What the hay…!

So! Back to bnu and writin a lil again! Had to write a short story of 750 words for my creative writing class but as usual went waaaay beyond that…also, was stayin at a cuzins place da night before the story was due so wrote it in an hour or so…pretty cliched and borin..but I tohught Id preserve it here..

AND FOR GODS SAKE, SOMEBODY COMMENT! I HATE YOU ALL FOR MAKIN ME SEEM LIKE A 90 YEAR OLD HAG WHO THINKS SHE HAS A LOT TO SAY BUT ENDS UP TALKIN MOSTLY TO HERSELF! UGH

A GRAVE MAN

“What? Ma, you’re kidding, right?” I looked at my mother in wonder, and tried to recall what date it was since, for some very bizarre reason, I thought an April Fool prank was being played on me. I gazed strangely at my mother because it wasn’t the first of April, nor anywhere near it.

My mother seemed almost paralyzed with grief, or maybe she was just in denial, so she spoke absent mindedly, “Of course not, jana, he lied to you about why he couldn’t come to your wedding. Apparently he was then in England for this. Are you going to go see him, hun?” She raced a limp hand through her silvery hair and then scratched the back of her neck distractedly.

I gave an incredulous shake of the head, ignoring my mother’s ludicrous question. I tried to formulate my thoughts but all that raced through my head were the last couple of months in various brief flashbacks. The Coke-fights in the last days of college, the slumber parties (though we called them night-overs because slumber parties sounded too teenage-girly), the ‘study group sessions’, the recent craze of memorizing Shakespeare and then trying his verses on every random girl, the pursuit and the wooing of Aaima and how Rayan had acted as the intermediary between us, how happy he had been when Aaima and I had finally hooked up, and how he had played such a huge part in bringing us together by going up to her family and talking to them directly. And all this time…all this time, I was being kept in darkness. And then finally, I swallowed thickly, that asshole had disappeared just before the wedding on the pretext that his parents had decided to file for a divorce and he wanted to go to Sialkot to try knock some sense into their heads. You lied, Rayan, you son of a bitch, you lied! You ass, ass, ass, you lied!

My insides were on fire as I groped my way out of the room blindly and rushed towards the main door. My mother’s distracted voice floated out of the living room. “Don’t tell Aaima, jana. Newly wed and face such a trauma?!”

I raced out of the house and dashed towards my Toyota. During the drive, I couldn’t articulate my thoughts as memories and apprehensions and fear and disbelief assaulted me. Finally I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and decided my distraught mother’s word wasn’t enough to convince me and it just couldn’t be true. Period. Nothing in the world, save God or Rayan himself, could make me believe this inconceivable fiendish lie.

As I drew closer to his house, I realized I wasn’t frightened or worried anymore. I was just plain angry. So livid my cheeks were on fire and my burning crimson ears felt like they would melt away and the fury would spill out, scalding away the lie and setting aflame the liars.

Fuming, I rushed inside his house without knocking and yelled.“RAYAN! RAYAN! Where you? Move your fat ass and step right in front of me! I wanna see you walk, talk and kick my ass! RAYAN! Show yourself.”

Rayan’s father rushed out from the bedroom at the end of the hall to scream at the offender who was responsible for all the clamor. He stopped short when he saw me and took a deep breath. “Ali.” Just a statement, expressionless, quiet.

I smiled at him warmly and went up to him. “Assalmu Alaikum, Uncle. How are you? Where’s that dim wit? I heard the craziest…but forget it. I’ll just go talk to him directly.”I ignored the sob that I think I heard as I passed Uncle and went into the room he had come from.

Rayan was lying on his bed, just as I had seen him lie there so many times. I avoided looking at his weeping mother in the corner and went up straight to him. Up close, I thought his face looked ashen and his eyes sunken. I closed my eyes and almost whispered.

“Wassup, dawg?” I was adamant. Today wasn’t going to be different at all. I had been mimicking Bugs Bunny since the days we had watched those cartoons in the very same room for long hours all those years ago and now I had said it again just as I had said so a gazillion times before.I heard him smile as he spoke.

“Nothing much. Heard the latest?” I could imagine his eyes lighting up with humor and I hated him for his wit at that moment.

“No. Enlighten me.”

“Oh c’mon man! You know. Admit it.” He said playfully. I opened my eyes and glanced at him sharply. One look at my wild crazy eyes and Rayan sobered.

 “You know it.” He whispered again and looked at me straight in the eye.

My arms fell to my side and I stared at him, sitting there, propped up by several pillows, looking at me earnestly. “No.” My voice was firm.

“Ali. Look at me. See it.” Rayan was worried now.

“I can’t. I won’t.” I warned him.

He looked at me and smiled encouragingly. “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. You know that. We’ve agreed upon it.”

“No. Not till you say it. You can’t. Don’t.” I pleaded, begged, implored.

Rayan got that look back in his eyes as he saw the realization dawning on me. He smiled impishly and said, “But of course not, my knight. It’s your battle. Fight it.”

I was furious and skeptical, calm and incredibly terrified all at once. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Why?”

“Aiwaiinn.” He beamed. “Why ruin your wedding?”

“Are you bloody fucking crazy? Are you? What’s a frickking wedding compared to…compared to this?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud.

He smirked and shook his head just as he had shaken it so many times when he used to think I was being extremely stupid. Unexpectedly, when he spoke, his smirk faltered. “Actually, I wasn’t too awesome at accepting it either. Took my time doing that and then my guts just failed me. I’m sorry!” His face was grave and (was that my imagination?) his voice quivered a little. 

 I massaged my stiff neck, looked at him long and hard, clenched my fist tightly and rubbed my stinging eyes before asking the question. “How much more time?”

For a split of a second, Rayan’s eyes clouded over while his face maintained that obstinate annoying smile. I could see his own brief, yet mighty battle being fought and though his roguishness won as usual, that split of a second drowned me in the realization and truth of the approaching imminent doom and I cried out loud before he spoke teasingly.

“Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man.” 

Ok…make all the fun you want but this was the second poem I wrote for my Poetry class.

It’s an image poem, really. If I can, I might upload the image too. I like the image waaay more than I like the actual poem, though. I guess that goes without saying. Hehe.

The story behind this poem is amazing, which is why, despite the 3/5 I got on it from the teacher (hehe), I still love it. It’s become something like a cherished memory.

We were supposed to hand in the poem one week after it was assigned to us. Probably I forgot, or probably I just didn’t want to remember it, but two days before the submission deadline, I found out that the time was almost over. I panicked. A LOT!

Now I’m waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the inspiration to hit me. Something to inspire me to writing it. Some image. I thought of the photographs I had, I went through some images online even. Things got so desperate I ACTUALLY considered writing my poor poor poem on Aunty Chij Bachee’s helpless little black sock-clad foot. Lol! Imagine!

Well, the last day arrives. I still can’t think of anything. I’m depressed. So as desperate measures, I ask my brother to take me out for a drive.

It was a rainy night. Beautiful. Silent. Calm. I tried to look around, visualising everything as an image which I could write about. Lots of things were playing around in my mind; ideas chasing one another, but THE idea, THE image wasn’t hitting me.

I put on music to help me dream. Fantasize.

It helped. But not really. But I guess I’ll give it the credit of setting the mood.

The drive with my brother proved unsuccessful. My Bhabhi and I decided to go out again, so as to enjoy the awesome weather. We went to Defence, Phase 5. One really really pretty but isolated area. It has these huge flowing roads with palm trees bordering them and pale street lights showing the way at that time of the night. It was an awesome ride. To top it all off with the most delightful cherry, we had that really great but hateful song on repeat. “Maula mere…”

We were just loitering on the roads when I suddenly looked into the review mirror. It reflected this empty, wet, slippery road, with some random palm trees and a street light shining brightly on the empty, almost lifeless view. As I gazed at it, sitting in the car with my Bhabhi who was in the mood to burn much rubber, I thought the the view that I was racing away from, was just like my life, my past and my mistakes. Things I run away from. Intentionally, unintentionally.

Needless to say, I had found my image.

Believe or not, I wrote this poem (???) in the car on my cell phone as an SMS.

I’m cool, I know.   

Anyway, most of you have read it, but I would still like comments!

HAPPINESS ABOUNDS.

A moment dies when a moment’s born.Every moment carries the stench of hell fireand a breath of Elysium. 

The moments too slow to catch up to me,left far behind, longing, yearning, searching,

the moments trying to reach me,

the moments reaching out to touch me, embrace me

but I’m too hurried, too fast… 

Moments full of light, yet so dark

wet, like the tears shed on a glistening cheek,

yet, a part of the road to me

and a part which i shan’t wish to part from. 

Moments drained, like a half-empty glass,but yet so complete, so full.

The splatter of the rain

on the mirage of painful moments,

the shattering into million

 minor moments of anguish,

thus enough to bear

with pain and pleasure. 

Moments shrouded in darkness, in pain,yet cloaked with linings white,

Moments I can die for,

to let them live forever. 

Never again shall these moments live.Such short lives yet so meaningful.

How I wish to die like one moment

 and to be born again. 

 This is a story I wrote in fifteen minutes. It’s much debated over that can it actually be classified as a short story or is it just a piece of writing..The first line, I know, is really funny, but it actually has an history and was said by a friend on the exact same topic. So when I first thought about this subject matter, her words rang in my mind immediately and I thought I’ll use them.

“I’m telling you, the power of suggestion works so well for me that, if I were to tell myself, lets say, that I am a lesbian and want Saba, I will become a lesbian soon enough!” Amna declared in front of the giggling group of friends. “I’m not kidding, I tell you. It works wonders on me!”

“Man, you have no idea what you are getting yourself into! If she tells herself something that this is how things are, she believes it with all her heart. It’s like magic! So beware of the day when she suggests to herself after your marriage that she’s bored of you already! “Amna’s friend grinned at her as Amna sat playing with her handsome young boyfriend’s long silky hair.

Amna took a deep breath and looked at her hands where the henna curled and curved and looped to form red-brown gorgeous vines and flowers and leaves; she gazed at her red heavy lehnga with gold lapping the part of the dress which kissed the ground and her feet roughly; she sighed as she thought of her bridegroom sitting outside, waiting for her, in the red turban that covered his bald head, in his bursting black sherwani with the buttons struggling to escape and fly from their holes, in his huge eyeglasses and with his blemished pimply nose.

She took a deep breath again. She could do it. Yes, she could. I will fall in love with him, I will fall in love with him, yes, I will fall in love.

She tried to smile in the mirror, failed, and started walking towards the wedding hall.

This semester at college we have taken this new course with the intriguing name “Bards and Minstrels.” Before you get too interested, it’s just simply a poetry class where we read and struggle to write something  which can be classified as poetry.

Now I’ve never read or written poetry in my entire life. Usually, I don’t even understand it till somebody explains it to me. So I’ve never really taken an interest in it.

That’s what everyone in my class says, too. Or maybe a few say that they do like poetry but have never written it. So when a few days back our teacher suddenly told us to write a poem in ten minutes during class, I, contentedly wrote my first non-rhyming, non-flowing non-poetic few lines, satisfied to know that I wouldn’t be the only one spelling out disaster.

But as my luck would have it, it turned out that most of my friends are great poets, masha’Allah! I mean, as each of them read out their brilliant work in class, I got pleasantly surprised, intimidated and all the more self-conscious about my own crap.

But obviously I had to read it when my turn came. Before my turn, I was feeling uncomfortable, dejected and even depressed about my writing. But after I read my poem, I just sat back and told myself that not knowing crap about poetry, if I had managed to even write something which other people can call a poem, that was an achievement.

So without feeling shy and self-conscious, I’m gonna post the very first poem of my life on my blog. There’s no title, really, since the teacher just gave us a word “Blue” to write about. Actually, we were told to think up of 10 words which come to our mind when we think of the word blue and then make a poem outta them. ( I thought of stuff like peace, blue eyes, immenseness-I know immensity is a better word but immenseness came to my mind first so I used it-sue me! Hehe)

I guess “Blue” can be a title but it sounds bleh!

P.s. This is supposed to be divided into paragraphs or whatever you call them, but somehow this stupid blog aint letting me put in the required space!

The peace reflecting fromthe serene warm sea.The flight of the birds

The golden-brown paper cracked as I tried to open it. I quickly hid it under a pillow, and with abated breath, waited for my Mom to rush in angrily.

For what seemed like eternity, I waited. I could hear my father’s snores in the other room so I assumed they were still sleeping. I took out the small golden-brown paper and looked at it longingly. Why, oh, why? Why was I forbidden? The entire world did what I wanted to. A and B just had that ‘forbidden fruit’ today while I had just stared at them enviously. They were looking at me; A had that superior proud look in her eyes. But I obviously couldn’t do it at that time. Mom was around. Even if she hadn’t been, I couldn’t trust those two not to spill my beans.

I smelled the golden-brown paper. Ah! Just the smell excited my entire body and sent delicious tickles up my spine. I placed the cracking paper beneath the mound of blankets, pillows and cushions and decided to just rip it open. Like we rip off a bandage in one quick motion.

The crack echoed in the room and kept re-echoing (or so I thought!) till my heart fluttered in my throat. I waited nervously under the covers, shutting my eyes lightly, just resting the eyelashes on my cheeks. I had mastered the act of feigning sleep by now.  Lie down on the bed with your legs sprawled out, breathe normally, and don’t squeeze your eyes shut.

After waiting for another eternity and praying inwardly all the while, I heaved a sigh of relief and took out the tiny, but, precious treasure of treasures which was almost cruelly sealed shut in the golden-brown paper.

I looked at it, my eyes filling with pleasure, my taste-buds craving it. Then I looked at the door once again and thought glumly, “Why, o, why was I born fat?”

Carefully, as if touching a sacred symbol, I took out the chocolate, put it in my mouth, and laid back on the pillows blissfully as the chocolate led me into Elysium.

I don’t know what should I call this ’story.’ Help me come up with a title.

We are supposed to hand in our final Art of Storytelling story on 14th December. I started on my story last night, worked for seven hours straight, typed thirteen pages but still couldn’t finish.

I still haven’t. *sigh*

Well, the basic plot of my story is that there are a group of people who have made this club called the Storytellers’ Club, and who meet to tell each other stories. So my story has three stories which the characters are telling.

I am posting one of the stories a character tells. I’ve made it deliberately flawed because the plot demanded it. But it may be possible there may be other errors, other than the one I have in mind. So feel free to point out any!

Here goes: I don’t have a title yet! (It’s your job to suggest one!)

WARNING: It’s long! Quite long!

Once upon a time there lived a prostitute who was proud of what she did.

That sounds strange, you people might say.

Well, this is how the story goes. Once, when her clientele in the Heera Market was lessening a bit, she panicked. She thought and thought about what she could do to improve her business. Well, rare as it was in that Red Light Area, she was an educated woman. Literate. Literate in terms of what the Pakistani Government had decided as a criterion: She could read and write her own name.

Now when her business was going a bit slow, she decided to start learning to speak well, use English words every now and then, and to learn to dress up like a Mem Sahib. She had decided that if the bastards won’t come to her in the Red Light Area, she would herself go seek them out in the Civilized Cultured Respectable World.

She started visiting the posh areas of
Lahore, like Defence and Gulberg to see the lifestyles of the rich folks. When she thought she was fully equipped with the knowledge she needed to act like a shareef,  respectable, cultured and an educated woman in respectable gatherings, she asked a rich, respectable, cultured client of hers to invite her to one of his social gatherings. Amused at her request, the respectable man agreed.

The day she was supposed to enter the posh, rich respectable World, she felt very nervous. She dressed up in a saffron sari, applied light makeup which highlighted her cheekbones and beautiful eyes, and decked herself with some gold jewellery a rich client had once gifted her. When she looked in the mirror, she thought she looked just like a respectable lady ought to.

So that was her trick! She would go to such respectable social gatherings as a respectable lady and then very secretly bait out clientele. She felt a little guilty at this wicked plan but said a quick prayer to Allah to forgive her.

The rich client sent her an auto-rickshaw so she could come to his place. She hid her contempt behind a façade of anxiety as the client explained to her that she must never come near him at the function, nor must she tell anyone who she came with. He had his reputation to protect.

Oh, I might as well tell you the name of this rich client for future reference. Zahid Nawab was his name, buying and selling girls was his game.

Mr. Zahid Nawab Sahib dropped her off one lane before the actual venue of the function so that nobody could see them together.

She walked towards the venue. It was a grand, beautiful five-star hotel. Each letter of the sign Pearl Continental Hotel was glittering and she felt a lump grow in her throat. Would she be able to pose as a respectable woman in the midst of so many respectable women? What if somebody found out?

She steadied herself and entered the hotel. Zahid Nawab had told her to ask somebody to take her to the Marquee Hall. As she asked a formidable-looking, extremely well-dressed man (which she later found out was a waiter) where the hall was, she wondered if he could tell she had just come from Heera Market.

Apparently, the man couldn’t, as he led her towards the hall, smiling graciously.

She entered. It was a long beautiful room, wonderfully lit. The people seemed to be out of some goron ki English movie. Yes, English movie! The men were dressed up in black suits and white shirts winking proudly. The women were dressed up in elegant, sleeveless, backless saris; some were wearing skirts which revealed their toned shiny legs. Others were wearing what seemed like shalwar kamiz, yet were not. The shalwars were fitted and only reached just below their knees. The very short kamiz had deep cuts revealing their cleavages and much of their backs.

She started feeling tacky. As she had always felt. She had thought that it was only girls like herself who dressed up like that, so she had dressed up in what she had thought were sophisticated, respectable clothes. But obviously she had been wrong. In all earnest, she started wishing she had worn her backless, black sari which a client, who professed he had fallen in love with her, had once gifted her

  She was just wondering if she should leave when a good-looking, well-dressed man approached her. “Care to dance, ma’m?”

Obviously, girls of respectable backgrounds never dance with strange men in public parties. She refused, giving the man a dirty look.

She looked at him as he left with a surprised look on his face, and then go ask a pretty teenager girl if she wanted to dance. Her eyes popped out as she saw the girl smile and accept the offer.

She made her way towards the bar in the room, where she was surprised to see waiters giving people alcohol freely. She suppressed a grin as a drunken man pinched a middle-aged woman’s butt and she blessed him with a dirty look.

She sat on the stool and started looking around her for somebody who could be her first victim. While waiting, she started listening to conversations around her.

She smiled inwardly as she heard a man and a woman talking. The man asked the woman if she would like to dance. She said, “Yes, of course!” The man was about to take her to the dance floor when he turned and asked her that, hadn’t he seen her come with a man? The woman replied very easily, saying that yes, the man was her husband, but, by mutual consent, they have decided that at parties, they won’t ask each other who was with whom, who they were dancing with, etc.

Now our prostitute shifted her attention to another couple. She figured they were man and wife since they were fighting, and the woman was accusing the man of not giving her attention and the man was trying to explain his position to her. The prostitute’s heart went out for the poor woman as she cried and said that he hadn’t been giving her time at all, he hadn’t been calling her, and he hadn’t visited her. She demanded that he kiss her in public to prove his love for her. But the horrid man became flustered and said he couldn’t, since both the woman’s husband, and the man’s wife were attending the party.

Our prostitute stayed at the party the entire night. She wasn’t scared anymore if she would fit in or not. Many times there came men to ask about her, to flirt with her, to ask for a dance. But she refused all of them.

Near dawn, she went back to her home and told her prostitute friend, “O Behn, we are so lucky. Thank God, He made us what we are. I pity the poor respectable women. I, at least, take money for being a prostitute.”

It’s 3:18 AM and I am dead tired. My eyes are drooping and I keep thinking that I’ll work on it later, later, later. But the essay that I have been writing at this late hour for my Art of Storytelling Course at my university, BNU, is so exciting, I just can’t let go of it.

Now I’m finally done Al-Hamdulillah. I LOVE what I have written. We were told to write a “How to …” essay (a process essay) on a topic of our choice, and  I decided to write on how to become a BNU-ite. Cool, ah?

Now even though this is the rough draft and there are lots of corrections to be made and all, I’m so excited (but tired) that I think I’ll just post the essay here and share the wisdom. You people can help make the grammatical corrections waghira and also tell what you think about it.

(Oki  I just read the essay again and i know there are lotsss of errors. I’ll edit it later so ignore them. Or actually don’t. Tel me da errors you see in case i miss out on any.)

I’m soooooooo getting an A! *happy sob*

HOW TO BECOME A ‘BNU-ITE’. 

There is no need to define the term “BNU-ite” as the word itself screams out all there is to say. To teach you how to ‘Become the Nonpareil Unrivalled Imbecile ever To Exist’ is the aim of this essay, and hopefully after you are through with it, you will become the pseudo, wannabe or jerk (or all) that you wish to become.

The key to become a ‘BNU-ite’ is to forsake all conventional etiquettes, manners or ways of dressing up. You need to master the art of being rude to teachers and students alike. You must work on your fashion sense. (A quick message for those  who like the typical “shalwar kamiz” or the boring old jeans-and-shirt outfit: you might as well stop reading now and forget all your dreams of becoming a BNU-ite as you are unfit to become the wannabe you seek to be.)

For starters, a BNU-ite always wishes to explore the extremes of insolence and disrespect. So to become a BNU-ite, you need to make sure that, every now and then, you barge in a classroom while the class is in order. Now that you have interrupted the class and everybody is looking at you expectantly, look around casually, nonchalantly, indifferently. Fix the teacher with a challenging glare and then wave at a friend who might be attending the class. Glare at the teacher again before departing. Your movements must be slow and calm, confident and defiant; your footsteps light, as if you don’t have a care in the world. Remember to leave the door wide open behind you.

If any reader thinks this is impudence enough and that he will qualify as a BNU-ite once he does this, he must reconsider. Does he really want to become a BNU-ite? Because obviously he is not carved out of the cheap material which makes a BNU-ite, and I think he must give up on his hopes and desires now, before he gets rejected, and thus dejected, later.

It goes without saying that bunking classes is a special requirement for the How To Become A BNU-ite Course. Now, Lesson Number Two teaches you that if a teacher announces in front of the entire class that he is kicking you out of his course for the semester because your absences fill the attendance register, you dare not feel shame or embarrassment. Instead a BNU-ite will slide his way ot the centre of the class, open his arms wide and yell out a proud “YYAAAAAAYYYYY!”

 You must learn to feel noble, respectful and proud on the instances when ordinary people might die of shame.

A BNU-ite is always rude and extremely mean to his peers. Gossiping, making fun of other people, calling them derogatory names, laughing at them derisively, and spreading wild rumours about them, are some of the favourite pastimes of a BNU-ite. A special inherent quality that a Bnu-ite has is that he neither seeks knowledge himself, nor lets other people seek it.

 If some insolent fellow actually shows signs of interest in what is being taught in class, you must remember to gather a group of BNU-ites and make loud fun of that person. Interrupt that sassy fellow when he is discussing something serious with the teacher, heave exaggerated sighs and bless him with “Ahhhhs” and “Wahhhs” and “Wows” when he is making the grave mistake of giving the presentation that the teacher had asked everyone to give, and which obviously you have refused to do.

One can never become a BNU-ite without the perfect outfit. A BNU-ite is either a wannabe Brad Pitt or a wannabe Avril Lavigne, depending on the gender. But always remember, boy or girl, your clothes must never cover you. If you are a boy, do not forget to wear loose Bermuda shorts and then sit up on the chair with legs wide open. If you are a girl, a fuzzy, sleevless, backless sweater might do which barely reaches your waist. Learn to look beautiful.

And before I forget the accessories, do remember to wear sunglasses which expose only the tip of your nose, your hairline and the lower lip and chin. A BNU-ite, girl or boy, is very conscious of the Face Pardah.

Though this essay is only an introduction to the lifestyle of a BNU-ite, it needs no supplement. Once a person begins to develop the wonderful qualities highlighted in this essay, his BNU-virus infected brain guides him and directs his steps to the ways which will help him become the perfect BNU-ite, and thus, fulfil his role in society and the world as a leader of mankind.