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Part II: Weddings and other scary things

Posted on 06 February 2012 by Tea Server

like thigh flab.

Stifle yawn. Proceed to where bride sits, bling is blinding, adjust eyes and try to focus,  shut eye for bit but try not to bump into men with fat bellies and half a tooth missing- they ogle- should know they look like ogre while ogling but pity, have not slightest clue.

Look around for bride. Bride looklikes make search for bride more difficult, do not understand why every girl should put as many layers of make-up as bride, must they ruin bride’s special day? and not let her alone look like runaway godzilla from zoo.. bride must want to look unique, think sympathetically, must hate look alikes, blood must boil and redden cheeks but then layers of make-up must do good job of hiding said cheeks, ohhhh, now understood, congratulate beautician for foresight, and clap, several layers of make-up is actually dual-purposed and part of beautician’s contingency plan, is impressed…

Jump unaware when hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) squeals and points at be-jewelled creature whose face looks like baby spice transitioning into posh spice, and stopping between transition, not a pretty sight, body seems out of proportion with face but that is least of its problems, it is bride afterall.

Nod, prepare to utter convincing ooh- and aah at dress and if necessary, make cooing sounds and say how-beautiful-you-look–what-(designer)-are-you-wearing?–what-a-gorgeous-couple-you-make -…with-that-confused-guy-over-there-who-seems-to-be-screaming-in-his-head, add only inwardly..

Move toward creature with caution and conciliatory fake smile on in case she is clairvoyant and can hear thoughts (look supernatural, don’t she? teeheehee), adjust hair for benefit of camera man click-click-clicking away, (hair is second best feature next to eyes, afterall)…  camera man is one of richest man at wedding second only to beautician who painted creature’s face,  job is to get bride and groom to pose for  ‘natural-looking’ pictures and just not stop clicking, also to make bridezilla here look beautiful after beautician ruined considerable chances, chuckle at self, no wonder richest man at wedding…

… see richest man stealthily use sepia, dark-grey and all sorts of black-and-white modes on his camera more and more often; most when bride giggles and bares teeth, maybe reminiscent of Hannibal the Cannibal… should not let hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) hear thoughts, should not let anyone hear thoughts lest they think is jealous, is not jealous, is scared of such day dawning upon self… *shudder*

Stand at stage with bride and groom and smile properly for first time; can see waiters stand close to dinner tables ready to take off lids, only redeeming quality of event would be caterers being third richest people at wedding, shall forgive hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) in such case.

Get off stage, fast, fast, fast, flower trail after shoe, do not want to fall off stage but stomach demands haste, be first one to stand beside waiter who stands beside food, smile, bugger stares, so whistle and move a little away, feign indifference, flip hair for affect, fix slipping-smile back where lips are until lids come off, feel perverted thinking of lids and them off but only talking about food dishes…  be first one to grab onto hot steaming naan, gobble thankfully and chew away at chicken piece, do not make eye contact with hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) in case she reminds of things like etiquette and decorum, chomp, chomp, chomp… chomping away like baby elephant must look bad for image, chomp more, and voraciously, forgive hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) immediately and wonder thoughtfully whether she will be hopeful enough ever ever again, resist and fight thought, proceed to chomp.

Look out for “Weddings and other scary things, an afterthought”.

Also read Part I: Weddings and other scary things

Syndicated from: {between musings}

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Part I: Weddings and other scary things

Posted on 02 February 2012 by Tea Server

like eye goop.

Get dragged out of bed by hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later), half a sock in tow, been told the light will go at 8:00 p.m; it is 07:30, need to select clothes, then need to press clothes, fast.  Should wash face too. Should. It is too cold to wash face. Don’t. Take tissue, rub face vigorously with moisturizer to wipe dirt and tw0-day old mascara which is frighteningly stuck at all the wrong places around the eyes (the corners, the tips etc.), eyes feel wide shut, open them, try again. Been told by brother that face is fat and nothing looks good, also been told to wear girly clothes to look like girl, nonchalantly agree to looking like girl, get black shirt out, no shalwar or pajama to go with it, get black jeans out, they would have to do, shirt is long, will hide jeans, no one would know it is jeans, triumph at spark of brilliance, mentally thump back.

Face looks clean after moisturizer rub, hate make-up, hide from mum who will force make-up, wait for lights to go so she does not see the no-make face, crunch up and play hair to give messy look, love  that best about self. Don clothes before anybody sees, is relieved when light goes, apply lots and lots and lots of kajal, been told eyes are beautiful, should emphasize.

Rush, rush, rush to the wedding venue, hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) looks sweetly murderous when she can finally see face, berates for lack of make-up and messy hair, does not see jeans, triumph once again at spark of brilliance, could be brand ambassa(dress) of such jeans- thinks inwardly- tell mum there is no make-up in bag, do not like lying, tell her that camera man is upon us and now leaving, what is point?, no-make-up-face is already on record, she shrugs, tells in so many words t0 not-fuck-off anywhere because there is a long journey to embark upon, throws us both in a throng of glittery, shiny women with painted faces, hahahhah, faces look so big can imagine someone playing ball with them, tons of make-up must make faces weigh, well, tons- giggles at self , is so funny- pastes fake smile on face, big enough to look like smile, small enough to not show teeth, do not like teeth, teeth are ugly….  fake smile is slipping, hold onto it like would a rein of a marching horse or the stump of a wriggly camel… something is in eye, twitch replaces smile… still say hello-how-are-you–you-look-so-nice–doesn’t-she-mum?–oh-you-have-a-baby-too–so-beautiful–do-come-to-our-house-sometime–no-we-are-still-living-there–hahaha-no-do-not-want-to-get-married-now–hahahah-no-want-to-study–hahaha-yes-please-do-tell-if-you-find-a-nice-guy-for-me (so I stay faaaaar away from him, say inwardly)–yes-cannot-stay-young-forever-you-are-right– yes-digital-clock-is-ticking–yes-yes-yes-yes…..

Steer self away from one to have similar conversation with another, hopeful mum (shall explain adjective later) smiles, she appreciates acquiesce- will take revenge from her later-, oh, it is time to go see the bride now, is it?

Syndicated from: …between musings

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Unwriting, a sequel

Posted on 01 February 2012 by Tea Server

High on the ‘block’

He has a memory of a pick’s.

Pick, you know, like a drink pick or a cocktail pick, that small thin stick which we use to pick small eatables from? Pieces of cucumber perhaps or watermelon…

Alright, I know picks are things and things do not have memory.. unless of course if you are counting memory cards, mobile phones, sim cards, computers…(so I was wrong, things do have memory)…. Lets just say, picks are things which have no memory. You know how you pick something with a pick and put it in your mouth and that’s that?- that is the end of its very existence. Maybe it had been lying on a tray for a really, really long time but apart from that, this pick or picks in general are short-lived and terminal.

So you see why I say his memory is like a pick’s? I could have said his memory is like that of a gold fish but that would have defeated the entire purpose of telling something in a round about way, going this-away and that-away without really getting to the point, using a word so many times it starts to p(r)ick at you;  so much so that even when the word is not being used, it seems like it is and thereby, convincing all of the unfortunate one-or-two readers that you have to stop being (readers, that is).

The point is, and it is a universal fact (I use the word ‘fact’ very loosely because I really don’t think it is scientifically proven or even tested for that matter but if it were… ) that it is awfully irritating when people forget things which mean something to you and you told them repeatedly about it and they still manage to forget. And you, instead of taking it out at them, decide to write about it in the most bizarre fashion that your mind could whip up at that moment, and continue writing.

So yes, I am utilizing my phase of non-writing by writing about nothing. Perhaps my next post will be on my passionate love affair with punctuation marks; semi-colon in particular or on full stops alone and their significance in the world of running sentences, running lives- thronged with confusing emotions, bombarded with dizzying information, lost between the apprehension of death and the obvious disillusionment with life, unhinged, unsettling, flustered, befuddled foolishness…

Syndicated from: …between musings

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Unwriting

Posted on 31 January 2012 by Tea Server

Does one have to be a writer to have writer’s block?

Sit down. Be quiet. Don’t whine. Open word document. A fresh A4 page. Choose font to suit mood. Drop idea. Stick with Times New Roman. Move cursor to the top of the page. Prepare to write…. Prepare to write…

Stare. Stare. Stare.  Let fingers hover over the keyboard. Feel inspired. Feel very, very motivated to write. Mentally take your hand inside your head and rummage through looking for an idea. A figment of an idea perhaps?

Leave it. Get up and go for a long walk. How long can the mind remain blank? There must be some point when it stops being blank and throw over a nugget of idea, a simple thought, a sentence.. a word… an idea of a word?

Things are so topsy turvy, they are turvy-topsy. I feel I have a lot to talk about but I cannot quite form the right words. So instead I am writing about the state of non-writing.

How can it be writer’s block if I am writing? It is like selective amnesia, really. I have selective writer’s block. The mind refuses to produce bouts of ideas for what I want to write about and only words of frustration make sense and tumble out…

Then perhaps stop. Then perhaps sit back and decide not-to-write rather than to-write. Maybe the mind works like Thing 1 and Thing 2 from ‘The cat in the hat’. Order them something and they would guarantee doing the opposite. Maybe the mind is engineered to go as far away from things you are concentrating too much on, maybe it is lazy and exhausts easy.

So here it is. This is me stopping and unwriting. Lets see if it works. And soon.

Syndicated from: …between musings

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Right Now

Posted on 22 January 2012 by Tea Server

Right now, the breeze is rustling through the trees outside. It makes anice sound. Like soft whispers, velvety rustles. I sit on the sofa and listento it.

And I feel scared. I feel scared because of what’s to come. And that’sdisappointment. I’ve known too much of it lately, and I’ve no desire toexperience anymore now.

Somebody’s listening to a song. It floats over, carried by the obligingbreeze. The tune is painfully familiar.

“Kay dhoop chaaon ka…
Kay dhoop chaaon ka aalam raha
Judai na thi…

Woh humsafar tha
Woh humsafar tha…”

I want to scream. I want to say, Pleaseshut up. I’m annoyed. It’s the annoyance that comes from listening to asong too many times, until its lyrics are etched in your brain permanently. Youcouldn’t forget them even if you tried.

I would block my ears if I could. Except I would get tired of holding mypalms up to my ear drums eventually. So it wouldn’t work. I just have to sithere and listen to it.

But look at me. Complaining of my ability to listen. Oh, wouldn’t a deafperson hate me right now, if he could see me. I feel almost repentant. I’d feelcompletely repentant though, if it weren’t for how irritating the song was.

The listener starts singing along. Somehow, he gets the wonderful strokeof inspiration that the song will sound even better with his voice lending strengthto the words. His voice warbles, rising up and down, screeching, hitting notesI didn’t even know existed. He moans the words, exaggerating the tone, until itsounds like he’s almost crying himself, gripped in the throes of agonizingmisery. I feel like laughing and shaking my head at the same time.

Right now, I’m eating pasta. Usually, I like pasta. But today I don’t likepasta as much as I usually do, because I already had some the day beforeyesterday.

What is it with things like songs and food becoming less pleasurableeach time you indulge more in them?

Oh but wait, there’s an economic term for this. I’m pretty sure thereis. I rack my brains, flitting mentally through all my economics notes, tryingto remember. I read this. I learned this for a test. I know I did. Come on,memory, don’t fail me now.

And then it comes to me. Instantly, suddenly, out of nowhere. Like abolt of lightning in a clear blue sky. I stiffen in remembrance, in awareness. Ohyes. The Law of Diminishing Marginal Utility.

I almost feel compelled to pat myself on the back. What a good littleeconomics student I am. And I feel like rolling on the floor, hiccupping inlaughter over my own antics.

Why won’t the song end?

Right now, I’m also caressing the cover of my latest purchase andlooking at tenderly. It’s a book. Of course it is. I only reserve suchaffection for books. I only spend my pocket money on buying them, too. A Clashof Kings by George R. R. Martin. I began it yesterday night, diving into thepages with unbridled enthusiasm. I’ve read a quarter of it now, and so far, Ilove it. It’s the second volume in A Song of Ice and Fire. An acquaintance, anold school fellow, whom I was texting with in the early hours before dawn, bothof us being late sleepers and late risers, recommended the series to me. Hetold me that it’s good. And his opinion held true. It is. Bran, Sansa, Arya,Lord Eddard and the rest of the Starks. And Jon Snow too, because he’s still aStark, even if he is a bastard. Tyrion Lannister. RobertBaratheon. The incestuous twins, Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei. And all theothers. Their lives will sweep you along. Winteris coming. You’ll be sucked into their world. Into the land where summerscan last decades and winters a lifetime. And you won’t be able to escape then.Because as the Queen softly stated, “Whenyou play the game of thrones, you win or you die.

It’s thick too. I love thick books. It allows me to believe that thestory will never end.

But all things have endings. Which is a great thing, in some cases.Because look, the song’s ending. And now, I think I shall too. The last strainsof the song fade away into silence, reverberating lightly, as the last lettersappear before me on the screen. And the outpouring of words stops, along withthe music, the consumption of pasta, the breeze, the singing and everythingelse.  
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations

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2011: The Turbulent Flight

Posted on 03 January 2012 by Tea Server

By Jehan Naseem

At the end of every year or the beginning of a new one, a very dear friend of mine and I repeat the same words, “God-willing, this will be our year,” to give each other a gentle yet positive push looking forward to the New Year ahead.

For some 2011 was a great year, as opposed to the preceding years which seemed far more devastating.  However, for others it had its ups and downs. Last year, I had witnessed many jumps and dips for my loved ones and myself.  It had extreme turbulences which seemed more life changing without any boundaries.

From the many lessons that I had to learn last year, the most important one for me was that to learn to deal with the root of a particular problem, in order to allow change to occur in a healthy fashion. We all know that the severe modification in the socio-economic political level affects all of us.  However, they also create internal conflicts on a personal level, by riling up a rouse or allow us to progress.  The previous year seemed no different from the preceding years in terms of the level of abruptness we all have seen.  These changes made purposely or unplanned seemed to have a different alteration on the train of thought on the large masses.  To me, this abruptness caused a visible shift in the paradigm and on a one-on-one basis.

The appearance of the shift was more apparent to me after witnessing something either devastating or extraordinary where humanity has been replaced by sensationalism. The base of the situation suggested becomes baseless, but very carefully camouflaged with morals. I wonder though, do the players at play ever realize that morals without logic are just that, baseless?  That the gaming preludes to the actualization of fear?  Fear, that makes us question our abilities rather than the choices we make?

There are many types of people in this world, some are the players and others are the ones that get played.  However, there are even those who are well aware that they are getting played yet choose to do nothing and at the same there are those will go to many levels to help themselves.  It is difficult to give the whole blame to the ones that ignited the gaming ploy, since there are so many out there who have seen and heard the truth and choose to do nothing.  I know the truth can be relative to most.  However, that can change if there is evidence and logic supporting it.  Taking out only the negative aspect of what is evident (that to only out of arrogance and pride), just so your own side can be supported isn’t self-righteous, but unfortunately puerile.  Not admitting to what is wrong around you is creating a toxic environment.  A right can not be made with two wrongs, just the way you can’t sensationalize something that isn’t there and throw the victimization card to the party in front of you.

Unfortunately, I have seen this happen many times.  I’ve seen religion, class, creed, ethnic backgrounds and race being slandered in acts of self-righteousness.  I would be defecated on in the middle of these acts, since there were directionless and attacked mostly everyone.  2011 year in particular seemed to be much rougher when it came to slandering or the glorified form of it called “sensationalism”.  A friend of mine said to me that to him, “even sensationalism was a form of fundamentalism.”  I couldn’t have said it any better.

Everything that I have stated affected me on a personal basis.  It decreased my tolerance level and increased my despair.  Oddly to say most of those around me would agree.

In 2011 I seemed to witness a re-run of emotions crashing into people like a terrible freak accident.  People that I know lost their loved ones in blasts and accidents or barely escaping them. They had been lied to out of omission leading to worsen the situation.  Someone would throw the victimization card at them (“you don’t know what I’m going through”) without being informed of what was going on.  Many have had their heart-broken in countless ways.  I have seen and experienced being spoken down to just for being individuals without disrespect and when standing up for yourself you get labeled (for a foul mood or just a terrible person).

However, every negative has a positive.  I saw many positive things come out of these scenarios as well.  I saw people becoming stronger after losing a loved one or barely escaping an accident/blast.  They became smarter after their right being held from them and developed the strength to fight for it.  Instead of allowing themselves to be played by a victim, they became martyr on their own.  Those who had broken hearts, allowed their own to have more surface area.  I chose and watched people standing up for themselves without worrying about being labeled, because those whom actually care without being fickle will never label you.

Something very small starts these train wreck of psychological emotions, which were created by situations that have occurred.  These small elements have been composed into something bigger than they are supposed to be.  For example; the cause behind a terrorist attack may be small, but when it is made into something bigger it literally kills.  You can see the application of it on a personal basis.  When something devastating does happen a part of you dies.  However, even if a part of you dies it is just so that you can be re-born once again.

Even though 2011 was the year of change, hopefully 2012 will be that of change filled with peace of mind and heart.

Happy New Year everyone and God Bless!

Syndicated from: Pak Tea House

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“I would love you until my last breath, if you allowed yourself to be loved.”

Posted on 01 January 2012 by Tea Server

Crossroads. Choices. I don’t knowwhat to do. I don’t want to deal with them anymore. I feel like a frail,struggling butterfly pinned up against a wooden slate, wings fluttering,strength draining, death hovering. Well, perhaps the death part is a littlemelodramatic. But the tendency to exaggerate has always been dominant withinme. I feel trapped, anyhow. Not because I don’t have any choices, but because Ihave too many. That sounds pretty shallow, now that I reflect upon it. Afterall, who complains of having too much freedom? But you do. Oh, you do. Youcomplain when you want everything and you realize that you can’t haveeverything, and the thought of choosing one path twists your heart because ofthe benefits of all the other paths you’re leaving behind. Opportunity cost, asthey say, something an economics student like me should be well accustomed tonow. Or maybe it’s as Sylvia Plath says, “Perhaps when we find ourselveswanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”That line confused me when I read it first, but now it makes absolute,beautiful sense. An ominous sign. Oh yes. A perilous thought.

I don’t know which of the choicesI want more. But the one thing I do know I want is you. I want to be with youagain, feel your arms wrap around me, your lips brush against my forehead. Iwant to sit out with you on the steps leading up to my front porch, darknessdescending, swallowing us, the air warm and thrumming softly in silky silence, theperipheries of trees turning black against the deepening sky. And I would lookat you then and know that I have come home, understand that there can be nogreater joy than this, no matter how many continents I traverse, how manyoceans I sail over. To love and to beloved. It’s the greatest bliss of all. And as the birds retire, and thestars emerge, I would sit and rejoice in our harmony, in the simplicity yetwondrous multiplicity of it. But such thoughts are painfully futile. Becauseyou aren’t on the list of choices I have. You’re crossed out completely. And Iwould give everything I have just to be able to pencil you into the sketch of mylife once more, ease you in like no time has passed. It wouldn’t be difficultfor me even, to close my eyes and pretend that years can be compressed to the equivalentof mere hours. It would be effortless. But then, it isn’t up to me any longer.Sometimes I think it never was, and I was a naïve unsophisticated fool to thinkotherwise.

A bitch whines morosely outsideas she limps her way up the street. I stand up; wrap my sweater around metightly. I remind myself that it’s not summer anymore, it’s the depth ofwinter, and years cannot be hours, no matter how many times I declare they are.Magic wands and happy endings don’t exist here, only in Disney movies. Andthere’s only so many of them you can watch before you outgrow them, like a pairof jeans you can no longer squeeze into, no matter how robustly you hold yourbreath. I remember the first time I shifted from cartoons to television showswith actual human beings acting. I felt so proud, so grown-up, so utterlymature, established newly within a higher plane of existence. I laugh mockinglyat myself now. I pity the child I used to be, whilst desperately envying her aswell. Paradoxically self-denying self-indulgence. I must stop being such a blurof conflicting absurdities.

I open the pages of my oldjournal, read the words I wrote about you on wishful autumn afternoons longgone, your essence contained in my familiar, sloping handwriting. Memories of occasionsthat are long gone; faded and blended into shadows. Of perfect moments that cannever be recaptured or relived, but only remain encapsulated forever in thepages of this journal, in ink staining white paper, maiming it purposelessly. Foran instant, my hand stills, fingers splayed across the page. And they bend atthe joints, suddenly and sharply, fingertips digging into the paper as an uninhibited,unbridled outpouring of bitter frustration bubbles over, nails leaving smallcrescents into the paper itself, imprints of half-moons. I consider tearing outthe papers, stuffing them swiftly into the trash bin that stands expectantly inthe corner of my room. But the impulse vanishes as suddenly as it came. Ismile. I caress the cover of the journal tenderly, absentmindedly. My minddrifts again, but I don’t admonish it for doing so. Instead, I encourage it,acknowledge the importance of mental escape, the beauty and infinite value ofit. I place the journal carefully inside my cupboard again, underneath piles ofclothing, tucked away out of sight. I push at the cupboard door, and it obligesunderneath the pressure of my palm, falling shut with a gentle, satisfying click. I leave the room, emerging intothe brightness of the hallway, my feet light upon the floor, almost prancing,my shadow trailing along behind me, gliding soundlessly across the walls, thefloor, solidly black, sinuously rippling. 
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations

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2011 and 2012, tied together.

Posted on 31 December 2011 by Tea Server

Outside, from the window ofmy living room, nature looks beautiful and enchanting. The leaves of the treesare dappled with late afternoon sunlight; the golden is soft and glowing, andhighlights the dark green strikingly. The sun hangs in a pale, washed-out bluesky, a bright orb suspended high above, whose radiance intimidates you, forcesyou to shield your eyes involuntarily. Birds chirp faintly in the distance, thesoft sound floating over to me on the stillness of the afternoon. I would goand sit outside right now, on the front steps of the porch. But it’s winter,and despite the sun, there’s a bitter chill permeating the air, causing me toabandon the idea. Nature is beautiful, but torturous as well. The greenery islush, the flowers are blooming, the soil is wet and freshly turned, and thegrass newly moved. But amidst the beauty, there is a certain distastefulness aswell, tainting the exquisiteness of the scenario. After all, the bees do sting,the mosquitoes do bite, the cold does dig in your bones cruelly, and the crowsdo caw evilly and whiz past dangerously close to your scalp, sharp talonsextended. Perhaps I am a pessimist, always seeking out the drawbacks, combing minutelyfor flaws, where others would simply be content to lean back and allow theblemishes to escape their notice. Not allowing myself to be contented with the veneerof perfection before me, I always attempt to crack it, to see the layers of rottingmisery underneath. Or maybe I am just a realist that sees both sides of thepicture, not blinded in the way that optimists are.

Today is the last day of2011, and right now I am reflective. I am remembering every little thing aboutthe past year, reliving it inexorably. I wish I could say otherwise, but thisyear has not been kind to me. However, I blame nobody but myself. Life is whatyou make it, and I chose to make this year terrible. It started out unconsciously,the errors made in innocence; but when the pieces started falling, I did notattempt to stem the flow, only sat back in guilty placidity, hands clasped, andwatched the dominoes topple over, one by one. Mistakes led to more mistakes,and before I knew it, they were mistakes no longer, only wrong actions and iniquitousdecisions executed deliberately and intentionally. I let my anger and sorrow overpowerme, allowed them to sweep me along in their wake. So sick at heart was I overwhat I had mistakenly done in the past, that I forgot that the future was stillfree and unencumbered with regrets.  Ivow never to let that happen in 2012.

It is time for change. Ineed to believe that, otherwise I will never be able to get through the newyear. I know, with a certainty embedded deep in my bones, that I cannot endureanother year like this one. For my own sanity’s sake, I need to believe thatthe person I was this year is not the real me. Otherwise, I will abhor myself.And that would be the greatest tragedy of all, the point where all hope wouldactually become futile. And in all honestly, I do not believe that the person Iwas this year was the real me. If it had been me, I would have been happy withmyself. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy or delighted or even remotely satisfied. Iwas only discontent and repulsed. And that’s an encouraging sign! I should have been discontent and repulsed.If I hadn’t been, well then, that would have been a cause for proper, justifiedconcern. It would indicate that I was already past saving. But I’m boundlesslyhappy to acknowledge that I’m not. I can be saved, and will be saved, by no onebut myself.

Of course, the concept ofsaving myself does consist of all those basic goals, steady and reliable,unsurprising, predictable. Study harder, work more efficiently, try to eathealthier, exercise more regularly. I want to lose the extra weight I have beenlugging around with me for far too long, peel it off me like a snake sheddingold, deteriorating layers of skin. I also intend to continue writing in my journalfaithfully, as I have done for the past two years, and to blog with enhanced frequency.I want to interact more with other bloggers, gain new followers and discovermany more wonderful blogs. I want to read other blogs with an increased levelof devotion, involve myself more in other people’s lives, even if only indirectly,through reading about them, about what they have to say.

But other than thosesimpler, fundamental goals, I have more diverse ones as well, that are uniqueto me and my life. I pledge to finally finish my novel this year. Even if itsucks, even if I hate it, even if I think it is the worst piece of bullshit ever written in the history of literature, Iwill not abandon it. I have had one too many failed attempts. I will not leavea novel half-way through again. I haveto see it through to the end. Because knowing me, I will never be trulysatisfied with anything I like. So it’s time that I stop letting that be theinfluencing factor. Instead, I’ll put my own self-annihilating opinions into abox, lock it tightly, and toss the key down a metaphorical well. I also need tocontinue with my university applications with renewed enthusiasm, as opposed tothe lackluster, lethargic attitude I’ve been exhibiting towards the task lately.This year shall be the year of upheaval, of new beginnings. That will bebecause in this year, I’ll end A Levels, and embark on the universityadventure, an undertaking entirely and completely new. It will be the biggest,most shattering change ever for me. The first half of 2012 will be spentpreparing for the university experience, anticipating it eagerly, breathlessly,and the second half will consist of wallowing in it, reveling in the experienceitself, living it out. I have many roles in life, but at this stage in time,being a student is my primary one. Therefore, the university experience will bemy major experiment, terrifying and thrilling all at once.

2011 has not been a completewaste of time, however. It has allowed me to see certain pivotal realizations,and these shall be crucial in helping me to succeed in the coming year ahead.When you have an already existing model of all the things you are not supposedto you, then the plan for the entire year ahead suddenly becomes very focusedand clear-cut. Just do the opposite. In a nutshell, 2012will be the opposite of 2011. That’s my only aim, the only thing I will keeprepeating to myself when I forget what it is that I should do next. What to do? I wail in pitiful confusion. And the reply instantaneously bubbles to the surface, reassuring in its synchronized simplicity. Why, just the opposite of what you didlast year, silly!

2011 made me see importantthings that I would not have understood otherwise. It made me see firstly thatyou cannot run or hide from your problems, because they follow you around likeyour shadow. They are a part of you; you cannot slice them away from youwithout splintering yourself. And because your problems are in essence you,escape is impossible. You cannot escape yourself. No matter where you go, there you are

This past year also made merealize the value of enjoying life. I spent the entire year so involved inplanning for the future, that I forgot about relishing the present. I unwittingly allowed myself to despise the present, which in turn, madeeverything bleaker, including my hopes for the future. It was a vicious cyclethat fed on itself, depression relentlessly leading to further depression,stretching on ahead with no possible end in sight. This year, I shall endeavour todestroy this cycle, rip it out from the root. As Vivian Greene famously said, “Lifeisn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in therain.”  Such a soft, beautiful line! I’vealso realized that it’s true, what people say, about the fact that you thinkthat you want to die… but in reality, you just want to be saved. That’s sotrue. I’m never going to forget that simple actuality again. 

In 2011, Alice InWonderland and I were one and the same. I had the same problem as her, aproblem that she outlined clearly, in the following lament: “That’s the troublewith me, I give myself very good advice, but I seldom follow it.” 2012 shall beall about following the advice I give myself. But I also promise to be lessharsh on myself, to expect less of me, to be gentler and less demanding. I don’twant to expect wonders from me all the time. I’m going to remember what JohnnyDepp declared: “We’re all damaged in our own way. Nobody’s perfect. I think we areall somewhat screwy, every single one of us.” And other than not expectingmyself to be untarnished, I’m not going to harbor unrealistic expectations aboutlife either, desiring it to be perfect or smooth all the time. As someonewisely and anonymously said, “Peace comes not from the absence of conflict inlife, but from the ability to cope with it.” 

And in 2012, I will be stronger. Iwill learn to not fall apart or crumble at small, trivial things. I need toroll better with life’s little punches, take the curveballs it throws at me inmy stride. I did not accomplish that this past year, but I will do so now. Becauseas Albert Camus so poignantly said: “Blessed are the hearts that can bend; theyshall never be broken.”

Okay, I think I’veinsinuated more than enough quotes in my prose now. But I’m quotingothers to illustrate my opinions because they’ve already said all that I feel,expressed it in beautiful, all-encapsulating words. I couldn’t have said it allof it better myself, even if I’d tried. Finally, I will end this by announcingthat in 2012, I plan on behaving like a duck: it keeps calm and unruffled onthe surface, but paddles like hell underwater. A brilliant model of behavior, Ithink, and certainly one I would like to employ as well. 
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations

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‘I am as bad as the worst, but thank God, I am as good as the best.’

Posted on 26 December 2011 by Tea Server

It’slate at night, but not late enough for me. Nighttime is when I feel trulyawake. There’s nothing better than curling up next to the heater armed with mylaptop and a few tidbits of food to replenish my sagging energy levels. A barof chocolate, a packet of instant Knorr noodles, or a bottle of Minute Maidjuice. The orange one, not the tropical flavoured one. The latter was just too sicklysweet for my taste-buds. A few drops of it, and they were crying out powerfullyfor mercy. I had to toss the nearly full bottle into an empty bin. Profligateof me, I know, but I’ve lately understood that in my quest to clean plates anddrain glasses to avoid wasting the food, I’ve unknowingly let a few poundscreep stealthily onto my frame. From the moment this realization dawned on me, Ivowed to battle against it, even if it means throwing perfectly good food awaybecause there is no one around to eat it. I would rather be wasteful thanunhealthy. I know my limits.

Logictells me now that perhaps I should hand out the food to the beggars stragglingacross the streets of Islamabad, banging their knuckles against windowpanes ofirate drivers, fingers splayed pathetically in hope. But I’m torn over this. Idon’t approve of begging. I think that instead of wasting their days trailingover the black asphalt of roads in search of a few pennies, these people shouldat least try to find gainful employment.Life is hard to them, I understand that. But by laying down their arms andresigning themselves to defeat, they will not get anywhere. Instead, they’llonly breed children before dying out, spawning an entirely new generation ofbeggars to take their place.

Mystomach rumbles, but I don’t feel inspired to embark on a hunt for food. I’mtired, because I’ve written for the past three hours. It’s been productive, butonly mildly so. Three thousand words at most. Not one of the most efficientdays I’ve ever had, but definitely not one of the worst. I’m still not evenhalf-way through the story yet, either. I still have a lot left in me, and thecharacters are not ready to end their tales at this point either. There is a lot left tobe said, to be felt, and I cannot walk away without letting them churn outtheir hidden essences. At the same time, I must be careful not to drag thestory unnecessarily. I must distillate on the quintessence of what needs to beexpressed, and allow the rest to be left open to assumptions, interpretations.

Ifeel insecure telling people that I am writing a novel. Not because I’muncertain that I will finish this novel, but because I’m not sure of whether itwill ever make it into print. I’m not confident enough in its quality to know withuntarnished, absolute conviction that my novel, once completed, shall be worthyof publication. I especially feel disoriented when people ask, as theyinevitably do, “Are you a good writer?” I don’t know what to offer in response.I’m ambivalent myself, you see, so how can I be expected to state such adecisive, clear-cut opinion? How can I tell people what kind of a writer I amwhen, deep down, I’m clueless about the answer myself? Some days I wake up thinkingthat I’m the most brilliant writer on the planet, that everything I writedeserves miles of adoration and reverence, abundantly lauded glorification.Other times, I feel despondent, convinced that I’m the most terrible writer toever maim perfect sheets of white with degrading, unworthy black letters. Ifinally found a quote that I feel fits me snugly, like a shoe that’s soprecisely comfortable in all the specific points that you almost feel as thoughit was designed exclusively for your individual use. Walt Whitman uttered it,and it goes as follows: “I am as bad asthe worst, but thank God, I am as good as the best.” An all-encompassing,all-encapsulating description of my writing. I think I finally know what myanswer shall be now whenever people ask me that dreaded question, present onthe tip of my tongue and waiting to be fluidly, automatically recited, preventingthe usual stumbling and stuttering that had normally occurred, embarrassing meintensely.  

Winterhas finally arrived in Islamabad with a vengeance. I’ve taken to wearing athick, cable-knit dark gray sweater now. It’s loose and unshapely, and does notflatter me even slightly. On the contrary, it makes me look unwieldy, ungainly,misshapen. The sleeves are too long so they conceal my hands, and whenever I wavemy hands expressively to punctuate the impact of my speech, the sleeves flapnoisily, comically. But it keeps me warm, so blessedly warm. It even allows meto do away with socks! And that is simply wonderful, because I hate howterribly restricting socks can be. And they used to make my feet sweat. Adisgusting sensation, indeed. I’ve also started wearing deep, blue-based rednail polish, re-applying the coat each time it chips instead of painting them afresh colour. No, it is not laziness. Nor is it the general, inescapable feelof Christmas in the air that I breathe, permeating involuntarily though me,overpowering my Islamic barriers. I simply love the colour red on my nails inwintertime. A simple enough, uncomplicated concept. I adore winter. I used todislike it at first, feeling compressed by it, but now I don’t. That sense ofcompression vanished entirely, all on its own. Maybe because, like Albert Camusonce said, “In the depth of winter, Ilearned that there lay within me invincible summer.”  How fantastic, how awesomely superb.

Lately,I’ve been re-reading Jhumpa Lahiri and Daniyal Mueenuddin regularly, with an almostreligious devotion. I love their respective short story collections. They’relike breaths of fresh air for me. I can see the books now, piled haphazardly onmy living room sofa. Wherever I go, a trail of books inexorably follows me,scattered around like confetti, unmistakably marking my presence in a specific area,giving away the fact that my footsteps once padded across that space. LikeHansel and Gretel leaving breadcrumbs in their wake. It is a romantic notion, thevery idea of marking my territory, and it appeals to the whimsical part of me,the part that usually remains suffocated under the crushing confines ofpracticality.  

Thefirst day of winter vacations now draws to an end. I have much to worry about,but I think I need to let go, because the time for anxiety is still a few weeksahead, and I shouldn’t cross my bridges before I come to them, or prolong my angstunnecessarily. I shall fret when it is time to fret. But because now is notthat time, so I shall forget that there are things lying ahead waiting to befretted over, and shall instead languish about easily. A rich prospect, nodoubt. To bed now, I shall depart. But perhaps I may sneak a spoonful of mangoice-cream from the freezer before doing so. Oh I know, how shocking, how crazy of me, ice-cream in winters, what a blasphemy!But here, I offer nothing to verify the strength of my sanity. I think I’ll manageto abstain from such biased aspersions. 
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations

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Castles in the Air

Posted on 17 December 2011 by Tea Server

I have a paper in exactly six anda half hours, but I don’t feel inspired to study. I know I should – for Ireally don’t know anything at all – but I just spent the past two hours staringat my notes, and at past papers online, and the only thing I kept thinking was ‘Crap. I don’t know any of this.’ Andthere’s so much of it, too. Pages and documents and e-mails and endless texton past events of history – the Truman Doctrine, the Cuban Missile Crisis, theVietnam War, the Soviet Union, the fall of China at the hands of Communism. Allevents of the past, left behind in the unstoppable wake of time.

To me, it seems pointless tostudy about any of this, seeing as how I’ll never use it in real life, becauseall I plan to do is write literary fiction. But then, in my heart of hearts, Ido understand the importance of studying history, because it develops your mindand broadens your horizons. That, in a nutshell, was why I took World Historyin the first place. But so far all that the subject has done is manage to causeme endless heartache. No so-called ‘broadening’ taking place, whatsoever.Though, to be painfully fair, I suppose a good deal of it is my fault. After all, I don’t attend lectures, I bunk classes,sleep in the few I do attend or else tune the teacher out and doodle scribbleson the margins of my notebooks. I don’t bother poring over the e-mails he sendsme, nor do I even try cracking open my notes until the last few hours beforethe paper. And then, when I do finally muster up the willpower to do so, thewords feel alien, foreign to my eyes, none of the concepts ringing any note offamiliarity in my memory. And the sheer dread envelops me then, theoverwhelming sense of panic about the mountain of work left to do, the vastunchartered seas of things I don’t know at all.

I have a victim complex, I think.I seek refuge within excuses, such as lack of time, the teacher’s incompetencyor vagueness regarding the lectures etc. But in truth, the teacher is competent enough, I do have time, and I can study. I just choose not to. I whine plaintively about theinfluence of peer pressure, the insurmountable lure of other highly attractiveactivities like partying, gossiping with my best friend about all our otherfriends on the phone, watching Masterchef USA on Starworld, or 90210 onSidereel. I argue that it’s not my fault I don’t study because my mother’sconsistent nagging inspires in me the urge to rebel the constraints ofacademics – and how can I be expected to battle such an overpowering urge? Butdespite all that, I do have a choice. And it’s no one’s fault but my own that Ikeep making the wrong one.

I’m exceptionally good at lyingto myself. And believing all the lies I tell myself as well. Yesterday was my Englishliterature paper, and one of the texts included in the syllabus was TennesseeWilliams’ play, ‘A Streetcar Named Desire.’ While preparing for it, a suddenrealization dawned on me. Blanche and I – we were the same! The similaritiesbetween the play’s protagonist and myself suddenly became obvious, apparent,visibly shocking. She spun fantasies for herself, ran from reality, madecastles in the air. And beautiful castles, the kind that were like balm to herfrazzled soul – a chivalric hero, a Shep Huntleigh type gentleman, a knight inshining armour riding up to sweep her away.  She indulged in the make-believe, to an extentuntil that was the only thing that felt substantial to her anymore. Romanticnotions blotted out practicality, erased it altogether. And her tendenciesapply to me as well. Like her, I bury my head in the sand; ignore the calls oflogic, or reasoning. Logic tells me that unless I study I will never attain mydreams of being accepted to high-ranking universities or being financiallyindependent. But like Blanche, I continue to conjure castles in the air. Ichuckled weakly to myself as these thoughts permeated my brain. Blanche DuBoisand Neshmia Tahir – two peas in a pod! Hilariously funny to the point of beingtragically sad.

But this is turning into a bunchof ramblings now, threatening to heave me overboard in the sinking waters ofself-pity. I must return to the anchor of sanity now, because I have no wish ofsharing Blanche’s fate. Will I study right now? Yes. Will I pass the examtomorrow? No. In World History, two hours of cramming right before the papergets you nowhere. It does help you not fail toomiserably. But to attain marks in this accursed subject requires understandingconcepts, attempting dozens of essay questions, doing consistent prep over along period of time.  But in the end, allyou can do is learn from your mistakes. Beating yourself up over them isfutile. Because you’re never going to stop making them, you’ll only beatyourself down to self-annihilation. Regret and remorse are barnacles that willonly drown you under. Knowledge of your flaws and the determination to dobetter are the wind in your sails that will propel you forwards. It’s been ahard-earned lesson for me, but a lesson definitely worth acquiring. 
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations

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Of hearts, loyalty and trust

Posted on 22 November 2011 by Tea Server

Scratch that

Of Friends

I was always a bit of a hermit; easily confused for arrogance, my weariness or neglect rather, to socialize and make friends deluded all but me. Which brings me to how: I was always, always, always looking for me-time.

I was always looking to get away even with that limited number of friends who I loved and trusted and who loved and trusted me – and I shouldn’t take this from them- who bore me, who tolerated me, who took care of my mood swings and childish attitudes and complaints and my constant whining about everywhatever and laughed at all my jokes which laced with sarcasm. I would vanish off for hours without telling anybody; sometimes go hide in the computer lab, just to be alone. I would deliberately walk around the entire place, in the rain with my phone turned off (freshmen year comes to mind!). Funny how I always wanted me-time then.

Funny how I do not want it anymore

I had a flair for drama. I thought me-time was all deep and dark and mysterious and broody and sexy. It was maybe something I did not do deliberately, but I know I did. I wanted to wallow in the darkest moments of self-loathing and self-despair, I did not want to share, I did not want to sit and talk, I wanted to run away, far, far away. When I did talk to someone, it was  always a relief but – and although I don’t think I am a masochist- I never voluntarily talked. I would brood. And brood. And brood. And my idea of funny was dark cynicism which essentially threw stones at the world for just be-ing.

Oh don’t get me wrong. I still throw figurative stones at the world for being but I have come to accept it and I constantly find myself berating the old-me for being such a pain in the freaking arse! I find myself craving for the happy lull of friends around laughing at the fart-sound the couch made when someone sat on it- simply that. I find myself craving to reach out and put my arm around their shoulder in half-a-hug, laughing at something. I find myself needing someone who can sit infront of me so I can be negative and cynical and sarcastic and between all that, a little wise, a little funny, a little insolent. 

The irony of growing up is that you really want to be growing down. You dislike long dupattas (while you made saris out of them in youth), you want to cut your hair shorter and shorter (while longer hair was your ultimate dream as a child)… But I digress.

What I want to say is: I miss my friends. Yes, given that some of them are busy, some moved on, one turned out to be talking behind my back and then denying it (typical of so many girls!), the oldest one “cannot do this anymore” and the more recent one ”cannot do this anymore” either; I don’t know if I miss these friends or just miss friends, period.  

I guess I miss the innocence that friends bring with them; the sense of -in retrospect- gullibility that you can trust them, love them, be loyal to them and they will do all of that in return. I miss the ease with which you can rely on them, just call or message or mail and take up with them where you last left off- even if it was months back or just a day, not to forget their absolute acquiesce of your attitude and your odd sense of social etiquette including but not limited to, eating with your mouth wide open in sophisticated restaurants and talking to salesmen in a very fake but impressive british accent…

I always thought friendship, like love was about sacrifice. Doing things for your friends, being things to your friends… but sometimes I find myself thinking, maybe like all other things in the world, friendship is about selfishness, no different. You are friends for yourself, not the other person. You want more than give, you put conditions and time stamps on your feelings and you are constantly measuring, calculating, counting what you did and what they did and how they disappointed you.. never the other way around. What a scary thought that is.

… So if there were those who ”cannot do this anymore”, maybe it was my fault afterall.

 

 

 

This blog is ofcourse dedicated to F, Y and M.A; always and forever, there :)

Picture credit: beautifulineverything.com

Syndicated from: …between musings

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Of late nights, cigarettes and tea

Posted on 19 November 2011 by Tea Server

Back in college, every night was a late night, spent sometimes in an air-conditioned computer lab pretending to study or  sitting under a tree, on a wooden bench, pondering over the philosophy of existence, with a malbaro light hanging onto dear life from the two nimbly forefingers which would otherwise be pointing people out and laughing at their immature, obviously juvenile behavior at such a time of the night… Whether or not they were climbing a tree like a monkey is another story…

…criticism of the other and tolerance for, went queerly hand in hand here…

… also went, overdosing on tea, not drugs, sometimes falling asleep on the said bench, unawares, sometimes falling asleep with head onto a friend’s lap, amidst discussions into the epistemological approach towards modernity and post modernism or the loopholes in Descartesontological argument on the nature of God…forgetting in the morning who had the better argument but does that matter really?

Actually, back in college, every night was an early morning. We wouldn’t get tired of cup of tea after cup of tea till the head started to hum happily, singing songs of spring, asserting that sleep was something you did when you were done with life. We weren’t. And to proof the tea-effect right, we would roam round and round and round the campus, watching the miracles of nature unfold as we roamed: huddle of girls and boys sitting on the grass by the pavement playing hopscotch, sticks and stones or sometimes simultaneously singing out-of-tune lullabies to each other and giggling mischievously (even the boys!)

… another group sitting in a dark corner, cult-worshiping, head bobbing, lap thumping while one of them (the clear leader) plays the guitar with a passion reminiscent of the Zeppelin days, covering songs the likes of Pink Floyd and Coldplay (but, I never heard anyone play Meatloaf, what a pity!) … yet another corner has a couple, a literal ‘couple’ of angry birds demonstrating their anger at each other- rather civilly- by throwing dirty stares at one another, the female bird is the stare-master, hands down… and ofcourse, in contrast to these birds who are in dire need of anger management are the very familiar, the very beloved, love birds unashamedly, unabashedly canoodling away in broad moon-light….

…not to forget, lying squat in the middle of the road, on a speed breaker, a girl; spreadeagled, enjoying the view of the sky while one or two of her friends sit by her side, waiting for the stunt to be over and her philosophical bubble to burst so they could all go have a cup of tea…yet another one…miracles of nature indeed.

And the night goes past like that, without any care or worry. The research paper that had to be written will be written, the project report that had to be analyzed will be analyzed, between tea cups upon tea cups and an occasional indulgence of an extra puff, all the work will be done because the night, my friends is still young and shall remain so…

Syndicated from: …between musings

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This way or which way?

Posted on 14 November 2011 by Tea Server

When I was little I used to scorn and point fingers at my sister for being a dreamer and not a do-er. I used to tell her how she was always planning, how she was always saying she wanted to do something but never really ended up doing it, or stopping in the middle and starting something else, procrastinating, digressing, hopping about, confused, resiliently so but confused… The funny thing is, she turned out to be the focused one with a mission in her head and the road to that mission all smoothly mapped out. Yes, there are bumps in the road but she is well-navigated.  

I find myself wondering whether I am a go-getter or not and If I am a go-getter, what have I ‘got’ uptil now. I have so many dreams, no, I have too many dreams, I want to do too many things at the same time so much so that I cannot possibly fit them all in together, so much so that I haven’t yet been able to realize even one of them. I get these out of the world ideas on what I want to do, then what I need to do pops in and tramples over the want screaming ‘think about the need, think about the need‘ but just then, another want jumps in, starting to prick at me like a strategically placed itch making me relent to the notion that I just might be confused. (which I am not).

I used to think that if you didn’t have a passion for anything, life would be useless. Passion for something, anything at all, even collecting stamps or watching birds (although that sounds awefully boring) gives your life an existential meaning like nothing else can. I have passions. Maybe too many. And instead of giving meaning to my life, they have turned it a bit topsy-turvy, swaying this-a-way and that-a-way, hypnotizing me, being a honest-to-God pain in the ass, if you may.

I cannot prioritize, I can not put them on a queue, I cannot choose one over another. I try everyday to make a connection between the many different roads that I want to take and sometimes, I really feel I am getting there but most times it is very difficult to find common grounds between so many, many things I would love to do- how narrower and narrower the ‘common space’ becomes as other ideas make entry. Lets just say you do not want to be in my head right now..

Maybe I need to separate love from like, dreams from fantasies, need from want, plausible from the less plausible and so on. Instead of freedom, maybe I need restrictions, limitations, boundaries, more boundaries.

But I still cannot help but think (read: dream) how perfect life would be if it were timeless. I could do anything: If not this, then this, or this or this; or even better, I could do this and this and this and this.

Syndicated from: …between musings

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