Leechy Me

I am wasting away.

If there was any way I could get a job without having to give a single job interview, I’d go for it; even if it involved hanging a whiteboard around my neck with the words “hire me!” I hate job interviews. I suck at them. There’s a thin line between being confident and being obnoxiously arrogant and either I consistently overstep it, or completely ignore it and traipse into “Oh my Gawd!! Oh my Gawd! That’s the boss! HIDE!” mode.

Add to this the fact that I’m not particularly presentable and what you have is a tally of 4 job interviews and 0 job offers.

Now SSS has been kind enough to say that I don’t really need a job (I think he’s sick of hearing me whine about how I can’t find one) and that I can leech on him for the rest of my life, but I love my fiancé and the last thing I want is for him to dive into the parasitic relationship that is the usual Pakistani marriage. Plus, deep down inside me there is a little bit of pride left. Why should I leech on him? Why is he the only one doing the paying? I can take care of myself, can’t I?

I’ve always believed that the sexes are equal. And by that I mean that women have to take the good with the bad side of feminism. If we’re to be treated equal that means we fix our own flat tires, and open our own car doors and pay for our own meals. It’s sick that we expect the same opportunities but prove ourselves incapable of walking step by step with men. Marriage, to me, has always been about two separate people wanting to live their individual lives together.You Tarzan, me Xena (or Buffy). Not you Tarzan, me Mary Jane Watson.I need to respect myself first, before I can expect SSS to respect me, and I can’t do that if I feel I’m just an added responsibility.

You see, it’s all about balance. What you’re giving in return and what you’re getting. Other than the blackmail-worthy argument of “I- left-my-family-and-home-for-you”, women of the upper middle, and upper class don’t have much to give to a relationship other than some heavy credit card usage and children. Most women of that class don’t cook, or sew, or do much of the housework; preferring to tyrranically preside over a stream of servants their husband procures for them (how’s THAT for alliteration?). And considering their daily activities are little more than dropping their kids to and from school, going shopping, and socializing, while the more civic minded may start an NGO; I wonder why they bother to keep on existing. Is the purpose of our existence strictly getting married? After all… what do we contribute? Honest to goodness, what good are we?

My grandmother keeps saying a woman should not work because then she’ll start imagining herself equal to her husband. I don’t know, but I always felt there was something very very wrong with that statement.

Return of Ze Moi

You ‘ve probably wondered whether I’m still alive. I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought I’d been murdered and buried somewhere, though honestly, if I’ll ever be murdered and buried under a parking lot or construction site it’ll be after 6 months. I don’t think SSS’ll let me die right now. For some reason, I think he actually likes me.

But I owe everyone (especially jinkibachi) an explanation. I had my thesis going on, which basically meant I was socially and emotionally strangled and then buried in a mound of printing paste, fabric and sewing thread. Before April I used to complain about my workload, but these past two months I couldn’t even find time to complain about my workload. I ditched ALI!! Can you imagine? My trusty PA and BAST FRAND (by the way dude, you have not been replaced- I shall forever remain your biggest fan and this is as much PDA as I will ever show). But now it’s all over. I have returned. I know you’ve missed me, your wait is over. Thank you for the love people, thank you!

Now, you’re probably crazy curious about what’s been going on in my life the past 2 months.  Well, my love for Quentin Tarantino has smoldered and now all but ashes remain…i am over him. I love him no more. Move over Quent- I am through with you. You had your chance, and you missed. Stick to your stick thin blondes, you psycho.

And I graduated. At least I will. University is over. I’m done. Four years are gone and I shall no more travel each morning to the land of Ghaggar. Frankly, I thought I’d miss it more than I do. Maybe it’ll hit me after summer. Right now I’m just relieved that I can get up at a normal human hour like ten in the morning, instead of waking at 6 to make a 9 o clock class.

Plus, maybe now I’ll actually get to keep my cell phone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my bag was hit again. I think I have a stalker. I’m pretty  sure that in some room at the TIP Boy’s hostel will be a shrine dedicated to me; decorated with my cellphones, wallet, lost poker chips, books, rulers and other bits of stationery, and my two thesis shirts. Sigh. Can you believe it?  Two shirts that I designed for my thesis have been stolen. From a locked room. Who is this crazy, love- struck demon? Why does he target just me? How can I be rid of this phantom of the Institute? By the way, his number’s  03433376624. Spread it to all your crazy stalker friends. Tell them it’s the real number of that hot Zong chick.

Oh, and my newspaper guy disappeared. For the last 4 days we haven’t been receiving our daily newspaper and considering the state of PTV News  and how we don’t have cable, I’m pretty clueless about what’s going on in the world. For some reason I can’t bring myself to read an online newspaper. I mean, I’m on the internet why the hell should I read the news? Why don’t I just look up bridal dresses instead? Or wedding cards?

Which reminds me, I’m getting married. This November.  To think, someone actually wants to marry me. Haw. Poor baby.

Yeah so I’m getting married, which means clothes shopping, and high maintenance tailors, and over- stressed mothers and a considerable lack of time for the more important things in life like watching dvds of all the shows I missed and making cheesecake. Sigh.

Anyway, I think this crap is enough for now. People, aye am ze back…zis is not ze end. Aye am ze yours until November (cheap faux-French wink)

no jubilations on my side

How I hate my internet.
There are no words to explain how truly deeply I loathe it sometimes.
No other words but Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s
“How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways”
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…”

I loathe Egbert (my pc), I loathe my anti virus software, I loathe my mouse, I loathe my keyboard, I loathe my speakers which are so ancient they don’t even have an earphone socket…
I HATE them all.
And yet, the sadness, I cannot live without them.
I’m getting to the point where the only thing I can truly live without is my country.

I’ve mentioned before somewhere that not having cable is a blessing in some ways. This opinion of mine has gotten stronger nowadays because it gives me and my fiancé something to talk about. He tells me all the shenanigans of the press and politicians for the day and I laugh at them. It sure beats discussing finance. He knows nothing about art and design, and doesn’t seem interested in learning, and I don’t know crap about financing- but that doesn’t stop him from explaining it to me. Haye the difference between men and women…

Thing is though, these politician joke gets old. There’s only a short time you can keep laughing. At some point, you realize that it’s stopped being funny and started becoming repetitious. I’m tired of watching the same comedy routine for the 22 years I’ve been alive. I’m tired of watching “Democracy’s greatest victory” every few years, knowing how little it’ll matter in the future. It doesn’t matter who wins when both the contestants are swine.

So no, I won’t celebrate the CJ’s reinstatement. I don’t think the lawyers have done a great job. Anyone whose case has been in court for the last two years would know what a pain in the ass they’ve been to the ordinary people they’re supposed to be representing right now. The Supreme Court will not become honest and dedicated to the people, and the Chief Justice will not- and please let me underline this- NOT be the savior that this country is looking for.

New Post. Can’t think up a title

Fifteen years ago Kenneth Branagh was absolutely gorgeous. Add period costume, Shakespearean dialogue and Italian scenery to the mixture and you have a very openly swooning Hira. John Abraham topless could not have a greater effect.

 

Just finished watching ‘Much ado about nothing’. Not one of Shakespeare’s best plays but then, according to the opinion of people whose opinion actually matters, his best plays were always the ones where everyone died in the end. In MAAN, everyone- surprisingly- survives. How un-Shakespearean.

 

By the way, that’s basically how you can tell the difference between a Shakespearean tragedy and comedy. In a comedy, only 2 people, or less die. In a tragedy, only two people, or less, live. Everything else is pretty much the same.

 

Though in the case of many modern day comedies (Adam Sandler ones especially) you wish to the high heavens that the death ratio was a bit higher.

 

So today I watched two completely unrelated films. Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing starring the director himself, Emma Thompson, Denzel Washington and Dr. Wilson from House (Do you know he was something of a star in the late 80’s and early 90’s? I didn’t!) and Pineapple Express (starring James Franco and a few others- sorry but the rest of the cast wasn’t much to look at) and I enjoyed both immensely. Though to be honest, the latter was a whole lot more fun

And for what it’s worth, I’d take watching Pineapple Express over Dr. Zhivago any day.  

 I’ve changed a lot from the girl who would diss anything non- rock as bad music, and anything non-russian as bad literature. I’ve finally got over myself and learned to accept that just because I don’t like something doesn’t make it bad. And that just because some dead critic called something good, it doesn’t mean that (a) I should like/appreciate/ deem it worthy to be completed and not left half way; and (b) it has to be good anyway. Even if a hundred dead (or living) critics call something a masterpiece, it doesn’t make it one. If you cannot enjoy, appreciate, or even stand a ‘masterpiece’, you aren’t necessarily at fault and you’re not a philistine. It’s a matter of taste buds. If I can’t stomach caviar and turn to French fries, it doesn’t make me any less a gourmet; it just shows that I know what I like regardless of the hype. I’m a simpler person, not a tasteless one.

 

So now, if someone says they ‘lurve Celine Dion and Michael learns to Rock’ I may wince inwardly, but only because that person is most likely to be a die-hard romantic and that sort terrifies me. Celine Dion and Michael Learns to Rock may not be my favorite artists, but it’s because I can’t relate to them and end up feeling soul-dead, and not because I think they’re bad artists. As to the quality of their music- if they’ve found fans who appreciate their songs and would buy tickets to their concerts- then by all accounts, they’re awesome musicians.

 

The opinion of fifty thousand living people should (and IS, usually) much more important than one dead (or living) critic.

 

Pothole and coffee

I’m thinking of making myself some coffee but getting off the chair, walking up the stairs, taking out the milk, and whipping the coffee seems too much work. I wonder if I can ask Allah for telekinesis as an engagement present (I’m sure one of my friends will say “isn’t getting a ring enough?”- the correct reply to which is, of course, that there is no such thing as enough).

Sadly though, I am completely out of inspiration, and maybe, just maybe, coffee might kick start my cerebrum a bit.

After months of watching hyper-violent Tarantino flicks I’m trying half heartedly to watch “Four weddings and a funeral”. The film’s just begun and instead of paying attention to the television screen I’m focusing on the monitor since I haven’t, even after years of trying, learned how to type without looking at the keyboard. Yesterday I watched Never been Kissed with my sister, and before that I’ve been watching Ugly Betty. Thing is, I need to build some love-tolerance. I need to learn how to watch rom-coms without gagging, read romance novels without cringing and throwing the book to the side, and watch happily-commited people hang out without predicting when they’ll break up. I don’t want to change who I am, just be more accepting of the possibility that love might actually exist.

Love- tolerance?!…*gag gag snort* I can’t believe I even wrote that (goes and pukes in trashcan).

Today I had a very long discussion with my thesis advisor about the need to follow religion to become better people. Regardless of my own love for Islam, I do believe that having a state religion hampers a country’s progress and it’s an opinion that secretly I’m sure a lot of people share. Religion should be kept strictly on a personal level, because having a state religion is a sure-fire way of corrupting not just the state, but also the religion. Khaer, he disagreed, and being my thesis advisor obviously I let him win the argument.

But during the discussion which ran round and round in concentric circles, we hit a bit of a pothole. I’m just writing down the gist of the argument because unfortunately, I have a photographic memory, not audiographic.

T.A:  Ok, I agree. The problem is with Muslims. We haven’t read enough, we don’t follow the basic ethical tenets of Islam, we don’t try to prove ourselves to be good humans, much less good muslims, question is, how can that change?

Me: Well, when muslims move to Western countries, they follow a lot of their rules because…

T.A: un ke sar pe danda hota he. Woh tau theek he. Lekin that’s not how it should be. People in the west follow rules not just because they’re afraid of the law, but because they know it’s the right thing to do. We don’t. Why is that?

Me: They’ve been taught sir! Ever since they were children! They’ve been systematically brainwashed to be good people! Our people haven’t!

T.A: Don’t talk to me about brainwashing. You don’t need to be brainwashed to know basic things like ‘don’t throw trash outside’ and ‘don’t steal’. And how is it possible that a person can so easily be brainwashed into leaving his family and children and embarking on jihad in the middle of Afghanistan within a few months, and yet not be brainwashed into following traffic rules and being kind to his neighbors? All of which he’s been taught for decades?

Me: …………………….. (ok, he’s got me there)

Honestly, why don’t we get brainwashed into being good?

To tell or not to tell Triple S

I have been eating insanely since this morning. There is now no longer a Dunkin Donuts box filled with Boston Cremes on my dining table, and little trace remains of the chocolate mousse cake my mother in law brought with her when she delivered the jora. I am fast becoming a hog- bichara Triple S .

That’s my new name for him. Triple S. Although I have no issue with maintaining un-anonymity for myself, I doubt he’d like random insane googlers to type his name and come up with my blog where I’ve put up various random dumb things about me, him, our families etc along with my opinions. What would the muashira say? “Triple S, your fiancée is a psycho?” or worse… “Hey Triple S…I know what your fiancée was thinking/ doing/ ranting about a few days ago…” True, it’d be harmless but when someone goes up to you and says something like that in an insinuating voice obviously you assume the worst. Especially if you’re male. Or female. Or both.

No, I can’t risk it. No one shall know his real name. No one. Bwa ha ha.

Except the people I’ve already told. Ek tau mera munh band nahi hota

You know I could fix the problem if I just told him about my blog- it’s not like he doesn’t know I have one. If he was one of those insane googlers he’d have found it by now himself. But I doubt he is or he’d have let some incriminating bit of detail slip just to show me he knew. That’s what I would have done. And then laughed when he fumbled around for an explanation. And after that I’d say “Arey, you have a blog? I just guessed that [embarrassing fact] about you because I’m psychic.” And then he’d never stray from the straight and narrow because he’d be afraid I’d find out clairvoyantly.

BUT if I did tell him about my blog he’d probably live on it. Read all my previous posts…find out what an emotional train wreck I am…laugh at my childishness and naivete…maybe even (gasp*) pick fights with me on my very own blog…the horror! Or pick fights with people who visit my blog. If he was the insane googler plus Glenn Close type he might even find out where they live and set their houses on fire.

No, I can’t risk telling him about my blog either.

After much deliberation  I’ve come to the following conclusion:

It must suck to have a fiancée like me

Stuff. And things.

Person I do not want to become:

1) The sort that has nothing to talk about other than her mangni and fiancé

2) The sort that has nothing to talk about other than her thesis and how she’s not working on it.

3) The sort that has nothing to talk about. Period.

 

I think I’m becoming all three. Though they’re all contradictory.

So I’ve decided today to focus on none of the above. I have other things going on in my life, I’m sure. It’s not humanly possible to have such a one dimensional mind, is it?

 

Ok, I’m adding another type of person I don’t want to be: the sort that has nothing to talk about other than how she’s gaining weight even when she breathes.

 

Ooh…I just saw this guy touch his girlfriend’s waist! Gasp! Shock! Taubah taubah!

 

And THAT is the fifth type of person I never want to be.

———————————X——————————-

 

I’ve learned much about men since I joined university. They’ve evolved from the streetwise Darcys’ and Ferris’s I and S. used to dream of, and now gradually we’ve come to accept that they are in fact, as horribly flesh and blood as we are. They gossip, like us. They bitch about each other, as do we; their feelings get wounded as easily as ours do; they watch where their rupees are going, unlike our previous belief that men care not about worldly things like money (we were in DHA College for Women- so sue us) and status; and they are as knight in shining Corvette as we are visions of loveliness in dire distress.

Now we’ve begun to realize that guys actually are a lot like girls.

 

Except when they’re in a horde.

 

I’ve never seen women in a mob- other than during a sale and even then they act individually. Women hate each other too much to form a mob of any sort. Men on the other hand have a collective soul and when more than five of them get together you realize how ugly that collective soul is. They forget who they’re targeting, they lose all sense of perspective, and all that remains for them is the intense enjoyment that they gain inflicting pain, with the relief that the person they’re inflicting it on is usually too weak to strike back. An individual man might show intense courage but a man in a mob is the biggest coward there is.

 

Two days ago the boys in my point targeted a first year girl with such disgusting perseverance that I doubt she’ll return to the bus again. Catcalls, whistles, loud perverted jokes; they forgot that the victim of their joint pseudo-comedy routine was a new girl who had no friends on this bus and who (being in first year) could not really say anything back to them.

 

Thing is, not one of them would have the guts to talk to this girl face to face.

 

I know. I’ve been on the receiving end. And I assure you, all the apologies in the world, on bended knees, will not get a girl to forgive, much less forget, a single second of humiliation by someone else’ hand.

 

And that’s why I’m pretty sure that one day they’ll realize what assholes they’ve been. When their daughters come home crying, maybe…When their sons refuse to go to school because of bullies…

 

Sucks that what goes around comes around on children.

 

 

 

Old life, I miss thee already

Don’t worry. I haven’t run away. Yet.

When I asked for a happening life, God, I did not ask you to send all the happenings You had planned for the next five years to be stuffed into this week. Really I didn’t. Love Your enthusiasm but honestly….

When you’ve got fifteen things running around your mind every second, it becomes difficult to focus on any one. And when every thought is a mini cluster bomb it becomes hard to duck for cover underneath the safe stuff one always knew about- books, music, pie, best friends…I’m coping, but when, until a few days ago all I had to worry about was the next day and if feeling particularly clairvoyant, the next week, now I’m worrying about the rest of my life. I did that anyway, but never so seriously. SCAD’s a dream, as is living and dying in an orchard, but this is scary reality. I mean, how in heaven’s name am I supposed to handle something that might actually happen?? How can I handle my thesis when I’m trying to not worry about how I can’t handle something that might actually happen? How on earth can I handle my parents who don’t seem to give a shit about my thesis and the fact that I’m worrying about how I can’t handle something that might actually happen?

How can I handle my parents at all?

My mother and father have officially lost their perspective. Yesterday my mother asked me to start writing a list of people who are invited. After the obvious khalas and chachis and mamus I realized we were progressing onto my parents second and third cousins and duur ke rishtadaars…

My dad (to mum) “Suno Dilnasheen ka naam likha tum ne? Mehjabeen ko bhi bula dena…”
Me: Yeh Dilnasheen kaun hain?
Mum: Tumhain Dilnasheen nahi yaad? Un ke ghar gaee nahi thi pichle saal?
Me: Jin ke ghar main zindagi main ek baar gaee huun aap un ko kyun bula rahe hain!?
Dad: Kyunke woh meri first cousins hain!
Me: But you don’t visit them! And I don’t even know who they are!
Mum: Jin ke ghar insaan ek baar bhi gaya hota he us ko is tarah bhulata nahi he. Aur tumhain kiya hum jis ko bhi bulayen? Chup kar ke naam likho.
Me: Kya maini mujhe kiya? Mangni meri ho rahi he!
Dad: Aur paese main de raha huun. Haan ab Banno aapa ka bhi naam likh dena…un ko bhi keh dein ge
Me: Un ka intiqaal nahi ho gaya tha?

Turns out I have 2 super powers; not only can I kill every electronic item within a 20 meter radius, I can also offend every person in a room with a single sentence.

Now you see why I’m worried? If my parents plan to go so overboard on my engagement which should, ideally, be a small function of around 30 people maximum (with me not attending), how over enthusiastic will they be on my wedding? And considering the sort of person I am, wouldn’t it be better for them that they invite less people so they are fewer eye-witnesses to any absurdity I might commit?
Do they want me to trip and fall on my face in front of a thousand people?
Or forget to even come?
Don’t they know me?

The end of an era is nigh…

So my singledom will last for another 20 days and I plan to make the most of it. Though to be honest, I don’t have much clue how being engaged would be any different from being single for me. Other than the whole ‘having a fiance’ bit which seems very Dali-esque right now, I really doubt my life would change much. Or hmm…maybe it might. I’ve never been engaged before so I can’t really say, can I?
Considering that there’s no ‘Gossip Girl’ type party culture in this part of the world (or maybe there is and I’m just not a part of it, thank God) I really have no idea how to make these last twenty days worthwhile.

Ugh. There’s not a single thing I do now that I might be ashamed to do after the engagement. I am so boring.

I can’t help reading my last blog post over and over. Deep in my brain a little tiny Hira-gnome is pointing and laughing at me and saying “you thought your life couldn’t get any stranger? Imbecile” The past three days have been a whirlwind of the Wizard of Oz variety. One minute I’m in Kansas, second I’ve been spun around in a giant twister to land in the wonderful valley of Oz, which is lined with a chocolate brick road. Leading where? Hopefully to more chocolate. I sold my freedom for three boxes of candy and “Life, the Universe and Everything”. Shame on me.

To be honest though, I had imagined it to be worse, much worse. I’ve never been a romantic, and ever since two of my cousins got married and entered a life of turmoil I’ve imagined marriage to be synonymous with a tub full of wrenches and anvils suspended like a pendulum over your head, and with every swing a few wrenches and anvils fall out and hit your forehead. Oh, and don’t worry, the tub will never get empty. The wrenches spontaneously regenerate themselves and the anvils have the ability of mitosis.

And I thought if I was really lucky, I wouldn’t have a tub full; just a pail would be enough.

When my brain starts functioning (it does once in a while) and I start over-analyzing everything again I’ll realize I’m very very blessed. Unless something happens, like the guy realizing what a nutcase I am and saying ‘no!’ (I can hear my nani screaming already), I know I’m going into one of the world’s most wonderful families with a person who seems to be pretty nice. And most amazingly, my mother-in-law-to–be seems to be much fonder of me than my actual mother. I had no reason to say ‘no’ before, which is why I didn’t, and for the first time I realize not being head-strong can get you just as much happiness as being head strong can.

In the cynical little un-topia I used to live in, things like this weren’t possible. Turns out romantics knew something I didn’t.

Questions

I ask myself a lot of questions every day. Starting with “why in heaven’s name do I have to get up at 6:30 if my university starts at 9?” and “why is the water so cold in the morning?” and “what should I wear today?” and “Bijli tau nahi gaee hui?” to “Will tomorrow be as boring/ catastrophic/ wonderful/ surreal as today was?” and ‘what if I die tonight?” I ask myself hundreds of questions without bothering to wait for an answer. Most of the time I know the answer, some of the time I don’t and actually want to find out, and once in a while I don’t know the answer and would prefer nobody gave it to me either. It’s fun to have conversations with yourself, but sometimes I wish I’d actually get past the small talk.

I’ve always thought people in the sub-continent were very cavalier about their relationships; in a way, they act much more irresponsibly than people in the West. In a society where marriage is a one-strike-you’re-out game, it’s ridiculous how most of us are willing to leave it to our parents to decide our life partners for us. Most of us includes yours truly, because I am sure that despite all my objections and pseudo-liberalpana, I’m going to end up hitched to the guy my parents pick out for me. I don’t have a problem with their taste- it’s infinitely better than mine; but how can they be so sure that economic, physical and age compatibility(or what they consider compatibility) would also lead to emotional compatibility as well? What if the spark never comes? What if their very intelligent decision leads to a lifetime of dissatisfaction, regret, or what is worse, boredom? What if I meet my soul mate* after I’m married to Mr. Ok- nice-to-know-you? What if Mr. Ok- nice- to- know-you turns out to be Mr. Shut-the-hell-up-bitch?

So today I asked myself these questions, and interspersed between the ‘what ifs’ were the ‘why?’s . “Why am I getting ready for another round of this bull?”, “Why does my mother keep trying?” and “Why am I being forced to wear a bright color? What’s wrong with the white shalwar I was wearing? It was clean!” and “Why is this guy leaving such an important choice to his parents? Because he can’t find a girl? Because his parents won’t approve of it? Because he thinks no girl is worth him? Because he doesn’t care?”

In which case I’d shake his hand. I suffer from all four-if you reverse the genders.

Pakistanis pride themselves on their family system, and really it’s a good one- to an extent. And before people get the wrong idea about my own background: my grandparents didn’t screw up with my parents (shukar) but considering that both my mother and father are the youngest, my gramps (both sides) had already practiced on their older offpring, and Heaven knows, did they muck up with them…

This is the rest of my life my parents are dealing with- my life, this random guy’s and our children’s. Should I let them make the most crucial decision of our lives just for the satisfaction of saying “It’s your fault” when something goes wrong?

Note:

* This post is written on the romantic assumption that soul mates do exist. If you take away that one hypothesis, then arranged marriages would undoubtedly be a sensible method of getting hitched.