Similarly, when you are watching the tv, there is a way to mute the sound, but you can not mute the picture.
it is perhaps why music aficionados don't like videos - those who access videos inevitably become viewers, rather than listeners.
but even the visual sense has its own class markers - much the same as everyone on the blogosphere cares more about the class and ideological differences amongst themselves rather than realizing that they are all part of the smallest pyramid on the income distribution chart.
so, there is text, images and moving images. clearly, text is the clear loser, because it is slower, useless unless focused on and thought about, and requires the greatest effort.
the difference between the image and its moving counterparts may be difficult to split on aesthetic differences, but the moving image category provides you the most bang for your buck, so that's where people end up going the most.
so, it's all about what you see, often over what you read.
now, i received an e-mail this morning proudly exclaiming that
"FW: Most Good Looking Man In The World Is a Pakistani! (Internal)"now my eyes saw, but they did not believe. but, as the Oracle says "Believe"
but why take my word for it. who am i to tell you what to believe and what not to.
why.
don't you see.
for yourself.
TA-DA!
it's ok.
you can scroll back up.
do i really need to write anymore?
well, what you saw up there was the straight-on to camera, look-me-in-the-eyes, understand me, know me, luuvvee me style. it's important to note that even if not visible, the hands are not on the hips, in a threatening or aggressive manner, but probably pressing lightly against the thighs. it suggests a laid-back, lackadaisical, almost bohemian approach sprinkled liberally with good-clean-fun. but that is not what is arresting you.
it's the eyes.
as mansoor malangi put it so eloquently, "teray naiiiiin, tere naaiiiin, te-ray naiiiiiin..."
a set of eyes almost perpetually behind some dapper set of shades are presented in all their un-tinted glory. and it's a sensual, almost holy experience. these are not the eyes of a politician, a statesman, a deeply respected icon...
these are the eyes of a young boy,
playing on a karachi street,
in the blazing afternoon heat,
and he's asking you...
... to love him
but it doesn't end there.
Chotay, agli slide lagao.
After all the eroticism, it is perhaps almost a relieved soul that greets this image. the maddening ecstasy induced by the last picture can now subside into a calm ocean of wisdom and gratitude, the waves of reverence gently lapping on your grateful feet.
when the continued encroachment of the Taliban *coff* Pathan*coff* worries you, when the hollow words of the media and Imran Khan compel you to take the streets in the month of May, when the issues of federation, feudalism and fucking-staying in power are not to be found in any political party's manifesto, you need not despair.
because somewhere, in England, in a small garden, in the morning, a well dressed philosopher is slowly composing his daily voice-mail, issuing instructions for you, your family and your friends.
and it's not just there, in the garden, where the creative grapes are fermenting to produce the intoxicating wine of wisdom. the thoughts are just as powerful when composed in a coquettish glance away from the lens, into the lookspace of the mysterious realms of the metaphysical world
and now, what do we have here...
as mentioned above, the placement of the hands is a lovely indication of the disarming, unarmed, welcoming tone of the body language. but here again, one sees the vision on display. that glorious path towards fascist emancipation that we all await deliverance upon. and that smirk - that gentle, mirth-filled little scrawl made by the positioning of those full lips that signify hope, elation, contentment and eventual salvation. but it's not all about being a leader, forever frozen in thought amidst middle-class English town surroundings. a leader also immerses himself in the cultural milieu, a leader's heart beats with the passions of the masses, a leader is he who lives the lives of his people.
i'm not sure if he's dressing like Osama bin Laden would at a qawwali. i am even further unsure about how much i like the people around him - i hope they are not his companions. the guy on the right seems to be sleeping, and has a large camera bag, which surely has no place at a performance such as this unless it involves a cameraman, which snoozing beauty over here clearly isn't. and those guys on the left - what is the guy in black wearing, and why are they talking. i mean, what the fuck is so important that you have to talk about it during what was clearly early-era Salman Ahmed doing the solo for "Do Pal Ka Jeewan". I mean, what else would move the Bhai of all Bhais and their Behens to such a pure moment of bliss? The eyes are focused in concentration, the arm extended in simultaneous appreciation of the sound, as well as creating a symbolic connect - like an antenna - with the fabolous energy floating in the auditorium.
Rock on Altaf Bhai, rock on.
At first, this picture seemed to have too many colours that the BJP likes to wear. That can never be good. But then, it becomes obvious that Pir Sahab is visitng another Pir and the ecsatsy of the divine union has climxed into an orgasm of colours which have flocked to the shareer of the Bhai who is Pir.
In fact, such mortal divinity causes collective cumming across the confounded devotees, and they often like to express their honor and love. Sometimes, they do that through a placard.
"Welcome In Delhi,
Mr. Altaf Hussain
A Man Loves To All Folks
By - Indo-Pak Friendship Forum"
A Man Loves to all Folks.
How true. How poignant.
No other man has the amount of loves that he can dispense upon all folks like my Saathi. So many loves, so many folks. It is truly incredible. And don't be put off by the cringe binge expression he's carrying, he likes it - he likes it a lot.
but sometimes, a man who loves to all folks also sends his love to all tribes. and the nomadic peoples of the desolate stretches that is Bumfuckistan, Pakistan. and as i had mentioned, the leader is one with his people, and his people are the Mohajir. Those who migrate. And since all of us are forever migrating, forever in transit, across time, space and the ether, we are all migrants, we are all Mohajirs, and we all have one leader - a man with the ability to effortlessly lose himself in to costumes of any one. His visceral link with the common man means that even in strange costumes, he immediately appears as the perpetual native. it is only when you look at that visage, that self-content mystique of the seer that you realise it is not just a common man, it is the Common Man.
Pir Saab can also be the Nawab, the Khan, the Malik, the Makhdoom, the Chaudhry, the Mian and the Malik, the Syed and the Thakur, the Saeein, the Saaaaaaaaaattttttthhhhhhhhhiiiiiiii...
But then there is one pitcure I can't really say much about. Only a question, if you were the handsomest man alive, and you went online, what would you look at?
