"What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?"

*Disclaimer * : The following tirade has been initiated purely in the interests of venting and is not intended to pass judgment, ridicule and demean any social or income group, even though in practice it does all three. The writer maintains that she is not bitchy, proud or prejudiced but has been forced by the circumstances narrated to act all three for the time being.

What indeed!

I do not know what it is about men in this country that reheeeeeealllly makes it a constant-every waking minute of every bloody day - God awful - swallow arsenic to avoid eye contact - struggle to merely ‘be’ a girl. And yes! I fully recognize that this is a very old rant, met by a consistently nonplussed audience silently murmuring ‘So what, men are ass holes, deal with it woman’ clause. Believe me boys, we deal with it, but that is beside the point for now. For now, the focus of my frustration shall be recollection and narration, which goes something like this:

A new job means new adjustments and new people, both of which I get…within reason. The organization I now work for happens to be a large one and is ill-located, if one is to evoke the defense that a young, twenty something girl driving and parking at the opposite end of Davis Road, walking across the road met by a daily deluge of cat calls is justifiable: it isn’t…but that in no way means it isn’t annoying. My new job allows me to be creative, as part of my work portfolio, in short, all I am required to do is come up with ideas for talk shows, dramas, sitcoms and special events. I discover I am good at this job, quite good. It has been two weeks working here, I still don’t have my employee cards but my boss at Karachi has already offered me a promotion after my three-month trial period. I also realize that this amounts to bragging, and I shall fold on that account. I have never been particularly motivated…at anything, but apparently I still manage to appear so to my employers ‘tis a blessing indeed’, but this time it is different I am finally proud in some measure of something I feel I am capable of doing. This could very well be a direct result of my afore-mentioned bullshit prowess, I seldom talk to people at the workplace, but when I talk about work…I can do it well and at great length.

This is inevitably the point where I should mention that my colleagues are both men and during our orientation I was foolish enough to have deemed it necessary to prove myself rather too quickly. This seems to have rubbed off the wrong way. Today, I walked in to work an hour late, having called the HR manager informing him about the need to wait at NADRA offices to re-issue my original ID card, which I was told I required for my documents to be processed. I was given permission and as I met my colleagues I was told that - considering I was late - I ought to drive them to Bari Studios, Multan Road somewhere ahead of Samanabad.

I tried to inform them -as politely as I could- that driving around the outskirts of Lahore was not really part of my job description and that ‘technically’ my team was meant to observe a recording session the day before when both of them neglected to show up for work. I was informed that since I was the only one who had a car and I “shouldn’t set a bad example by being prissy and neglecting to do my job just because I was a girl”, in short that I should compromise. At this point I tried to evoke the “I don’t get paid till June, my car runs on petrol and I want to avoid driving in Samanabad” defense. This was met with a “Bibi, Rs 200 ki to baat he, aap fikar na Karen mein de doon ga aap ko, Gaari chalaane ki baat rahi to woh mein chalaa leta hoon”.

I cannot accurately decipher how much I regret the fact that I lack the ability to slap people down on impulse. I told the man that I wasn’t taking his money and I really think we should call HR to confirm a vehicle for the trip, at this point he threatened to report my ‘princess’ act to the our Lahore in-charge.

This is the point where I got stupid.

I think it was the ‘princess’ thing that got to me and I mean really got to me. I have met women who manage to make the princess label work to their advantage in the workplace and make it a point of principle to complain about tea, air-conditioning, their seat placement and everything that could possibly come in between. I try very hard not to be one of those, I bring my lunch so I don’t have to ask the staff to run around and get me anything, I even pick up my daily bottle of mandatory IV in Coke on my way to work and the only time I bother someone is when my computer decides to remind me it has a personality, which I find myself incapable of corresponding with. I am definitely not one of those women. I do not know if this sounds vain and I no longer particularly care if it does (even though my hint of an exclusion clause negates the latter) but I find it a constant itch being stared down by truck drivers and rickshaw people. Also this attitude appears to have no class or income distinction, I have been solicited by many-a-manner of person in my office for lunch or with simple random requests like “Would you like to sit in row#3, the AC is cooler there?” Fortunately I have limited experience with pick-up lines, but I find that the supposed sensation of being flattered that I have heard is supposed to follow is distinctly absent. I also find it hard enough to ‘politely decline’ considering that all I end up doing is mentioning “Aren’t all the AC’s the same size, and they are all working why would row#3 be any cooler than mine?”…until which point the expression on the solicitors face registers and I ‘get it’. I can’t for the life of me understand why women crave this sort of attention.

Anyway, coming back to my rant, I decided to drive my colleagues on a road to hell, in terms of both derivative and destination. The journey involved my colleague singing cheap Indian love songs (which I would normally be singing along to under entirely different circumstances) and making comments about how ‘touchy’ women have become. At the point where he mentioned that he may need to take driving lessons to hike up his standards to meet ‘Maria bibi’s’ I seriously considered stopping the car and asking him to step out. But it occurred to me I had no idea where I was and even less of an idea of where I was going so I was stuck. Once we got to the studios and everyone had marveled, pointed at and commented over the girl, who was unwilling to laugh along at their putrid humor or sit and share ‘actress jokes’, shooting began and I met two other colleagues who I considered better company. There’s no business like show business, point taken. By five in the evening I insisted we return to work, because I was not driving in the dark with these two men in my car in a place I don’t know (I obviously did not say this, I just acted like a petulant uncompromising little girl insisting we go back) and was met with a series of rolling eyes. Regardless, they consented and as I was driving back the colleague in perpetual question deigned to make a comment which finally managed to evoke a suitable response from my person. He said that English medium girls from a particular ‘class’ who thought themselves ‘pretty’ often found it ‘hard to work hard’.

I have yet to bite back officially but I will probably end trying to avoid the issue again just to avoid it getting dirty. I wish I wasn’t so scared of things getting dirty. However this one incident has brought to light several things, the first being that no matter how hard I try to pretend that social classes don’t exist and indeed, thrive, in this country branding people under social classes doesn’t negate it from being any less than a caste system. And within that caste system there are very few inroads for connection to be found, especially for women. I refuse to apologize for being educated or ‘pretty’ if that is the indentation people need to use to put me down.

I also refuse to allow middle class morals entirely brand my being.

I believe I just used the word ‘middle class’…funny, I thought that was supposed to be me.

The Last Muse

An Idea is born…

A new thought or an old one wearing a fresh new fragrance garbed in satin. It steamrolls across the canvas of the mind, zooming-in, all guns blazing to a conclusion it is desperately counting upon us to come to. We roll with it as far as we can, before one of us loses the other. Some distant corner intricately cultivates our combined demise, our infinite fall from glory.

It is a study of the self, to derive how we conceive, perceive and deceive our own creation.
How is it born?
How do we kill it?

Why the trembling nuance of an idea hidden within the manifold layers of language and cornered by culture is killed in conception? Why the feeble fetus of original thought is beaten and buried during its oh-so fragile pre-natal phases?

“Dim it down, Cut the corners, Sell it.”

Too Bold
Not bold enough

Too pretty
Not pretty enough

Too wordy
Not wordy enough

Too abstract
Not abstract enough

Too smart
Not smart enough

Too Naïve
Not naïve enough

Too Happy
Not happy enough

Too Sad
Not sad enough

Stupid, incompetent, amateurs…how dare you call yourselves creators! When will you learn?
What you call life flows and follows in the cracks, the valley, the in-betweens, the shallows, the half-times, the breaks, the procrastinating middles of any and everything, the Grey’s.
I, Inspiration as I draw my dying breath ask of you, Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve, of what use are your sight, mind and soul if they are closed to cracks and crevices.

When will learn not to speak to say?

Pretty Poetry

I think I dropped a poem here somewhere
It slipped through my fingers
To creep sulkily into the cracks in the wall

It was rather pretty
A pantomime of colours and dreams
Of happy endings and Everlots

I think it was small
Easy to lose or forget or forego
Perhaps that is why I lost it
Why it no longer felt important enough to linger

I’ve been searching frantically for days
Under my pillow
In my chest drawers
Behind my desk
Under the carpet

It really was pretty
I’m sorry I lost it.

Window Shopping

A woman, especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.- Jane Austen

Attaching a new label to an age-old exercise is proving to be an interesting experience.
The misogynistic prancing of random aunties and their sons to inspect young girls, with the foreseeable conclusion of deeming them ‘acceptable’ or otherwise for all practical purposes of ‘holy matrimony’ is definitely an age old exercise in more ways than one.
Considering that I am so emphatically against such rituals, the amiable adaptability I am expressing to my mommy and grandmommy’s wishes is proving to be a surprise, most of all to myself. I am rather proud of myself for having managed to contain all outward signs of contempt, ridicule and malice…all of which are sufficiently active beneath the surface to warrant being put on display.
Perhaps the reason for my apparent detachment is the trump card awarded to all girls but one which very few bother to exercise in spirit. I am discovering with shocking alacrity the fact that relatively sane women (arguably, if there is such a thing) tend to change tack within seconds when faced with what ‘appears to be’ a promising prospect on paper. This usually denotes a degree of wealth, appearance, social breeding with specific emphasis on pedigree and an amiable nature. Common sense, if prevailed upon, would insist that none of the above can ever be gauged accurately regarding another individual, but in my gratifyingly limited experience common sense is not called upon much in these matters.

Having recently relived my Jane Austen fixation, it is interesting to observe that Eastern women are conveniently stuck in what the world recalls as the ‘Victorian Era’. Words such as felicity, prospects, ‘Man of consequence’ and ‘Dainty but willful’ sound pretty coming from Fanny Price, but they lose all sense of grandeur when they are translated in Urdu. A fact which is altogether ironic, considering the latter is usually an instrument for beautification. Nevertheless the crux is the same….money, class and character.
Foolish of us to assume that a pseudo-tea party in the company of absolute strangers can help accomplish an accurate assessment of either. Regardless, it is an interesting exercise to observe. Since the female/object in question is not really required to speak or profess her opinions during the proceedings it allows her free reign to watch at will. The most amusing aspect has to be the fluctuating flitters of language and tone, ‘tis all a prattle of sugar and smiles and winsome wiles’, none of which the likes of I are made of.

But I am determined to continue for the following reasons:

a) Sitting through this blatant, un –called for assessment of my person allows me to hold - in silent contempt- all those that surround me and much as I am loathe to admit it, this is oddly gratifying.
b) There is an added element of merriment in socializing passively without having to actively participate in the proceedings. Especially since every word spoken, by every person at such occasions is akin to critical negotiations at the highest level of political intrigue, which modern television has proven we are all interested in.
c) Such blatant disregard for the feelings of the object (female) and her hoard of orchestrating relatives by the subject (male) and his hoard of critics can only act as a test of character and forbearance, both of which one cannot ever have enough of.

Further, this exercise -if taken in the spirit it ought- is very much akin to Window shopping and since shopping in general is not acknowledged as a masculine pursuit, the picking of preferences and subsequent rejection of them all falls to the female. A reversal of roles proves much more interesting when it goes unnoticed and is conducted secretly in the presence of others. It would do well for us all to simply sit and watch the produce on display, just as we are being watched. After all women are much more critical about the purchases they make.

Best of all, this banner allows for the use of that delightful phrase “Sorry I wont be buying anything today, I’m only looking”.

Cheers!

I cannot believe I feel this alone. I don't know how to cope with it. I dont know how to talk about it and I most certainly dont know what to do with it.
Giving up on dreams is hard. Really, really hard. Hard and harrowing in a way I couldn't have foreseen. It tints everyday in grey hues and for someone used to seeing technicolour - even if its a psychedelic, self-induced, pseudo-acid flashback technicolour - greys are a downer.
What is it in my system that prevents me from busting my ass and just giving something, someone...anything, anyone... my all for one last chance to escape this place? A chance to escape the stillness and the rut.

Its guilt isnt it?

Yep, thats what it is...its guilt. Its guilt in a glass, money in a pill and masochism in a gulp. I don't deserve a break, which is why I wont get one. So here's to a job I dont really want, a life I didnt really choose and compromises which - apparently- we all need to make sometime.
Heres to the real world.

Bah humbug.
And for real this time.

Free falling

For all practical purposes, I suppose we can all claim that our existence is a scam. We are born – almost always- to parents who are not meant to be ours. Either that or they cannot afford to understand us. We live in a world that is – almost always- designed to alienate us. Either that or it cannot afford to adopt us. It is an uphill struggle. Either that or little more than downward descent.
Either way we lose.
Either way we fall.

Perhaps it is the overpowering pressure to ‘be’ more than we are and to ‘do’ more than we can. The notion to keep on pushing to preserve some mythical sense of idealism. To take charge, to cease the inimitable day and stomp our way up the pedestal.

Carp-e-diem is the sentimentalist’s synonym for carpal tunnel syndrome.
One end weighs the fall out, the other the fall.

Myths and Mazes

A new day, a new world or so they say.
It is becoming increasingly impossible to access the corner of my brain that analyses and recognizes the depth of social interaction, the fact that human beings are social animals. Why such an impossible distinction, even if one is to agree that we - like our fraternity in the animal kingdom - are in want of social interaction and interdependence, who is to assume that we cannot make it on our own should the need to do so present itself?
After all, there are several animals that survive, indeed thrive, on their solitude.

Then again there are times when the overwhelming desire for human contact eclipses all solitary comforts. Maybe the soaps do have one thing going for them, their intermittent dependence on the one universal story line…human beings ‘need’ conflict. We were not built to sustain comfort in liberal doses. Being content is the ideal we aspire to, through the means of overcoming conflict and largely overlooking the fact that by proxy our lives depend on the former and effectively end with the latter.

I have never really had conventional goals or conventional means to attain them. For the longest time, 11 years to be exact my ‘ultimate aim’ was to escape, be safe and start over. I have –in some manner or the other- done each and now I am at a loss as to what I want from the rest of my life. The ‘conflict question’ in this particular case presents itself in the all-encompassing lack of overt conflict. At least not the tangible kind, I often have a hard time believing that I crave normal emotions like anger and envy, but I do. It is a terrible feeling being inordinately incapable of feeling things on the surface and to a very large extent beneath it as well. Yes, there are problems and I generally observe these same problems disgruntle, disgust, depress and demoralize those around me…but I fade through them with ease. I thrive on my ability to compartmentalize problems and relationships in the context of a past so littered with pitfalls that it usually makes bitching and moaning -indeed reacting- to a rejection letter, a crush or a catty comment seem silly. How foolish would I be if I managed to survive Hell on earth without so much as a peep and now ended up ranting over prevailing college crises and failed relationships? The thing is, it is supposed to be silly and messy and emotional…but that doesn’t mean it isn’t supposed to ‘be’.

In effect I believe I am asking for the ability to feel pain again. Which -to many- may seem weird, but in fact is a blessing. Feeling pain, and subsequently all the subsidiary emotions that go along with it…allows us to feel everything else. The past month has brought with it some very uncomfortable realizations and I do not know if they are built on solid ground, paranoia or again, my need to create conflict and then camouflage it so that I can have something to keep my mind and self preoccupied enough to escape emotions.
I am loved by many and I am overpoweringly, earth shatteringly, shamefully, gratefully and constantly aware of this fact. I have never been prone to the notion that I deserve such emotions directed towards my person, and much as I seek them out in the form of an odious tendency to say exactly what people want to hear to appear amiable or hide in corners to avoid lying about things I know I cant agree with, guilt remains the overriding emotion at play. Such twisted gratitude raises its own fringe phobias, when there are no battles to be fought to solicit attention, it becomes hard to compartmentalize ones reactions. The overriding guilt perhaps is the vicious cycle of knowing that people seem to treat me as ‘extra-special’…yes, I do realize this is an odd thing to complain about. But when the constant underlining to my days, these days, is feeling a lot like little orphan Annie, who everyone feels obligated to adopt, the guilt really does kick in. I am grateful and gutted by the same notion. And I can’t quite pin point if I manipulate my position, hide from it or exploit it. In all likelihood it is probably a complex combination of all three.

It is a shame: I profess -a little too vehemently to be sincere- to appreciate the finer details in life. The weather, music, colors and fragrances…but I can’t for the life of me appreciate relationships and human contact. Which – they say – make it all worth while. I cannot claim in all honesty that I am content ‘just’ being an artist, dreaming of perfection and never working to attain it because I know it will shatter the myth. And I would much rather have the myth than the maze. Loving people requires telling them the truth and I am too much of a coward to ever be able to do that in the spirit it requires. It means telling those you love when you are pissed off at them and when you feel wronged, without anticipating a reaction or planning your account based on the expected response from their end.
One can’t really do that when you’re consistently more grateful than you are gutful.

Were we to map our lives through myths and mazes would we really have any choices?
Mazes offer structure and stagnation, but in that premise they also provide solace.
Myths offer magic and no means to attain it in the frame of reality.

Even for those as deluded as I, reality does hit and when it does
A messed up maze probably provides more security than a mirage myth.