Strike Three

I’m beginning to think that I’m jinxed, scratch that I know that I am jinxed. I’m beginning to think that The Man is trying to drill the point home with unprecedented precision. Three days ago, on January-frickin-27th…the weirdest thing happened to me. And yes, this was weirder than the time I talked to my hair dryer after surviving my first post-waste epiphany. This was downright wrong. For the record, I am aware that I am severely romantically challenged. I am also aware that I have 'issues'… which apparently is the new buzz word for problems because those only exist in terms of hunger, famine and disease. And I grant that those are a big deal.

Despite my numerous ‘issues’, I like to think that I’m polite, even if I tend to be a wallflower and prefer my own company most of the time. On the fateful day, while driving to work I was doing just that. I was minding my own business. I was looking right in front of me and minding my own DAMN business, until a man on a bicycle came and parked right next to my window as we were both waiting for the god forsaken light to kick gear. I have been told and I have picked up from priceless Pakistani experience that when men stare at you - and this is seldom a question of ‘when’ more than an answer to ‘whenever’- that the only way to ‘deal’ is to look straight ahead and ignore the catcalls, come-ons and subsequent car chases whenever they occur. This usually works and so that’s what I did. I suppose it goes without saying that bicycle man was staring…he was. Suddenly I heard a tapping on my car window - and in the naïve folly that is my complete and utter ignorance regarding the paramount perversion that men are capable of - I whipped my head around to utter a few ‘ladylike’ expletives (I am told ‘Idiot’ and ‘bastard’ now fit this bill) until I noticed something that made me jerk my head back and start pleading that God would - for once - ignore our mutual communication lapses, listen to me and click the signal ‘GO’. But God was on a rampage to prove a point.
And prove it He did.

Bicycle man was jerking off in the middle of the street, at the busiest traffic hour, in lane three and on – just in case it requires reiteration – a bicycle right next to my window. Which - had I, the stomach to not heave by looking again - would have provided me the premiere view of It-that-shall-not-be-named.

I give up. I really do.

My male friends, after swallowing their laughter, have told me to acknowledge that this isn’t really common and its not like everyone does it,at least not in public they said. Both are valid points, but the fact that anyone does it still bugs me. The fact that men are capable of being this sick is well…sick.
Were this a batting ring, I’d call in my third strike. First base was when I was fifteen; it was bad, really bad and I had braces so it was worse. Second base was a mammogram for fear of breast cancer, luckily the doctor’s face has now lost all conscious resonance in my skull.
The third base preview was…this.

Like I said, I give up.

Happenstance and Hedonism

In the new realm of spaced out quests and asinine algorithms one must work hard to find their bearings. I suppose I have been blessed, vehemently grounding myself in the here and now or concerning myself with what most of us call 'reality' has never really been high on my list of priorities or pursuits. Then again I have also been subsequently cursed for exactly the same reasons.
Being a realist holds little charm for someone as disgruntled by the ordinariness of this world as I. It means giving up the quest for happiness in the interest of a quest for practicality. Happenstance over Hedonism – this, will remain a choice I always hope to make in any given situation. And I always remain unsure of my conviction to make the same one regardless of circumstance. I figure, of late, that what challenges me more than anything is my never-ending battle to actively nurture 'denial'.
I don't really subscribe to denial in the conventional sense, or so I like to think. I acknowledge the world, the changing times and all that comes in between with a terse nod of my head, but I do not breathe it in. I examine the context, pick out my preference and sniff the scent and flavours I am willing to absorb, sneezing out the rest. Is this called choosing or plain abstinence, any evangelist would say the latter and in hopes of not being one I'll try to 'choose' the former. Even though this still doesn't preclude me from the good, the bad and the ugly, it makes it easier to pick a side. Whatever that side may be. In my case it usually frames an off kilter kaleidoscope of nothing and everything. Which is why there is little wonder I am as abstract as I am.

This brings me to the next proverbial jack-in-the-box: picking a side.

How does one choose a side, if you cant choose a semblance of the ordinary. The world as we know it, is bound by rules and premises, regardless of our quest for delusions… 'reality' prevails. Denial, must either be absolute or insipid to work…it cannot function half way. One can either be the Fool in all his bumbling glory or the Fascist in his tomb. The mid-route in this particular case means having to walk the path of circumstance on tenterhooks. I can relate, this is my chosen path.

Choices are hard. Really! Sometimes the compromising intensity that they bring with them is superfluous. Having lived in a realm where only dictates existed and choices were perennially absent, I can say that life was perhaps easier. It was ordinary and easy. Being told what to do, what to like, how to live and think…was easy because it discounted any input from the object. The classic case of 'subject' turned 'object'. It was automated, ordinary and practical.

Choices have brought with them rights, along with the persistent struggle of identity. A choice, any choice…from the shade of nail polish one picks to the school you go to, to the man you marry… each one brings with it a new step on your path forged and forayed by your own judgment. The wrongs and rights are your own, as are their fallouts.

It is choice that allows for Delusion.
And it is the picking of the latter that necessitates more choices.

Garbage Cans and Flower Children

I have been walking around in a turquoise and amber mist, a surreal tryst at best. To find myself trudging through clouds with a needle and thread in my hand striving to sew my person in a canvas, already complete. Trying to find myself in a lens carved in crystal.
If there were a way for me to go back and intertwine my person and perception through a map, I would stitch my soul into a song. I would set sail to ‘Suzanne’, begging her to take me down to the place by the river where I could see the boats go by and spend the night forever. Because I know that she’s half crazy and that’s the only reason I’d want to be there. I may not be big on tea and oranges all the way from China, but I’m big on crazy kind.

And I want to travel blind…


I

And you want to travel with her and you want to travel blind
You think you maybe trust her because she’s touched you
And she’s moved you
And she’s kind

Her eyes and ears were always open. Alert, attentive and apprehensive were the tools and survival the game. She rolled the dice a long time ago and just kept on rolling. A Gambler’s recourse if there ever was one.
They say crossroads only cross our paths once in a while. It isn’t often that we find ourselves at a major bridge - a choice that changes a life, or is it that we forget the bridges once we’ve burnt them?
“Who will it be sweetheart? You don’t have to be scared, just whisper it in my ear. No one will say anything, no one will hurt you. Just tell me, do you want to go home with Mom or Baba?” It is an odd thing standing in the middle of a court room trying to pick a parent when you’re eight years old. She felt that it was odd, it was odd wasn’t it….this couldn’t be normal? The judge seemed kind, so maybe the truth was the order of the day…
“Mom.”
She never figured out if it was the right choice.


II

He himself was broken long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a star

Her heart and head were always closed. Only her will functioned, a steely resolve that was unbreakable to the point that it was unbridgeable. It is what happens when one loses the bet, but refuses to fold.
Bridge number two was easier, it just didn’t work. It was only her, the vanity mirror, three fresh zits and eight pills of Valium. Fourteen is a good age to go, if one can’t find a reason to stay. Its enough to say you’ve tried and not enough to hate yourself for trying too hard. It was perfect.
A failed attempt at a fable. Tragic endings are poignant because they move people – finally, the ultimate curtain call for the teenage drama queen that no one understood.
Only, it proved to be the dress rehearsal.


III

She’s wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters
And the Sun pours down like honey on our Lady of the Harbour
And she shows you where to look amongst the garbage and the flowers
There are Heroes in the seaweed there are Children in the Morning

She had a winning smile. It had been practiced, painted and choreographed to perfection. It was flawless, unfathomable and therefore unreal. It was nice to know that fooling people was easy. All it took was a flash of teeth and glint in ones eye. It’s a power rush like no other – A follower’s deflection and a fool‘s redemption.
It is harder to map out a pinnacle point when the time span is ten years, hard to pick the one moment where the smiles crystallise and lose all humanity. Impossible to identify the time and place where she first faked it. The first fake laugh, the first fake ‘I’m fine’, the first fake ‘Its okay’, the first fake ‘Don’t worry about me’, the first fake ‘I’m so happy’. She never tried to phase out the lies or the truths.
They were too mangled to be different.


IV

Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water
He spent a long time watching from a lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain only drowning men could see him
He said all men shall be sailors then until the sea shall free them

The first tears she remembered. They always came after the door closed on his way out. Her Demon was her inspiration. It was a release like no other, to have an excuse to cry, even if it was perpetrated by sheer terror. It was permissible because it was passing. It never happened outside the hailstorm, which is why both he and she could accept it. It was forgivable. It was the only human thing about her.
It was always her favourite part.


V

They’re leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the Mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel Blind…

Her crosses came in different sizes. They were all easy to bear, because they needed to be. Some were just more memorable than others. Ten years marked the end of the biggest cross. The cliff-hanger to crash all others. An actual choice.
“Its up to you, you will stay here and do what you’re told or you can get lost.”
There are seconds that one can count, they are few and far between, but they exist. They are the slit in time that they show in the movies, where you can hear your heart’s superimposed beat and count each breath and the space in between every flicker of your eye lash. It was the biggest hand he had ever dealt her…and he was bluffing.
And she called him on it.


The hardest time to move is when the cast comes off.

The hardest moment to be free is when the shackles have been broken.

The hardest time to love is when you are free to do so.

Hard times come and wait…till you are finally ready to go.

Lifescapes

It was her face that was different, more so than anything else about her.
It was a painting and a symphony all at once. An array of sounds and a palette of hues danced across her cheeks and that was why she was beautiful.
She was more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen.

That’s the funny thing about faces; the more people try to hide the flaws the more they flaunt them. It’s almost as if every new blush stroke manifests itself somewhere else, the prettier the cheek the less bright the eye, the glossier the lip the less dazzling the smile. I have always marvelled at how women poke their way into perfection. Seldom realising that it is the flaws – the crevices, the laugh lines, the dimples, the freckles that make the face. The layers of cover up do only that, cover up.
Every face tells a story. At least if one is willing to hear it. The simplest ones tell the simplest stories – hard, honest, bitter... real. These are the faces with deep caverns cut into the cheek bones, canyons of time withered away in skin. These are eyes that are so bare they tell all, there is no mystery in these eyes because there is no hiding hunger and pain. There is no mystery in pain. These are the skins that, though seldom washed, are somehow touched by the sun more potently. They glow and shimmer as they bake. These are the lines that tell the stories that need to be told. We were wrong to assume that life lines were embedded in the scabs of our palms, they are emblazoned in the folds of our face.
Our life is what we find mapped in the bags under our eyes, in the depth of the curves that corner our mouth as we flash our teeth wide, in the crinkles on our forehead when we mark it with an expression. Any expression.

It makes sense for those of us who have the means, to cover it all up. Who wants to wear their stories for the world to see?
Who has such courage?

But she did and she was only nineteen. As I took her flowers - Narcissus (ironically, my favourite) and rather inappropriate now that I think about it – I made it a point not to look at her directly. I thought it might make her self conscious. Being burnt alive cannot be an easy story to wear, but she did it with spunk. She told me to look at her, said that it wasn’t that bad. In fact her exact words were that she had found the only way to become fair overnight, she had only missed a few patches, but extra strength liquid bleach would take care of that. As she said this, her smile was slightly lopsided, the kind of smile that begs you to take the joke from the tail and roll with it so that the teller can laugh a little more at their predicament. I am not slow, I rolled and she laughed. Her stunning desi ‘sheen’ had been burnt away in rosy splotches and as I looked closely at each and every one of them I found that each accented her smile. Honestly, they did. Since everyone was embarrassed to look at her skin, they finally looked into her eyes. She had beautiful eyes, shy and sassy at the same time. She kept laughing at herself and I think that was the moment I fell in love with her. If it is possible for a woman to fall in love with another woman without wanting to jump her bones. I knew this game and I knew it well. I knew how to save face when the face was bashed in, I knew how to laugh at myself just so there was something to laugh about. She said that her mother had finally jinxed it all, she always told Nadia that she was gorgeous and if she were only fairer she’d land a Gora from Bora Bora. I told her that dudes from Bora Bora were hardly ‘gora’, which we both found rather disappointing because a gora from England just didn’t elicit the same enthusiasm. I told her that my mother had said the same thing, only in my case it was the weight. Perhaps I should try and get run over for default liposuction. We both laughed.

Then she asked me if her life was over. I looked at her for a minute and right before I opened my mouth she told me that if I was the friend she thought I was, I would say it as I saw it. I told her to read ‘Taming of the Shrew’ again. This time we cried.
As I was leaving she told me, that if I could survive my life she could survive hers. Then she got out of the creaky hospital bed stood in front of me and we both did the Carrey Bradshaw Head toss followed by a “We’re single and Fabulous!”.

She really was more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen.

Jedi Master Bullshit & the Bitch from the Blue Lagoon

I have never felt the need to see myself this way and I hate that She could make me do so.

I am one of those quirks of nature that like to think of themselves as the pinnacle of the universe. While I recognise that I have very little to offer anyone and that I am more of a mess than the average Lahore street corner, I still find myself constantly measuring everyone else in venomous doses. This is rather odd, when one takes into account the fact that I am a social misfit who likes to hide in corners and inadvertently begrudge other people their success. Perhaps the most loathsome thing about me is the fact that I can never own up to any of this, I am always impeccably polite, cordial and consistently bashful. This usually means that while I may actually want to rip a person’s face off and use it as an ass wipe, I am more likely to offer them a nice cup of tea and an invitation to come and stay at my house and borrow all of my belongings.
I, my friends, am Jedi Master Bullshit.

My biggest problem is the fact that I am plagued by the intellectual racism that persists in society. One might perhaps think that this particular form of racism does not exist in Pakiland, but I tell you it does. More so, because it is so rare. My ‘issue’ being that I am not half as smart as I would want to be, but smart enough to know that I want to be smarter. It is a conundrum. I spend my days walking through a void of maladjustment, reading as many volumes by the stodgiest of authors I can find to impress innocent bystanders who ought to remain innocent and stand by. There is a glitch in my plan (which is why it obviously hasn’t yielded any results) : I am hopelessly inept at marketing myself. This - I am told by the few people that I agree to converse with on a semi-regular basis – is a fatal flaw for a young, twenty something woman, who wants to be someone in this life. I work in a newspaper office, one with a certain measure of repute, and I am not so proud but apathetic enough to announce that I do absolutely nothing of any consequence. I edit the random musings of even more random people from around the globe ranting and raving about how ‘they’ think the problems of this country can be solved in less than 300 words and then I wait. I wait for the clock to strike nine so that I can walk out of the doors of this building littered with an army of academic casualties. I have yet to join the ranks, of which I do not know if I am grateful or in mourning.

I met her a few days ago in a restaurant where I and the social degenerates I usually consider ‘of my kin’ hang out. I use the expression ‘hang out’ loosely, for I seldom subscribe to the principles of this term which imply a degree of comfort and being at ease, two things which I can never relate to. By hanging out I simply mean my partaking of any form of voluntary social interaction. ‘She’ was dressed to the nines, glamorous and a snob. I mean this judgmentally and I am very proud to finally admit to it. I am often told by acquaintances that I need to embrace my ‘femininity’ more and I have never understood what this means. I enjoy dressing up now that I am permitted to do so and I especially enjoy ornamenting myself with ridiculous jewellery and unconventional colours. I also subscribe, very dearly, to a fetish for shoes (which I believe is a trademark of all that is ‘Yin’ in this world, has two feet and falls under the classification ‘Homosapien’). I have many a time patted myself on the back for not being one of the people who needed to stamp themselves with three inch specs and sweatshirts to proclaim themselves as smart.
My complexes are far more complex, pun intended.

Anyway, as our conversation ran along career lines, She just happened to mention some of my problems. This monologue usually moves along the lines of “You know what your problem is….?”, and ends with me nodding my head in acknowledgment of the said problem and a determination to stick with it. This time however the entire sentence ran something like this “…you don’t know how to make the most of your looks in the workplace. One needs to smile and flirt - at least a little- I’m not saying you date your boss, but you need to be less Ram-rodish (this is my own term to replace the original, which in case you were wondering was ‘frigid’). I’m making twice the amount you make and I can barely even string together a proper sentence (again my own intervention - ‘She’ simply mentioned that I could do better than her if I so chose).

In all the years that I have been cornered and rendered speechless, this was an occasion I could never have seen coming. The Bitch had spoken. And once again she had rendered my Bullshit prowess mediocre at best. She quoted examples of the leagues of women who were in positions that they perhaps did not deserve to be in, were merit the criteria for selection. And I was forced to recount the many women I knew of who I felt ought to go out and get a brain. Apparently brains come in second to beauty and third to balls. These women usually have the latter two and the first therefore becomes irrelevant. I was also forced to remember all the Hollywood films I had seen of women suing men for sexual harassment, something that we are given to take as a norm here.
But then it occurred to me, we had found a loophole – in a country where by and large one can find the most frustrated men on the planet. Why not turn the tables? Pakiland: Ladies and Gentlemen – Land of the not-so-demure. After all, a smile and toss of hair can do wonders in a country where men often sport erections walking past a burka-clad woman in the street.

Needless to say my Bullshit self was no match for the Bitch from the Blue Lagoon.
She would always get ahead much faster than I.
She would always make more money than I.
She would always have more admirers than I.

I on the other hand would always have my Jedi Master Bullshit self.

“Girls always have an unfair advantage over boys. If they can’t get what they want by being smart, they can get it by being dumb.” – Yul Brynner.

Mo-ruse

The relative ruse of being in a state of general discontent is re-heallllly disturbing.

This is not a pit-stop I had ever conceived being stuck on and it is no picnic being angry, morbid or generally miserable by myself, with myself and of, on and in my surroundings. A nerve-wracking combination of the perpetual flu, the drudgery of work and the niggling thought that my life - dragging my person along for the ride – is headed nowhere.
It is hard work being morose.
I do not understand how people do it.