Hal Chal - Qbase

One of my favourite songs these days…

An interesting sunday..

“man, its really hot.. How long do we have to wait for her?” “just a little while more, her cousin is coming to give us the tickets..at the main gate”

“oh no way man, thats two whole blocks away.. grrrr..ok, lets walk”

They started at gate 3, and walked steadily towards the main entrance. The two boys had abandoned them, and unchivalrously gone into the match, not caring about the eve-teasing going on around them. The side walk seemed to vanish underfoot. They wrapped their dupattas around themselves tightly, squinting as the dust flew in their eyes, the sun bore down hot and humid. Carefully, skirting around the hoardes of men with their catcalling, and lewd comments, she thought, “darn, I hope these silver slippers dont snap”.

“there he is”, her friend excitedly motioned to a tall lanky fellow, in a pink button down shirt, talking irately into a cellphone. “All ready for the match girls?”, he smiled, and motioned them towards the bag-checking lady.

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3 body searches and bag checks later, they stood facing the stairs that led to the vip gallery. Both girls heavedd a sigh of relief at being able to have gotten away with keeping their cellphones, and cameras. The president was coming to the match, security was tight. The guard, having a soft spot for females, ushered them in and made them promise to keep their phones off.

The stairs seemed to go on for ever, and they huffed and puffed their way up the stairs, burstiingg forth out into the open aired gallery, like fish that jump out of water for that split second. The girls looked around. The ground was a brilliant green, spotted with players in sky blue and others in royal blue. India, pakistans biggest rivals- and sri lanka, currently Indias biggest competition.

“lets go get a seat..the match looks really promising”.. Both friends smiled at eachother, and went to sit down.

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Musharaf had decided to grace the event with his presence. The doors were padlocked and abandoned by gatekeepers 2 hours prior to his arrival. What had started out as fun, had now become a tedious, dehydrated and slightly repetitve event marked by too many pictures snapped - the only interesting sight was now the crows perching on the roof in the floodlights, illuminated almost like an ascent into heaven..

The clock turned from 9 to 10, and 10 to 11…. at 11, the cellphones came out and the texting began in response to phonecalls from anxious parents watching the match at home… The conversations mostly went like this..” yes, ma, the doors have been locked since nine… we will come home as soon as possible…”.. and , “abbu, what can we do…they wont let us out, not even for a drink.. yes yes, we are coming as soon as mushy leaves..”. Little did everyone know that he was there to hand out the awards, and a long long LONG wait become inescapable.. Slowly but surely, the indian and sri lanked flags started to melt off sticky faces, the humidity intensifying with the promise of rain. Long sighs followed, ipod touch’s precariously balanced on railings, waiting for musharafs arrival on the ground..Camera’s stayed poised waiting for the moment of glory.

*****************************************************************************

Suddenly, it happened…The match ended, and charcoal suited figures ran to form a big circle, interfacing eachother, the ring of unbreachable mortal security (not very reassuring one can be sure). The Pakistani cricket team huddled round Musharaf as he walked out surrounded by his entourage in a green suit, patriotic, and walked and waved to his adoring fans leaning over the railings and shouting his name. After the lefts and rights were over, he walked onto the stage, and the award ceremony began.

Camera’s went *click* *pop* *flash*, fake smiles came on, and the never-tiring effort to speak “english” continued in its broken and much interupted wake.

*boing* *Boing* *BOING* - This time check was brought to you by - Pepsi! yeh dil mangey more!!

Midnight.

The screen flashed for a brief minute, airing the sponsers advert. The hands had retracted from the railings, and tired feet shuffled over the wooden planks to form a queue. Women wound their wraps/stoles around themselves tightly, trying to manage their whiny children who were tugged at their pant legs. Carefully, they sandwiched themselves into single-file lines in between several male members of their families, in an effortt to avoid being felt up unneccessarily.

The two friends clasped hands, and skirted their way around, weaving in and out of the crowd near the head of the line. The doors finally opened,  and they spilled out of the veranda, which felt like a cage after all this time. Someone jokingly commented, “It looks like a flight has just landed”. The girls rushed down the stairs, trying to keep pace with friends who were also leaving the stadium. They were so stiff, their legs failed them, and once or twice they fell behind before resuming the struggle to catch their ride home.

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“Phew, that was close..I thought the bus was going to hit you for sure”, her friend looked at her worriedly, her features wrinkled in the streaming streetlight.

“Honestly, man, I didn’t even see that bus coming..Thanks for pulling me through”, She leaned back against the sunken car seat, eyes closed, shoulders sagging gratefully.

They had crossed the busy streets and made it to the rusty old mehran. Both girls were now home bound. They lurched forward as the rash driving of an 18 year old took over, and they hurtled through heavy traffic. Seven times she saw her life flash infront of her eyes…seven narrow saves.. They could have been smashed on the sidewalk. Her stomach lurched as they ploughed on ahead.

It took two hours, 4 stops at opposite ends of the city, two packets of chilli chips, and an empty smoking radiator till she finally got off home..somewhat shaky..and stumbled upstairs towards her first solid meal of the day..

Blood

by Fahad Rasheed

Monday, June 30, 2008 at 5:38pm

Ragon mein dortay phirnay kay hum nahi qaayal
Jab aankh hee say na tapka tu phir lahuu kya hai?

Apparently Ghalib wasn’t aware of what was to become of his land when he so blatantly asked this question?

Which blood was he talking about?

Is that what’s running in our veins?

Cold, cold Blood?

Where’s the revolt in that? Where’s the excitement in that. Where, I ask you, is the rebellion in that?

I sometimes sit down, alone, and I ask myself….

What is blood?

Is it really thicker than water?
What does it look like?
How should it behave?

Shouldn’t it be like a liquid in a boiling cauldron?
Shouldn’t it have the energy to bring about a change?
Bring about a revolution?
Shake the roots of an institution?
Shouldn’t it?

I tilt my head back and eventually ask myself.

What is the color of blood?

Red???

No, a voice inside me replies..

Ghastly…………….

……………………….Morbidly Red.

The perils of KESC

One charger burnt, I can understand

The second one lost to fluctuation, i can understand

The third one blowing up is slightly more than irritating…

                 …. but losing a crucial chip on my mother board , which i quote ” became hot so it melted, and melted, and melted so much that it split into two , and is basically is completely destroyed”…is utterly RIDICULOUS!! damn you kesc…. now I can’t even charge my laptop without being run into thousands of rs down the drain!! GRRRR

Ride It- jay sean

Theres a hole..in my .. throat…

Yes, we’ve heard of black holes in outer space..but I have achieved the impossible…

lol..there’s a hole in my throat.How did i put that there, you ask?!!!

We come from a long line of people with

a. tonsilitus

b. fish lovers

So at dinner last night.. my cousin decided to harrass me, and bug me..and absentmindedly, i ate a big bite of fish..not realising perhaps it might have bones?!! I also did not realise, that the amount of orange juice ive been consuming lately has helped my tonsils to grow into the size of golfballs…

So while downing that delicious fish, it caught in my throat - and by the time I realised there were bones, it was too late ..it scratched my throat and made a big hole…. in my left tonsil…ouchie…its so gross to look at….

lesson to be learnt:

never pay attention to younger cousins when eating fish

don’t be greedy…

and definitely..definitely ..dont let ur tonsils get to this state..

A Woman’s Fallacy

Written by Ramla Akhter

The problem is that women all over the world, and in the society that I know most - my own - are brought up under this oft intangible belief that they are lesser beings, created for the sole purpose of scrificing and pleasing others around them. If they don’t have a role to play, women would not exist on their own.

That’s the deep, entrenched construct that manifests in such a variety of abusive, bizarre behavior in women, and by extension, their (our!) relationships.

I’ve never thought of myself as a woman, rather a human, much to the chagrin and the bewilderment of my parents who, despite their tradition-breaking, expected me to be that well-behaved, tea-serving daughter.

It’s the tea that always got to me. I could wash the car or sweep the front yard. But the decorated tea!

I never really made it my problem to be a woman or not. To me, the world was about humanity.

So it’s with much surprise, a little trepidation, and much more wild curiosity that I am observing the feminine energy entering my life. What a phase, and how many awkward situations has it got me into already!

But there must really be a time for everything, and it’s time for me to detour from the Human to the Feminine.

A few situations I just expected (almost feared) happening, happened. By the time they did, I was ready and afraid no more. (Yes, I am troubled by dealing with people’s problems, especially the feminine kind. Yet this subject has started dancing in my life all around me. The time has come, eh!?)

It was all pre-planned by Fate that I would see a book titled Women of Sufism on the bookshelf of a particularly obnoxious woman in South Africa. I took a photo of the cover all Jason Bourne style before she could pounce on me, and I got the book from USA beginning of this month.

And what a revelation it is!

Here it is in my hands. I find it so revealing, so life-altering, I’d recommend a copy to any woman who’s been brought up to believe that she is a lesser mortal.

It is all rooted in the myth that Eve came out of Adam’s rib. Which is false. In Qur’an’s fourth chapter, named “Women,” the very first verse declares that we were created from “one self (nafs),” into a pair. Very conveniently, this “nafs” (Arabic for “self”) is penciled as “Adam,” the man, in translations, albeit parenthetically.

Well, “nafs” in Arabic is feminine.

And Eve never came out of Adam’s rib. It is a human-created myth designed to degrade women.

Allah declares often in the Qur’an that “everything is created in pairs.” This is the Divine Law. So how could humans have been created as a single man, only upon whose desire woman was created from his rib? Does God ever design like that? Has not Allah invited humans countless times in the Qur’an to study the signs and learn the Design of the Universe? Does this myth tally?

But people do not read. They only assume, at best.

And as someone noted, if Eve indeed follow Adam in the process of creation, then she is the most evolved form of creation. Which essentially means that womanhood is the highest form of creation. Not surprisingly, Allah has preferred a woman (the archetype “mother”) three times over a man (the archetype “father”) - as even a layperson of a Muslim would know.

So. One of my current missions in life, taking a life on its own, is to study and teach the truth of Femininity, of Womanhood.

May that liberate women from the abusive bondage we have worked ourselves into. And may that, in turn, liberate the entire humanity from its transgression on the Feminine Principle.

Aameen

The case of the exploding mangoes!

The only fact in this book - is that General Zia’s plane took off , and crashed four minutes later.

The rest is a delightful tale of fiction, with a humourous version of zia’s character, of the mangoes in the plane…the imagery is delightful, the author has painted many a vivid picture of army life…the uniforms,the C 130’s… The marching, and smiles, that were betrayed by body language..

Today, at the reading, Mohammad Hanif, in his own voice, brought to life the characters, their various roles. Most amusing perhaps, was the scene in the jail cell, the poetry enscribed in beautiful urdu, and stuffed in a hole in the mattress.. The overuse of the word pansy..and the irony of the letterbox when the letters never come..

The author himself is quite interesting - he lives abroad, and his book was published in india… quite the global mix for the pakistani audience.. specially since the book has three different covers.. the Pakistani version had a picture of zia in black n whit, with a maroon plane crashing under his face. The Indian version has a mango with a crow pecking at it…and the American version has a mango with a wick which is burning…just like a time bomb about to go off!!

All in all, a fabulous reading by a fabulous author of a fabulous book. Do get your hands on a copy..

The Thaali…

Surma.

Henna.

Rooh Afza.

Oil, a comb, and a mirror.

Shot glasses, ironically, to drink holy water.

Ittar …

All the things a bride needs ….

.. if only she were to be a bride.

Strum Strum Strum along, gently down the strings…

Huffing, puffing, run up the stairs to lesson two…Rush through the doors, hoping not to be late…fish through the giant multicoloured pandoras *bag* for a pick… shed the green guitar case and sit down…

Waiting to listen to the sweet sounds of melodies unsung, strings slowly being plucked and slid, seven picks works their way up and down.. forty minutes go by, and not a tune is put together yet…

THEN the guru picks up a guitar.. his fingers hold down the strings here and there, skimming over them effortless…not a minute goes by that he has the instrument perfectly strung, and playing chords, his eyes closed, the notes seemingly flowing from the back of his mind… All seven sit , entranced..

The lesson for the week : LEARN TO TUNE YOUR GUITAR!!!!! *imperative for strumming*

Chords learnt this week :

E major - 022100

E minor- 022000