blood moon. A little glimpse and then back into the lingerie of clouds again. Just teasing and testing the patience of space addicts.  

What hasn’t been associated with lunar eclipse in history? Angry gods. Famine. War. Annihilation. Mystery. Magic. A new boy to be born on such a night to change the world’s order. A messiah. A boy. Feminism wasn’t a trend then. Otherwise, divine messengers had to face another challenge from the kitchens of their homes.  

Before science, the world was a scarier place. Solar and lunar eclipses were only bad omens. Like the fall of the Byzantine Empire – which actually happened around a blood moon. But then, it was the rise of Ottomans too. Bad news for Constantine and good news for Mehmed: Constantinople.

A God angry at your enemy is your blessing. War is fortunate for one half of the two armies. Famine on the other side of the border was a blessing of God for the adversaries. A punishment from heavens.

Bring goats. Kill newborn sons. Bury young daughters. Because Pharoah had to rule forever.

Reminds me of Apocalypto (2006). One of the finest movies. Written, directed and produced by Mel Gibson. A solar eclipse spares the cast else… watch it yourself. But then, science and ammunition were just sailing at their shores, and their world was going to be colonized. Or modernized. Or educated. Else, they were going to remain lunatic around the lunars forever.    

Then Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, Newton, etc. happened.

And then came the greatest genre produced by mankind. Yes, mankind. Humankind wasn’t a necessity then as women were still inside and chastity was preserved and kept warm in front of stoves. It’s history I am talking about.

That genre was of poets and miserable men founding their women in moon. Writing poems and short stories about the beloved moon. Lying in dewed grass. Staring at moon. And being creatively pervert. Just because people had to sleep in open sky at night in summer, men had no one else except a moon to… play along.

And then came porn that took those men back inside. That’s one positive side-effect of the underrated adult industry out of at least 69 that I can count you all. All in?  

Anyway. If you ever had written something, even a line, in comparison to moon for your beloved: repent. Repent now. It’s an insult to the moon, the science, the history, and the gods who one ruled this land.

And thanks heaven it’s blood moon. At least no poet masturbating to moon tonight. If they shall realize, they might understand that it’s tonight that the moon – the bloody one – actually resembles with their beloveds. All beloveds; scattered and spread all across the world.  

I repent for all the trash I might have bickered at the moon over the metaphorical moon that never existed, while I wandered through the mirages of unknown deserts I once thought were real.

Not To Be.

To be, or not to be.
Not to be, so to be.

That presence that you made, unmade you.
The walk you walked, walked you out.
The wait you kept was a waste.
The words you bled were on a paper already worthless.

But then, we learn and unlearn through mistakes,
Through trash, dust, noise and sighs.
Some tears.
Some bliss.

So all the walks, the talks, the waits, the words,
Wasted and unrecyclable. But decomposed. Decayed naturally.

Hence, here you are. Another you, a little new.
And you passed,
Some days, some years of this long survival,
To nothingness.

Slim Shady

May I have your attention please?
May I have your attention please?

Those who brought Buzdar, brought Maryam.
The hen that laid these two eggs is the same.
Do we agree on that?

Will the real Slim Shady please stand up?
I repeat, will the real Slim Shady please stand up?

One was an idiot and avoided the public display of being an arse;
The other is an idiot in love of public display of being an arse.

We’re gonna have a problem here..

The one better than the other or the other being better from the one is a debate too mind boggling and subterranean.

Guess there’s a Slim Shady in all of us,
Fuck it, let’s all stand up.

A Democratic Footnote – Pakistan

With all the disagreements and criticisms you have with AIML or Jinnah – some valid – there is one core aspect of history that we forget and miss out conveniently.

Yes, I know about Lahore Resolution of 1940 and how it was ‘states’ and not ‘state’ and the word ‘Pakistan’ wasn’t even mentioned in the speech, and how the one who presented it, was discarded afterwards. Yes, I know.

But even then, you must remember and acknowledge that Pakistan is one of the rare countries in the world that was born democratically.

It was the provincial elections of 1946 that paved the way for Pakistan. Congress won 923 seats; AIML 425. Bengal, Punjab and Sindh made a clear, categorical case for Pakistan – as that was AIML’s manifesto. After elections, nothing could stop the country from emerging on the world map.

A country literally born from the ballot, not the bullet.

Before 1946, there were the 1937 elections, where AIML lost badly. It was only a blunder by Congress in 1939 when it resigned from ministries and Jinnah took over the moment to campaign in a different direction to eventually seal Independence.

Ah, a side note: remember who else did a similar blunder like Congress? Yes. Those who never read and learn from history. PTI in 2023 – resigning from Punjab and KP assemblies. Never miss history and never miss a chance to point out historical idiots. You may sound cool, look good, but a fool remains a fool.

Anyway. This country, this land – with all the misery its own children have bestowed upon it, is a land of democratic mystery. It wasn’t born out of war. Or a military conquest. Or even a revolution.

It was an evolution. It was a democratically won independent country.

Ironically, since its democratic birth, it hasn’t seen democracy. Only boots, barracks, barrel, and guns. Blood, violence, dead bodies, and coffins.

Yet, its DNA remains democratic. And it shall snatch that back someday. Democratically. Or not so democratically.  

Conversation with Jinnah

You: May your soul rest in peace, sir.

Jinnah: It won’t.

You: Sir?

Jinnah: You people have failed the dream.

You: Yes, we have.

Jinnah: This country was not made to experiment with radicalism, be it religious or non-religious. It was not made to experiment with different forms of dictatorships and martial laws. I told you categorically that it would be a democracy. A state of the people, by the people, for the people – under complete civil order.

You: Yes sir.

Jinnah: Look what you have made? A mess. Everyone is enforcing on everyone else. Through guns, powder and power – without reason. We got this Pakistan on table with reasoning. Just dialects. Not force or war or battle. What’s this nonsense going around now? Killing and forcing your own fellow Pakistanis? Everyone in the pecking order spitting the one below him.

You: I have no answer sir.

Jinnah: You are the answer.

You: I am not. I am just a speck. I see hopelessness. When your sister couldn’t do it, none of us can.

Jinnah: Yes, you can. Together.

You: There is no we sir.

Jinnah: Then organize.

You: How?

Jinnah: By words. By dialects. By convincing. Not by force but by awareness through reasoning and dialogues. It will take decades; but every decade will be better than the previous one and it will not be like now where you are all living in a constant state of disgust, misery, and fear. Fatima was too old and too tired for military and its guns.

You: I agree sir. But she had a base. Here we are scattered and divided. People are abducted and killed. Others don’t even feel the pain until their own doors are knocked and knocked down.

Jinnah: Initiate struggle.

You: How can I struggle when I don’t see hope?

Jinnah: Imagine, write, convey, and convince. Hope will show a path. Paddle, and you will swim towards the shore.

You: I will drown like all others.

Jinnah: No, you will not drown before raising a generation to rise further but this will take time. Forty years for the Prophet to receive the first call – Iqra, ‘Read’. Twenty-three years for the Quran to be revealed – Walyatalattaf, ‘Handle with kindness and deliberation’. Forty years for Moses and his people to wander in the desert. About two decades for Christ to work in obscurity before his divine mission. Fourteen years for Rama’s exile in the Ramayana. Even Beethoven’s Ninth took over thirty years and Taj Mahal twenty-two. Just begin. It took me from 1906 to 1940 to conclude that a separate homeland was the solution, not separate electorates. When I saw hopelessness in one path, I found another: Pakistan. I know there are ifs and buts even in the way this country was conceived and in my own actions. Fine. Speak of that too. Criticize me. Question all your elders. Then reach a consensus of disagreements. Bury us and write your own constitution.

You: I am sorry sir.

Jinnah: No, don’t be. Just take the first step. Begin.

You: Will it be worth a struggle?

Jinnah: Absolutely.

You: Will you witness that?

Jinnah: [He smirks, turns to the round table where over a hundred sit smiling] Why not?

Allama Bureaucrat Iqbal

Now Sialkot would be known for two Muhammad Iqbals – one who saw a dream, and the other who lived it – at least for some time.

One single ADC(R) of Sialkot – a bureaucrat – has done corruption worth millions of rupees. There were alleged foreign tours. Commercial and other properties. Land Cruiser. Rolex, unlike James Bond. Millions in cash.

He’s been taken. On trial now. Let’s see how innocent he comes out of the judicial brothel.

Now that’s just one bastard in the hierarchy.

Imagine all of them. In provincial and federal offices. Count each and every one among all their ‘superior’ groups in the entirety of the hierarchy of bastards. And you may be able to count how much they rake in through corruption.

Pakistan can get rid of all the foreign loans if they can take back from what the bureaucracy takes out from the system. We don’t even need to talk about Swiss accounts or offshore companies or some pizzas.

Remember: they are nurtured by the state. Like a mother nurturing her child from an extramarital… oh! Please, let me write straight…

They get free cars, homes, electricity, servants, petrol, etc. Then they get more from the department they’re posted in. Then they have subsidized education for their kids and free one for themselves – usually Masters in Public Policy from international universities – another waste of millions – because it brings nothing home, and doesn’t even count as corruption.

After all this, they get salaries. Which is basically the pocket money as everything else is already paid for by the state. Comparing their salary with someone, even a CEO of some company, is a gross miscalculation and injustice.

Let me give you an example. A Deputy Secretary I know of. Did CSS. Entered PAS. Now in a provincial department as a DS. Can’t wake up early. Comes to office after 1 PM – right at lunchtime, catered by another wing of the Department. After that he sits and roams and meets friends. Signs a couple of files upwards or downwards. Send 2-4 messages on WhatsApp in a week. Hasn’t opened his laptop for work in the last year. Rarely attends a meeting. And managed to have a couple of foreign tours already. Sexy.

For doing all this service, he gets all that is mentioned above. If you calculate all that is spent on him by the state in a month, it would be over Rs.2 million. And what does he give back? Middle-finger!

Mind you, we haven’t counted under the table deals here. Not even a mango crate’s worth. Otherwise, even after everything they get from the state for passing a test, they’ve got pig bellies, and they want more. So, they take whatever comes their way. They don’t even leave orphans and widows.

Other than all this, if you get to know how they exploit women sexually based on their official powers and seat, you will get to know a lot of them are manipulative predators. Not all. But definitely a lot. Because the seat they put their arse on, can do some wonders. Not them. The seat.

Anyway, that one arrest in Sialkot is the tip of the iceberg. It will be covered. And cooled down. Because these incompetents are still running the show. They will let the system keep on moving like that as they have been doing since the British Raj.

A month back, the Prime Minister Office published an advertisement to hire Federal Secretaries from private sector. Even the worst form of the government is tired of these bureaucrats – because they don’t know a damn thing. They keep on misguiding the governments to run on outdated ideas and processes. That advertisement jolted the bureaucrats, and they resisted – panicked, even.

Anyway, even Federal Secretaries from private sector cannot do miracles. Because there will be a complete hierarchy of bureaucrats below them who will not let them win.

And that is why no single man / woman can take this country out of the mess – until both civil and uncivil establishments are taken by balls. One needs to be removed, the other, to be screwed.

Exhale!

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!”

Al-Pacino said that to Andy Garcia in The Godfather III (1990). Then the heart attack. Then that scene – ultimate acting – when his daughter gets shot.

Her last word: “Dad?” Not a statement. A question mark. What if she hadn’t even said that?

The silent scream in extreme grief is one of the most iconic and heart-wrenching scenes in the history of cinema. Yet, Al-Pacino didn’t win an Oscar for the Godfather. Marlon Brando gets one. Robert Di Nero gets too. But Al Pacino, nah!

Fathers don’t win like that.

It was 2 years later, in 1992, that Al Pacino wins an Oscar. A blind colonel, like any colonel in Pakistan. Hoo-ah! “Remember son, when in doubt, fuck.”

Oh! By the way, thank you for missing me. Not. Likewise. It was pleasure not meeting you. Yeah, yeah!

There are two parallel worlds. On one side is a father. Since the divorce, he is going in and out of courts. Adopting all the sane, peaceful, and legal means to get connected to her daughter. It helped for some time, but then the other party had better ways to follow. The illegal and corrupt ways.

It’s been 9 years since the father saw his daughter. In these 9 years, there are over 900 doucheags who said, “you will meet her soon. Sooner than soon. There is always that someone up in the sky…”

Hoo-ah! When in doubt…

The courts, which rarely are able to provide justice, provided injustice swiftly. The mother was able to get a passport for the minor, without the consent or the knowledge of the father. And flew abroad.

How beautiful is that? Like any Greek tragedy!

And honestly, meeting someone or not meeting someone – does that matter? Not really. The time passes and you finally hug death in eternity. How much such stories were in 250 BC? 500 AD? 750 AD? 12 century? Middle ages? Renaissance? Enlightenment? Industrial Revolution? Victorian Era? Romanticism? Any of those painful tragedies alive now. No. All dead. Dismissed.

Pains come with deadlines. You die; they die. Handle them with love. Nurture them. They stay loyal. They never leave. They never cheat.

Deep down you all know that the people who are corrupt are better. There is no other way apparently. They instill fear. They rule by fear. They know how to use the fear to kill your demons.

Consciousness and conscientiousness are nothing more than disadvantages with a good PR. The foresight on which you cherish is exactly the point where you lose the game of life.

The law of the land is based on lies and corruption. Here, you can either go to courts or keep on going to courts for justice – resulting in injustice. Or you can bribe the system. Lie. Cheat. And become the owner of things you don’t own.

But does it matter? Not really. You do what you can do. And the rest is absolute waste of neurons.

Just like any relation. Any word. Any promise. Any stare. Any hug. Any kiss. Absolute waste.

How many times do you wonder about the un-responded insults? How you wish, how cleanly and cruelly could you answer all the ugly words thrown at you? And how well do you know the answers? With examples? With words?

جواب حضرت نصیح کو ہم بھی کچھ دیتے

جو گفتگو کے طریقے سے گفتگو کرتے

But then, it ain’t worth it. Because the person on the other side of aisle ain’t worth it. At least not anymore.

So, let him / her die a hero. Afterall, it was an unpublished story. Let the villain be a hero and let the hero be a villain – or let all be the villains and antagonists so that the one – who doesn’t matter – may live in euphoria.

Remember, there are preferences. Some always want to be like “I left him / her.” Some wants to be like “I was deceived.” Some want to remember themselves miserable. Some want to believe they were cheated on. Some want to live in denial. And then some simply ctrl + z.

If a glimpse conclusions could have been seen at the beginning – or a mere sight of epilogue at the prologue – catastrophe of emotions among human affairs could have been avoided. But then, life is misery and without misery we don’t die. We must suffer before we are shown the hellfire. It’s a tragic comedy of existence.  

For example, a glimpse of divorce at marriage. Both marriage and divorce are legal / halal. So, no. Let the orchestra be played in entirety. Let the filth be spread from the bedroom to the house to the relatives to the court. Let there be some fun for the rest of the jerking crap of the world.

Come to the more passionate, more natural, more promising, and more emotional side of the two humans. Yes, the haram side, which is actually more honest and natural.

Into each other. In love and in songs. In drives and in arms. Over time, the true poison seeped through sweats, getting mixed with the expensive scents and bringing up the true stink. The true beginning of the affair. 

Only coming to know that the perfect other for the last two or three or four or even five years was a piece of crap. A waste. Years and emotions are not wasted as we grew with them, but they are definitely wasted on the wrong person. The one not deserving of it at all.

You ain’t deserving it either. You are part of the crap. Don’t imagine yourself a hero. Or heroine. Or ice.

It’s a two-way sword. If she’s stinky, so are you. If he’s ugly, so are you. If one is incompatible; well, both are. And realistically, no one’s compatible. There are compromises and transactional affairs. Give some, take some. Leave some.  

All decaying organic matter as every other reptile. Same compost heap. All singing, all dancing, crap of the world.

The charming, the beautiful – but it’s the ending that matters the most. It’s the one that haunts you or relieves you. Let the other party throw all the trash over you. Let them die a hero. Let them be the better half. Let them be. Be.

Let it all vomit on your face.

Let all the accusations land on your lap.

Let all the stink be yours.

Let your stars carry all the faults.

Let you be the ugly one.

Let it be “okay”.

Don’t hit back. Let the insults land. Let the spit dry. Let the stink wash away. And snap. Gone. You feel nothing. Not even hate. Okay, a little hate maybe, but it shall die too. At least with you.

You don’t need to win every battle. You don’t need to argue every time. You don’t need to respond all the time. You don’t need to give a fuck about everything. Your fucks are limited. And important. Save them for worthy spreads ahead.

You may now kiss the bribe. Bride.

Now you may kiss the arse. Fucktards.

Lahore, Monsoon & Short Stories

Every day has been a new short story in Lahore’s monsoon. July has been blessed and seduced to an extent that it has been wet for over two weeks now.

It’s evening in noon. Again. Other times, it’s dark days and thundering nights. Last night’s drive in the rain was scary to hell, but it was too seducing to be spent at home.

Imagine a short story in a dark day.

Stuck on a flooded road and there’s this small woman in a small car. Smiling and talking to herself – a little confused but unable to leave Lahore on its own. Short curly hair. Large eyeglasses with a thin frame. Thin lips. Fairly fair. And then you don’t mind being stuck.

In fact, you carry the short story slowly without being annoyed anymore of being late for something very, very… unimportant. Then, at one most significant moment of the monsoon day in Lahore, she looks at you, smiles, and gestures as if to say “We’re stuck”.

“Yes, we are,” he smirks and thinks and then he thinks to be stuck for a little longer.

Nothing seems important after that unknown woman. And your day goes on beautifully – without a future, promise, conflict, judgement, or separation.

A complete short story is the incomplete one.  

I know. Frustrating. The narrator is ignorant and blasphemous. Fine.

Imagine the monsoon in Lahore again. The whole season being spent with the one. In one’s arm. Hand in hand, waiting for the rain to fall so they can hug without this city’s judgement. Driving in the rain toward unknown destinations. Hand in hand.

The first rain and the first gesture.

Another one with a hug.

Another one with a kiss.

Another rain, another love, still with the same one.

Then comes frustration.

What’s more? How to get more? Possession!

Then comes the conflict – another rain, and the first argument.

Then the first fight with no contact for the three rainless days when the city tried to took a break, though the sun didn’t shine either.

Then what? More rains and more fights.

More arguments.

Both wanting more from each other. Hence, frustration.

And then, before the last spell of the monsoon… it ends. The novel ended before the season did. The divorce lasted longer than the marriage. In fact, the divorce came without a marriage.

Such a shame.

Come back to the short story. The girl with a curly hair, no dragon tattoo, one small gesture, a wide thin smile, and that was that – the end. Perverts.  

Like this rain ended without an epilogue in Lahore.

For another rain to fall.

For another short story to be written.

For another eternity to be marked.

Whatever. Lahore is a whore even without the monsoon. This city is that whore of Manto that cannot be ignored and that cannot be left ever.  

Deaths Without Notice

Remember Bret Easton Ellis’s ‘America Psycho’? A novel written in 1991 and a movie made in 2002 with the same name starring Christian Bale. Patrick Bateman, the protagonist who was actually an antagonist, was into murders and executions – not mergers and acquisitions alone – and talked about killing a colleague but no one believed him.

Everyone was busy. Nobody cared. And city lives on even if some of the residents are missing all of a sudden. Nobody notices.

Two cases in recent times. Both from the media industry in Karachi, and both women.

An elderly woman dies in her apartment. Her body was found only after neighbors complained about the foul odor. Nobody checked on her in over a week. No friend. No relatives. No one panicked for her.

In the second case, a 32-year-old girl dies in her apartment. And she remained there for months. At least 6 months. Nobody checked on her. No one panicked for her. With over 700k followers on Instagram, she was as alone as a lone star in a moonless night with no one looking in the sky.

People have already talked about her cold-hearted family but what about others? Not a single friend? No one? Literally no one missed her. No one noticed that she wasn’t there anymore.

It is as if we are living in a post-apocalyptic era with zombies running around the city in the day. Yes, there is a war of views and likes, reels and images, wealth and material; but ultimately, we are all humans, and we all are vulnerable at least once a day. Yet, no one felt vulnerable for her. No one missed her.

Even if she was murdered or if there was any foul play of some sort – no one actually missed her presence anywhere. Not on social media. Not on some set. Not anywhere.

A friend of mine – an arsehole by definition – was out of contact last year for 24-hours. It was General Elections day in Feb 2024. Networks were off. Internet was not working. But I, with another friend of mine, panicked for that arsehole. We decided to check on to him at 1 am – with all the wild imaginations – only to find him alive.

By the way, how good was the landlord here. Sent multiple notices. Went to the court. Came to the apartment with the bailiff. Didn’t break into the apartment in all these months. Too nice to be…

Ayesha Khan was 77. Humaira Asghar was 32. One had children and one had parents – yet both didn’t matter for them. Both had a life in front of camera and limelight – yet their absence wasn’t noticed.

We all think as Bulleh Shah said, “I won’t die – someone else lies in the grave.”

Yes. For now. We feel sad for the gone ones once they are gone without realizing that they are switched-off, done and dusted from this world. It is us who are left to witness our death. Some of us will die exactly like that. Without making a ripple. And some will die in uglier circumstances. Terminal illness. Stuff like that.

Notice. Has been served.