Last Stop on the Rawalpindi Express (Part 1, maybe)

when i was young, i had a certain idea about love. to me, love meant contentment. it meant something pleasant, something that did away with your fears and anxieties and worries. something which was soothing, reassuring, pampering even. i expected love to be a natural progression of adulthood, as inevitable and predictable as finding a 9-to-5 job, of finding a respectable spouse, of having a number of well-behaved children living in a well-kept house. i thought love was about the absence of tensions and worries and dread and fear. in my understanding, love was like gripe water, soothing my infantile pangs of pain.

in a way, none of this was wrong. love can, and is, all these things my testosterone-challenged mind had concocted. 

and yet, love is something more.

if sunday was the day the e-mail was invented, then monday was the day the first forward was sent. email forwards are a culture unto themselves, revealing little in terms of truth themselves, but opening up so much more about the person who sent them. the recently politicized student who sends you petitions to sign, the recently married acquaintance who masks her new-found disillusion by swamping you with brainless quotes written on jpegs of blooming clouds, the idiot friend whose much-hacked inbox keeps popping out viagra-extolling viruses, the generally shy colleague who sends you jokes that contain some contrived homily at the end. 

then there is the forward that fathers or uncles usually send. those that are vague attempts at asserting continuity and stability. sometimes this is manifested in ISI-sponsored propaganda that link to the dajjalian conspiracies seeking to threaten the status-quo. sometimes, they arrive as pseudo-scientific studies proving that sleeping on time and driving carefully are the road to wisdom and salvation. and sometimes, they arrive in the form of lists which are meant to showcase and reimagine the 'image' of pakistan. 

usually, such emails contain a host of images and bland facts which are meant to prove how pakistan is not just a haven for terrorism and violence. they are replete with pictures of places like lalazaar, with inane descriptions such as "considered by many to be heaven on earth." they tell of disparate achievements, such as female fighter pilots, and of course this guy.

 inevitably, as they scramble around vainly to find something to impress, they proudly mention that largeness of our army.

it goes without saying that such forwards do nothing to fire up the patriot within me. after all, those lovely places are rendered unvisitable due to the wars. those o'level grades are just past-paper-rattafication taken to a new extreme. and that large army... well, vicariously overcompensate much?

but that's not the reason such a forward, or indeed any discussion on the 'image' of pakistan is so irksome. firstly, because unlike other countries, we are the problem child, the sulken sallow faced one with the absuive history, with the suppressed past and the unpleasant future, with the myriad contradictions and the embarassing realities, with the stunted development and without the full eyes, the perky breasts or the coy smile. discussion of image don't work well with our country.

but more improtantly, it is because the quintessential experience of living in pakistan and actually enjoying life there is notoriously difficult to distill into words and images. if it must be understood, it has to be felt to be known.

milan kundera had written once about how someone in love can be surprised to find themselves feeling hungry, because love has this way of taking over your body, your physical sensations, your internal workings. its the realisation that love is not always a soothing panacea, but instead something which has a way of shredding nerves, jostling your insides, plummeting your breath and squeezing your mind. love can't be understood through words and drawings, through painting and sonnets, through songs and ballads, love must be felt. love is visceral.

and that's how we arrive at our understanding of shaiby.

of the countless eulogies that will be written for him, all will make use of statistics to highlight his chronic absenteeism, all will give numbers to collate his outrageous disciplinary fines, probations and bans, all will wistfully reflect on figures to showcase what could've been, had he been more fit, more committed, more someone else...

which might be fine, but the true joy of shaiby, the love felt for him, is experienced, not written.

cricket is a game of infinite pauses, of starts and re-starts. 

every delivery, the game comes to a rest, and every delivery it starts up again. each delivery builds up a sense of anticipation and each delivery is resolved with some sort of a climax. it is this pattern that makes test matches so addictive, because the whole pattern replays itself for two innings, for ninety overs a day, for five days. inevitably though, most of the time such moments are bland, the buildup tepid, the climax anti-climatic. the toilers toil, the grafters graft, the nurdlers nurdle, and fakmal drops the catch.

not with shoaib though.

every time, every single time he runs in from those colossal distances, there is an exhilirating buildup, a cascade of potential outcomes, each more glorious and disastrous than the next. his run-up whips us into a frenzy that engulfs everyone, his action and delivery are literally an explosion, and the outcome forever brands itself onto your emotional make-up.

what is truly brilliant is that these emotions are not restricted to his team's fans alone, because the inflammable nature of shoaib means that any and every eventuality is possible.

to make my point, take these two deliveries to sachin. i don't even need to link the videos, because you all know what i mean.

the first is from kolkata, where it takes literally an hour for sachin to arrive at the crease while the crowd shits its pants in anticipation, and it takes ages while tony grieng and charu sharma continue to mount incessant platitudes on the little master, and it takes another lifetime for the sachin to get ready and face up, and further eons still for the thundering speedster to arrive at the crease.

and then.

and there is an ecstatic blur as the ball is released. 

and then.

and then there is silence. 

there are flayed stumps. there are broken hearts. there are new dreams and old fears. and there is a new hero.

take your time to digest that.

but as i said, the joy is not for his supporters alone. four years later, the two met again in centurion, in a world cup. it was a moment that sachin himself has been waiting for for over a year. that rabid fans had been praying and cursing for even longer. and once more, as shoaib runs in, it feels that all the world and time and history are collapsing into this one moment and either you or the entire cosmos are about to implode. and when sachin visciously stabs at the ball and it soars in the air, the moment seems to stretch even further, becoming even more unbearable and oppressive, until it sails into the crowd and despair/joy overwhelms you.

those two balls, those two moments - that's what shoaib is about. 

not about five-fors or strike rates, not about tests played or fines paid, but about the moment, the unbearably violent, destructive, overwhelming experience. 

those who know love will know this feeling well, this feeling where everything seems to be in chaos, everything seems to come together and break away, everything rips anew and apart - the feeling we feel when shaiby bowls.

because love is not just rainbows and cookies, love is agony, love is pain, love is delirium. 

love is a shoaib akhtar delivery.

Enter the Facebook

A few days ago, my wife and i had an almighty row about something i put on facebook.

now, before i begin, both of us don't particularly like facebook. i could have used hate, but we don't really hate it. we see it for its benefits, such as the ability to be in touch with people we have been far removed from in time, geography, culture and directions. we like that we can get connected to a virtual flowing river of thoughts, and responses, and so on and so forth.

but then again, facebook seems to get under our skins and freak the fuck out of us.
i get seriously disturbed by how people are so feverishly fervent in consuming such copious amounts of details about EVERYONE else's life. once i saw someone update their status as "just got back from dinner, loved for the yummy food" and about 12 people had 'liked' it. what is there to like, what is there to appreciate in such a banal statement? yet i don't judge it really, i get overwhelmed by it, that virtual river slamming down on me and pulverizing me into its bed.

as for my wife, she despises how people turn into vapid sheep blindly embracing the latest 'it' thing on facebook with over-exuberant, psychotic and hollow passion. to quote an example, remember when israel bitch-slapped gaza, and facebook was inundated with status updates 'donated' to the plight of the palestinians? these were the same people who had been under blockade for almost a year at that point, and yet it was only when the showbiz happened (the ka-booms and the bleeding children) when people suddenly became infatuated with fatah and hammy over hamas.
so this was her retort to them facebookers back then.
of course, it was only fitting that no sooner had she done that (the links are all to stories about swat which back then no one gave a fuck about) people began to be interested in her opinion as well, because facebook junkies love to follow anything and everything.

ironically, her rant brought little attention to swat, but a facebook viral video turned out to be the gamechanger in the whole politics of that region.
which proved the power, and emptiness of this whole facebook phenomenon.(on an aside, i love how the earliest status created responses absolutely unconnected to the content, as if the controversy of it had forced a response, but the addiction to banality did not allow any acknowledgment of it.)

now what both of us were fighting about was my decision to post my film on my profile page. she felt that i was whoring out because things that existed on facebook immediately lost all gravitas, all purpose, all integrity. she complained that i was denuding my work of art, robbing it of its purity. that which existed on facebook was meant to be consumed, like a can of pepsi or a box of detergent. it was consigned to be eventually relegated to the trash.
i argued that by being on facebook, i was creating buzz about myself as a film maker. in a country without a breathing institution of cinema, a new comer would need to have people know about him, to have seen his work, to have heard about his reputation in order to be convinced to go out and watch his work. facebook is where viral happens, especially in pakistan. by being there, i was reaching out to an audience i couldn't otherwise reach. my blog for example, generates hardly a pittance in terms of viewership, while my completely meaningless profile page gets a lot more. in essence, what i was arguing was that i needed to 'brand' myself as a film-maker, generate buzz about my brand, so that when my 'brand' offered new products, it would have loyal consumers already present to spread the gospel.
i can feel you cringing.

if you are at this blog, you are probably inclined to have a knee-jerk aversion to brands, and corporations, and marketing and all such concepts.

let me enlighten you.

your aversion is surface deep. you are already a brand.

no, i'm not getting all naomi klien on your ass. remember your university applications? remember how you wrote essays about what drives you as a person, and attached certificates of sporting and artistic achievements which provided proof that you were a well-rounded person, and recommendations from experts who attested to your qualities? that was you branding yourself.

in fact, it's not just university applicants. job applicants do the same. and so do rishta applicants.

it permeates even further than that. foucault had argued that modern society was one ruled by discipline. but one of his contemporaries, deluze, reasoned that modern society was not about discipline, but control.

it is a subtle distinction, but a poignant one. deluze felt the reason behind this was that the institutions which governed society, had in contemporary times become highly diffuse, in the form of corporations. hence instead of the omnipotent state you have the omnipresent corporations.and a society of corporations consists of brands.

you present one brand to your parents, another to your grandparents. another to your first cousin, a far more liberal one to your friends, a far more devious one to your lovers, a far more honest one to your siblings, a restricted and much convoluted one to your boss, a domineering one to your subordinates, a squeaky clean one when you are at a religious ceremony, an unabashed one at the party you were dying to get invited to and so on.
it is far more easier for girls in pakistan to relate to this, as their brands have to switch rapidly depending on who can see them or hear them, and they are constantly on display, within their homes, on the street, in their rooms, on their profile pages, and ultimately, alone in front of the mirror as well.

and so, you are left with the essential question at the heart of this debate - is there a stable core sense of self beneath these ever fluctuating identities, brands or masks that we present to the world? or is our sense of self really an amalgamation of the cluster of brands we are putting out there?

is it possible to know one self, or are there too many selves, each fighting for dominance, each arising when needed, discarded when out of fashion, or possibility of use?

to paraphrase pink floyd, is there anybody 'in' there?

Whaaa? = The Day After Post Mortem

a few weeks ago, i married someone who does not like facebook, and thus i will not provide any further details about the wedding, or her.

i will reveal something about myself - she is my love and she's like crazy about me.

i will also tell you this about our wedding.

on the first event of the marathon affair, baitullah mehsud 'died'.

on the second event, rehman dakait was killed in an 'encounter.'

when it was time for the third, we kept watching out for Geo to break the news of a death of the no. 1 "two number" of pakistan, live from the Presidency.

good or bad, it didn't happen.

anyways, i had made this video while i was learning how to use video editing. i add this detail because there are some parts i am not sure how well they would be recieved. aesthetically.

anyways make your own conclusions.

Phallic Phallacies

AMpakistanis who have lived abroad, or more likely studied abroad, always carry a hang up of having been there. they love making endless comparisons, using it perpetually in arguments, talking about the best quiche they ever had, the most stunning concert they heard, the most fun they had, the best drink they ever tasted - while they were abroad.
i should know - i am one of them.

my stories inevitably begin with "when i was in america..."

so this is one of them stories. *these*

when i was in america, at my college, we would have a weekly assembly, where people from various countries would mark their country's independence day with a presentation about their country, they would play their music and dress in their native clothes, and talk about their country in general.

now firstly 14th august fell during the summer vacations, so i didn't have an option for that. but in my second year me and my first year country mate did do something for 23rd march.

back in 2002, pakistan was a country not many people knew about, and almost no one gave a shit about. in essence, the good old days.we forsook the talking about our country for a two minute video. the first slide began with the claim that pakistan was a country that was the bomb.

that was followed by a montage of pictures of beautiful pakistani women, and those of our nuclear missiles, played over salman ahmed's version of the national anthem.

as i recalled that incident now, the first thing that struck me was how incredibly misogynist it was. but i also recalled it as a deliberate attempt by us about making people know where and what pakistan was by making obvious the two most shocking things about our country - that we had women who were not wearing burkhas, and that we had a far more naked nuclear obsession.

my friends were genuinely surprised, perhaps because at age 16-18 kids are not as politically inclined.

regardless, the prinicpal was aghast - she summoned us and lectured us about the inappropriateness of the message we were putting out about our country. she was almost weeping when she spoke about how much she would hate someone portraying her native Colombia in such a manner.

thinking about it now, i wonder why i decided to present pakistan in such a manner. instinctively, the first response i recall was wanting people to realise what and where pakistan was - i mean before the epicenter of terrorism stuff most people thought of us as somewhere between saddam and apu.i also remember that at that time i found our nuclear pride a bit hilarious - i didn't know whether to laugh or cry when the people of our bum fucked nation were distributing sweets in public to celebrate the nuclear tests.yet, i am still not sure if my eventual message was as genuinely satirical as i recall. because eventually, i was projecting the two things pakistan the nation, the construct and the state love doing - brandying off our nuclear power, and exploiting our women.


essentially, both impulses arise out of the strenuously patriarchal nature of our society. the phallic missiles aside, the nuclear bomb is a blatant display of geopolitical machismo.
it is perhaps the IR equivalent of wearing one of these.
as for women, i don't know if i really need to qualify anything here. women in pakistan exist in a surreal reality.
they are upheld as the barometer of our morality and values, and are hence punished barbarically if they stray even in the slightest from the standards we uphold for ourselves...
...yet at the same time, it is a national pastime to ogle at women, to fantasize about women, to poke women's private parts in public places, to fornicate with women with or without their consent.

for many young pakistani males, getting together to bang a hooker is an acceptable weekend activity. if my former driver is to be believed, in rural areas getting together to gang bang any woman is acceptable weekend activity.
we have found ways to make sleeping with nine year olds religiously acceptable, and if we feel that we must protect their honor, we have found justifications for marrying them off to the Holy Book.

essentially then, the interplay between women and nukes was so vital in my presentation (even though i didn't realise it) because it represents the pakistani psyche, with both elements representing integral parts of our masculinity - with the nukes being the national penis, and the women being the national penis receptacle.

put in such a context one can understand why just about every problem in pakistan is inevitably attributed to a foreign ploy designed to steal our nukes. in essence, we are afraid of being castrated by the big white man. we are afraid they will take away our penises.
so even though we are largely poor and illiterate as a nation, and remarkably fucking corrupt and lest we forget, in the eye of the global shitstorm, our primary obsession is the nukes and their planned theft.
because, as i just said, without the nukes we would be chakkay, heejray, na-mard.
so imagine the delightful irony of this delightful situation, described here in the words of my colleague

"The entire national security doctrine is based on the revenge of a lover..."

it appears that a couple of pakistani nuke scientists - oh those epitomes of our nation's valor - were willing to fucking sell out the nation's grassy diet for a little bit of cash. if we extend our analogy here in, some pakistani males were willing to castrate our national lun to buy some rolexes or what not. to make these guys even more scum of the earth, one of these fuckers had an office romance (which i find abhorrent) and then decided to jilt his lover.

motha-fucka.

in essence, the pakistani male is willing to chop off his own cock for the sake of some money, which he would probably spend on getting a hooker upon which he would realise that he no longer has a dick and thus the money and his penis would both go to waste.
now, as my fiance reminded me, it was a woman however, who helped us retain our luns, and thus through perverted pakistani logic, our murdangi.
and what makes this woman, who was also a nuclear scientist by the way, even more impressive, is that she did not do it for the national cock, but rather out of the fury generated by a love betrayed.
now if there is one thing we can do right, it's love. love is a good enough reason to do anything, and if someone fucks with your love, being delivered to the ISI is a pretty easy let off.

so next time you bitch and moan about the fact that the foreigners are looking to castrate the nation and run off with the nukes, remind yourself that those who rule, those who obsess about their phalluses the most, are the ones that are most willing to sell them off for some money.

like every other problem in pakistan, it seems that only those who are getting fucked will be around to save the country (and it's penis) when it needs them.

Where are you Pakistan?

This really isn't a report i am proud of, but it's an issue i felt really distraught about... felt i should have people see it

A Case of Exploding Aaloos or "What do they know of Pakistan, who only Pakistan know?"

This post is long. It's also kick ass. Relax and enjoy it.

So there i was, enjoying a feisty comments-debate (on a blog i gave props to in my last post, so i'm not going to do so again. i'm very much like this) when suddenly, it felt like an intense deja vu.

it was something that has happened so often during the past year i have been an active participant in the blogosphere that i wonder if i should even partake in it any more.

it goes something like this - a blogger puts forth the idea that the country should be democratic, it should be modernized, it should have peace with its neighbors, it should not be forever insecure, it should be secular.

that leads to much controversy, inevitably, because such an opinion OBVIOUSLY means forsaking our islamic identity, NECESSARILY implies that we become closer to the americans or the west and accept the superiority of the indians. it dictates that we lose our national sense of morality,
sell our women to be ravaged and ravished by uncircumcised RAW agents,
send our poor to be melted in vats of acid, collectively desecrate the memory of the Holy Prophet, start listening to "Stairway to Heaven" in reverse and believe that Ajit Agarkar was a good bowler.

In short, such an option for pakistan would mean that we would become the most despicable excuses for humanity possible.

you also notice that the people who draw such conclusions at even the slightest hint that pakistan should be anything other than mullah omer's wet dream
are people who are not living in pakistan. a majority of them are those who are living, working or have emigrated abroad. is this a huge generalization? perhaps...

now if we come back to the comment-debate i was talking about, the person in question was someone who indeed lives abroad. during two-month long vacations that he/she takes to pakistan on an annual basis, this person achieves the superhuman feat of empathizing, sympathizing, and most importantly, relating completely with the "average" pakistani. the "common" man.

doesn't it suck that someone like me who has never stayed in pakistan beyond a 2-month period would be more accepted by the general people than someone like you? doesn't it suck that if i went to chill with some of the poor at orphanages in balochistan or went to the villages im from in punjab or visited schools we've help build in kashmir that you, and not I, would be the obvious misfit?

let us discard for one moment the fact that such a person - the common man - doesn't exist beyond drawing room, and by extension, blogosphere conversations or celebrity op-ed contributions.
now these expat pakistanis feel that pakistanis from similar class/social status as themselves are becoming increasingly baysharam, bayhaya, that they have sold out the values and identity of the country and the nation, that they have committed sacrilege and blasphemy, that they have become traitors to the country as a whole.
when they combine this impression with the depressing social, economic and political news they read and watch about pakistan, they come to the conclusion that because of the actions of the "elite" that they encounter, the country is at its current impasse of being absolutely fucked up.

i'll put it in simpler terms - because the elites they meet are all fucked up, and the country they live in is all fucked up, it stands to reason that the former is responsible for the latter.
now, i'm not saying that the actions of the elites are not responsible for pakistan being bum-fuck crazy. but such a deterministic and ultimately simplistic argument never appealed to me. how can it be that 5% of a country half the population of Europe can be the sole purveyor of blame, while the rest of the 95% are idiots and simpletons who can not exert any control over their lives?

however, thinking like that leads one to the idea that pakistan somehow needs to be saved. can't argue with that. but the savior most people have in mind is either the magical cure of an islamic society, or the globally proven balm of constitutional democracy.

now i wrote to my vacationing in pakistan friend in the comment debate that one thing we must understand is that pakistanis as a people are a incredibly harami lot. i mean we are kanjars par extreme.

this sounded offensive to many, and i can see why. here is what my comment-debate friend had to say

"you clearly pity yourself and your absurd mentality that pakistan is a harami place is part of the problem. self-pity never helped anyone get anywhere and it wont help pakistan. if it is such a harami place incapable of changing, why are you there? or do you, as with most priveleged pakistanis, have a superiority complex and trust in your ability to thrive in a harami environment?"

now i replied to that with an intensely emotional response. this blog is a more rational take on things.


you see, there are a million reasons why pakistan is a harami place. i can go into all of them, but i would encourage readers to give their own examples in the comments section.

here is one reason that i think perfectly encapsulates pakistan's harami-ism.

back in the 90s, when relations with india were a lot more paranoid and closed-off than they are even now, post-Mumbai, cricket matches between the two countries used to be held solely on neutral locations.

for those who don't appreciate the place cricket holds in our hearts, you must understand that cricket in south asia is an extension of nationality, and even religion. for a lot of us, the cricket team is the only genuine thing about this country we can be regularly proud of, and it is also something that helps us punch above our weight. a pakistani cricketer can become a rock star, an intellectual, a prophet, an action hero, a pin-up model, a father figure and a sex symbol all rolled up into one.

the greatest batsman of our generation was inzamam-ul-haq, affectionately known as inzi.

although inzi's list of achievements can go on forever, his first act alone should reserve a god-like status for him for all eternity. if it wasn't for a 37-ball innings of daring genius by this man, we would have never been world champions. simple as that.

anyways, in 1997, pakistan and india were involved in a series in toronto known as the sahara cup. at one point during the second match, inzi - whose demeanor incorporated the zen-like calm of buddha with the laziness of a bored cow - rushed up to the stands with a bat in hand to assault a spectator.

what heinous and despicable acts was this brazen villain committing?

he was calling inzamam an "aaloo."

a potato.
that had been enough to upset the demeanor of a man who ferocious fast bowlers, wily spinners, sledging close in fielders, cheating umpires, vindictive journalists, brutal selectors and everyone in between had never even extracted a raised eye brow from.

so how would a cricket mad country treat one of its most revered stars, who had to face the unimaginable ignominy of being insulted by not just a spectator, but an indian supporting spectator, not just an indian fan, but a dirty, cow worshipping, piss drinking, Babri mosque destroying, Zionist collaborating Hindu?

the next time, and far as i can remember, through out the next 11 years of his glorious and exemplary career, inzamam would be welcomed to the batting crease by his own supporters, his own countrymen, his own people the exact same way.

they would welcome him with the chants of "AALOO, AALOO"

every single time.

please remember that cricket stadiums are overwhelmingly populated by the common man. please also remember that inzi's favourite hobby was rescuing the shame and izzat of the pakistani team over and over again. and finally, please remember that he was one of the kindest, softest, most lovable and huggable pakistanis alive. and yet, every time, every single fucking time -

aaloo, aaloo.

at a moment like that, confronted with a reality like that, how can you not come to the conclusion that your entire country is nothing else if not harami?

i mean, forget the drones based in our own country, forget supreme court stormers upholding the independence of the judiciary, forget claiming that gang-rape gets you canadian visas, forget everything else.

aaloo, aaloo.

Reverberating through the concrete wasteland of the NSK, bouncing off the arched roof of the Gaddhafi, echoing through the male-only stands of the Arbab Niaz - aaloo, aaloo.

but does that mean that pakistanis, and by extension pakistan, are to be hated, or looked down upon, or despised for their innate harami-ness? (harami translates into bastard)

two people helped me realise that this is not so.

the first was this man, my grandfather.


when i had grown up enough to realise that he was not just my nana, but a poet of stature, i would wonder why he chose patriotic poetry. i mean, where is the rebellion, the middle finger to the establishment?
by no means was all his poetry patriotic, but it was one of his central ideas. i wondered if he was just naive, what with his simplistic calls for love for the country.

as i learnt of him, his life through my family, i came to understand the eminence of the man, the trials and tribulations he withstood in the face of the stark reality of supporting a family, and the repeated betrayals of his country and his people. for him to not get jaded, to not let those things defeat him, to still be consumed by the passion of his ideals taught me that there is something worth loving in this god-forsaken land.

the second person is the woman i love.

she taught me a lot about our country, but her invaluable contribution was that she taught me how to love. she made me realise that you love something for what it is, not what you want it to be. that love is not about contentment, but continuous unrest. it breaks you down to build you up again. when we love, it is not out of convenience, not out of intellectual fulfillment, but rather out of need, out of desire, out of a compulsion to love.

"jaan"
for the simple understated necessity it employs,
for placing atop enviable heights,
yet familiar like dew bitten earth to the senses,
bare
embarrassing
vulnerability.

you can not love that which you cannot stand unless it changes. you can not love that whose identity you deny. you can not love what you do not understand. you can not love out of contempt, but through truth and through hope.

yes, pakistan may be harami. but whatever it is, and however i wish to see it change, this is the pakistan that i love.