To go, or not to go?

I’m 23, going on 24.

I haven’t written my book.

I haven’t gotten over my fear of flying yet.

I haven’t hitchhiked across Europe- in fact I haven’t set foot on the European continent.

I haven’t won the Nobel Prize, or the Pulitzer, or the Man Booker and I sure as hell haven’t gotten a nose job…sigh.

I haven’t done anything on that goddamn list except

Learn to drive, and

Fall in love.

At the speed I’m going, I’ll be 178 before I finish even half of what needs to be done. In my quest for an extraordinary life, I’m one step away from growing fungus on the Rock of Discontent.

Is it the weather? This grey, drab weather which I would have found romantic had my husband not been house hunting without me? Or is it the fact that the future, which was always a bit fuzzy, has now completely lost any semblance of coherence? Possibilities, possibilities…I can’t really focus until somebody gives me a clear picture. What on earth am I even looking at?

Dilemma 1- I might be moving out. As in, we might be moving out. Me and S.

Dilemma 2- I’m not sure we can actually afford it yet.

Dilemma 3- I still don’t have a job.

Dilemma 4- S. hates his. He’s looking for a better one.

Dilemma 5- I’m crazy spoiled. I can’t possibly live in one of those cheap flats off Gulistan e Jauhar, that have balconies connected to the balconies of other flats. Boo hoo if I offended somebody- but your area sucks.

Dilemma 6- We can’t afford any other place.

Other than the obvious benefits of actually having a say in one’s house and being able to roam around all day in one’s pyjamas; I can’t think up any reason to move out so soon. And it’s kind of silly making such a decision just because my husband is tired of telling his mum where we’re going. I don’t have a problem, why should he?

Oh well.

Men are silly.

Does anybody know of a nice flat, at a NICE place (as far from Gulistan e Jauhar, Liaquatabad, and Liyari as you can get) at a reasonable price?

No? I thought so.

La Cinematique critiques chez Hira

So being a pretty bland/blonde person now that I’m married and under no pressure to seem interesting, I can do little more than provide you with my expert take on all that Hollywood (and pirated DVD distributors) have to offer. Ergo I proudly present…

La Cinematique critiques chez Hira

Dev.D

Ok, so it’s not Hollywood, but it sure as hell could be. Actually no, it couldn’t be- the great Celluloidistan is the Gobi Desert when it comes to creativity and guts. Aside from the Coen’s and Tarantino (with a smattering of Clooney) Hollywood lacks the daring and panache that embodies crazy good cinema; Cannes (the only film festival I actually respect) rarely showcases mainstream Hollywood productions; and practically never gifts them the Palm d’Or. Why should they? They’re Europeans. They have taste.

So. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Dev.D. Wait a bit while I moon over the hotness that is Abhey Deol.

Haye…

Ok. I’m done.

Shadeed sexypan aside, Abhey Deol is the smartest actor in Mumbai. Unlike Bobby Deol who still lives in the glory of the 90’s; Abhey’s been smart enough to realize that Indian cinemagoers are gradually maturing as an audience. Young people no longer want to watch women in red sundresses disco on the Alps; they want intelligent, if still a bit melodramatic cinema. They want to relate now, they don’t want to escape.

So after Socha Na Tha, Ek Chalis ki Last Local and Oye Lucky Lucky Oye!, I was pretty sure Abhey Deol wouldn’t be in a crappy movie… average, maybe; but not a stomach-upsetting, tear inducing, mind bogglingly bad film like Love Aaj Kal or Kambakht Ishq. But Dev.D surpassed all expectations. Firstly, there are no good guys. Secondly, there are no bad guys. Thirdly, there is not a single scene in this movie that doesn’t make you think that Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s interpretation of Devdas (in fact, any interpretation of Devdas) is one- dimensional, and characterless. After all, who is Devdas? Is he anything but an alcoholic in love? Is he anything, or anyone at all?

You can’t truly relate to Devdas because Devdas is no one. He’s the ideal of love’s labor lost. There is nothing to him except that he did not marry Paro. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing to Paro.

Pathetic.

Dev.D is not Devdas. Or maybe he is- the Devdas that Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay created. A man who loved possessively and obsessively; not Paro, but the ideal of Paro. Whose arrogance made him incapable of moving on; and innate hypocrisy incapable of returning love. Dev.D hasn’t sugarcoated anything. It’s harsh and unsympathetic to everyone but Chanda; and that’s how it should be. The movie may have played a bit with Paro and Chandarmukhi’s character, but Devdas is exactly as he was meant to be; no stuttering, sighing ShahRukh anywhere. Just a gorgeously average, very nicely structured, sometimes shirtless Abhay Deol. Isn’t that a good trade off?

I hope Sayem’s reading this

Something tells me that 2010 will be a pretty decent year for Indian movies. Who knows, maybe this year my husband will manage to stay awake through one. If Dev.D is anything to go by, Indian cinema has a lot more to offer than scantily dressed post-teens and Akshay in a turban.

Inglourious Basterds

(this one’s for you, Mahw)

a)      It’s Tarantino

b)      It’s history- ergo something that’s already happened, ergo, not much you can do with it, ergo no way you can kill off the entire Third Reich leadership in one night like the Allies may have wanted, ergo not really up to Pulp Fiction standard but

c)      It’s Tarantino. You don’t mess with Tarantino.

I’m a connoisseur. I’m also probably the only bonafide Tarantino expert in this city so what I say goes. It’s not the best he’s done; but it’s one hell of a film anyway.

I’ll tell you why it’s not the best; it doesn’t have the dash of lemon-in-soda effect that a usual Tarantino does. That camera angle, that blasé what-the-fuck-? moment that always precedes a WHAT-THE-FUCK!?  moment (Mia sniffing and ODing while Vince is in the bathroom; Louis shooting and killing Melanie in the parking lot; The Bride finding out her daughter’s alive), that lengthy pop culture explanatory monologue that bores you to death until you realize that it’s probably the most profound cinematic discussion coming out of Hollywood until the next Tarantino film…Basterds isn’t chockfull of these things but it makes up for it in other Quent oddities. For one, it goes apeshit with history. Not poetic license apeshit, actual I-don’t-like-the-real-ending-so-I’ll-change-it-because-I’m-Tarantino-and-I-can apeshit.

Two, it has the Jew Hunter.

Christoph Waltz just won the Golden Globe; I’m surprised someone had the guts to stand close enough to give it to him. The man scared the living hell out of me. It’s without doubt the best performance I’ve seen in a long time. Ever, if you just count Tarantino movies (and that’s a big thing). Breathtakingly charming, almost seducingly courteous, he is the smiling Anti-Santa. You just have to love every scene he’s in, and yet be terrified of what he’s probably going to do. Pure genius.

As for the Basterds; sure they were there, sure they were killing Nazis, sure they had Brad Pitt as a redneck for a boss, blah blah whatever. Bring on Hans Landa baby, and watch me cower behind that curtain.

So let me sum it up:

Pros: Hans Landa, Shosanna Dreyfuss’s revenge, Emergence of the Bear Jew, Massacre at the tavern, Brad Pitt’s miserable Italian.

Cons: Hitler (can they not cartoonify the man? For once I’d like him portrayed as an actual person, not a caricature), the irritating-as-hell-but-still-only-doing-his-job Zoller (for some reason I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him)

Result: People die badly, and creatively, and it’s so much fun to watch. We’re all sick, sick, sick.

So, for next time, look forward to Sherlock Holmes, The Men who stare at goats, Bad Lieutenant: Port of call New Orleans, and Invictus.

Love you all, God Bless!

PS- I’m such a ham.

Back. Or so i think. Again

I think I’ve forgotten how to write. I think I’ve forgotten how to think too.

Bleh. All I need is purpose. And stamina. And the will to actually DO something. And the will to actually will to do something beside stagnate in this happy pond of cable television and not-having-to-make-my-own-tea-or-iron-my-own-clothes-ness.

Snap out of it Hira. You’re the Tarantino girl, remember?

Eh, who?

Egbert Junior the Second is now a proud member of this household. He’s suffering from low self esteem, what with all these laptops; but at least he knows he’s needed and loved. Anyway now that I have a proper 25 kilo desktop and used lcd monitor (less trauma and drama if it accidentally electrocutes itself- my in laws aren’t tolerant of my mutant powers) I can get back to what I do best. Not designing. Hence this post and much missed frandz-blogstalking. Ali Hasan just asked me to write him a long mail about what I’ve been up to… I’m having a bit of a problem getting it past the 30 word mark. What have I been up to?

Let’s see.

• The last official shadi dawat was yesterday. It’s over. Praise the Lord, Hallelujah.
• I have a free lancing stint. Yeay. I get to stay at home and still look busy.
• My new aim in life is to open a bakery. I kick Pie in the Sky’s ass.
• I just lost a size. My fitness Nazi sister-in-law freaked 2 kilograms off my body. I ask her permission when to eat and what to eat, resulting in me looking thinner, but scared out of my mind.
• I watched some pretty awesome movies the past 2 months. Maybe I’ll review them for your benefit; it all depends on how lazy I’m feeling. But if my current condition is any indicator, you won’t be reading them. Ever.
• Err… Married stuff.
• I’ve been sending my resume to every art school in this city. Even an assistant lecturership’ll do.

So. That’s about it. If you don’t count trying to make a place in my susral, forming some sort of bond with my mother and sisters-in-law and just being a good bahu as an activity, then I haven’t really been up to much. I don’t read the papers any more since I find the consistently smiling face of Asif Zardari on ever f-ing page the biggest incentive to stay ignorant that the world can offer, and I don’t watch Pakistani channels- be they ‘entertainment’ or news. My attitude to life is cynical enough; I don’t want to dive into pessimism.

Now that a year and a half has passed since Zardari’s election, and almost 2 since PPP has come into power I can’t help but thinking; isn’t it strange that the biggest step towards democracy and liberty (a free media) was taken by a military dictator? And that he was the only person in Pakistan’s history willing to face the masses and their questions?

Isn’t it ironic then that the leader of the ‘biggest democratic party’ in Pakistan does not allow question answer sessions with journalists, and that his party’s biggest justification for his ineptitude is that his wife was murdered two years ago?

Why can’t this country follow any political norm?

wait and watch

Dawats are killing me. Heavily embroidered clothes are killing me. Tonnes of make up is killing me. It’s been 40 days since my wedding, I think it’s about time I give up the newly married status…please, people in my family; move on! We have.

Before we were married S and I used to talk a lot. He’d call me up and refuse to hang up until I begged him I needed to sleep. For some reason I hate putting down the phone on someone I care about, I keep waiting til I hear the click on the other end and then place the phone on its cradle. Probably subconscious symbolism. Anyway, I realised yesterday that we’ve stopped talking- just random pointless talking. It’s just work, some dawat, come home late, and sleep. To gain a husband I feel like I’ve lost a pretty good friend. Oh well, maybe he’s sleepwalking through the dawats phase like I am.

There are moments I want to make a clay statue- feel the cold mud-like substance in my hands and just stack and mould, cut and smoothen…just see how high my clay tower can grow before it hardens, cracks and falls as the sun rises. I’ve always sucked at sculpture, I wonder why I’m getting such cravings now. Maybe, after all these days of looking pretty and perfect I’d like to get my hands and clothes dirty. Such liberation.

You have not lived until you’ve had a true ’surf excel hai na!’ moment.

I’ve seen the world ending so many times in the past days: In 9, Zombieland, and 2012; but in cinema, mankind still somehow survives…Well, in 9 these cute little gunny sacks do but you know what i mean. On film, the human spirit can conquer everything- plague, shifting of tectonic plates, a technological apocalypse, erratic cannibalism…maybe that’s why people actually go to see disaster movies: to regain some faith in humanity.

Heaven knows we, of all people, need some faith in  humanity.

I’m a cynic; colder than the average reptile, lazier than the average panda. One of the few things people like me are good at is keeping our head when all about us people are losing theirs; we’re the smart alecks who stock up on helmets before the meteor shower. Living in constant cynicism teaches you how predictable people are; they’ll always disappoint you. And since you’re prepared to be disappointed, you never really are. Hence, happiness.

Buddha was one sick, smart bastard.

PS- This post is written to commemorate the ditching of the NRO. As if it would make a difference.

Back.

I haven’t posted for some time. My apologies. All I’ve written is right here in one veeeery long post. If you get to the end, please leave a comment assuring me you actually managed to finish

21. 11. 2009

Ullu ke Pathey

When life hands you a lemon, you can either make lemonade or squirt the lemon in life’s eye. For some reason the second action is a little more satisfying. I like seeing people who’ve caused me even minor pain suffer; sort of keeps my belief in God alive. Leaving everything to the Day of Judgment takes more patience than I have…Allah is more forgiving than I, so what if I am not avenged? What if He tells my offender “Ok beta, maaf kiya. She’s a bit high strung so it probably did her more good than harm. It was all for the best”?

No. I’d like to see justice in this world.

Bilal’s in Waziristan. Everyday I read the newspaper hoping for some news that’ll signal the end of this war. I want my cousin back home safely, out of the asshole of the world* and back where men are men and not animals.

Wars are won by fear. We are terrified so we’ve already lost this one. We lost it years ago, when Liaquat Ali Khan signed the Objectives Resolution, when we turned Kashmir into a religious war and not the political conflict that it was, when we backed the militants within Lal Masjid and not our own government. We chose to let this war grow out of control and now we wonder how it got so big. Don’t you remember? You wanted it this way. Learn to deal with the monster now.

You can’t fight a mindset with physical weapons. You can’t kill a people not afraid of death.

So how do you win against warped religion?

How do you fight against an ideal?

Do you educate? How will that work if they blow up your schools?

Do you reach out with kindness?

Good idea. But how?

You build schools they will bomb, you treat their children with vaccines they shun as a conspiracy to de-man their sons, you give them monetary compensation they will use to buy guns, you give them space in your cities as a way they can introduce suicide bombers in your midst.

Kill yourself with kindness, why don’t you?

There is so much to hate in this country. Its emotional and irrartional outlook to purely economic and political problems, its inability to dissociate itself from the non-existant muslim ummah, its anger at countries who are not the actual cause of its problems, it’s unbelievable lack of perspective and the deep inborn belief that nothing we do is wrong and might have consequences.

We scream and shout like madmen to the West and expect it to take us seriously.

Would you take a stark raving looney seriously? Would you?

Would you take money grubbing weasels seriously either?

And would you respect a nation that backs the killing of its own army by men who bomb innocent civilians in the name of a religion that they know little about- besides its name?

Haan,yeh hum hain. Yeh saare Waziristan aur Swat main baithey ullu ke pathey hum hi main se hain. Hum musalmaan, hum Pakistani.

Deal with it.

4. 12. 2009

Blah

So you’re wondering why I haven’t updated?

Hmm…let me start from the beginning.

Firstly, I’m lazy. And what with not really having a purpose to my existence other than being S’s wife, I’m getting sloth-isher. I spend my days figuring out where time is going and if there’s any way I can be of use to anybody. My sister in law has a six month old baby so I’m getting a free workshop on how to raise a kid…people tell me it’ll be useful later on, but I’m pretty sure that a year or two later when I’ll actually need it, I’ll have forgotten everything.

Secondly, I’m becoming a girl. Better late than never, as everybody says. I’ve joined a gym, got a haircut, and started applying make up. Soon maybe I’ll stop cussing and calling people ‘dude’ and the metamorphosis will be complete.

What the who, I’ve learned quite a bit in the meantime. There are things you can and cannot do if you’re living in a joint family. It’s not just about you and your spouse; everything you do has to be thought out. You have to consider the consequences; you have to keep in mind the sensitivities of the entire family. How is that different from a nuclear family anyway? Well firstly, your mom might take your shit kindly but your mom-in-law, however nice, won’t. she’s probably up to her ears taking the crap her own kids spew out, it’s selfish and mean if one expects her to handle adopted shit as well. So most of my day is spent trying to be a nice person. It’s so much effort I’m exhausted by the time I get to bed yet sadly when S asks me what I’ve been up to I can’t really think of anything more constructive than feeding the baby mashed potatoes while singing him Barney songs.

Oh how I hate that purple dinosaur.

I’m waiting for my pc. Everybody here has a laptop and considering my history with electronic gadgets that’s one thing I will never ever consider buying. A pc cannot be dropped or forgotten in a car, somebody else’s house or the lavatory, and it won’t cost me 4 months salary either. And a pc can easily deal with a name like Egbert Junior. A laptop would want something snazzy like Von Gigabyte and I’m not that big on having aristocratic computers.

I think I’m coping well. They say the first year you’re just meant to observe and understand the people and the household. I’ll be trying to update regularly, once I find a way to make time for just myself, maybe then I can put up a post that is not as faltu as this one. But it’ll take time.

It’s just been a month.

Hello there Mrs. S

Isn’t it strange? The way things can change

The life that you lead, turned on its head

 

It’s hard, adjusting. There are moments you want to hide in the bathroom and cry for your mommy but then someone knocks and asks you if everything’s ok. You say “yeah, out in a minute” and wish you were back home where nobody panicked if you spent more than five minutes in the loo. The toughest thing about being married isn’t sharing one’s bed; it’s sharing one’s bathroom. It’s been a week since my wedding and it’s the one thing I can’t get used to.

 

Suddenly someone means more than you felt before

A house and its yard turns into home.

 

Everything changes. With one word repeated three times you hand the rights to your life to somebody else and accept the keys to his. It’s so difficult being responsible for somebody but oneself. My happiness is inexplicably linked to his. How’d that happen? Where was that in the nikkah clause? I didn’t sign up for this.

 

The first week of marriage is about learning. Slowly I’m getting the hang of having a husband; a new home and a new family. I’m trying to figure out how to blend in while still staying true to myself. Tall order, but I’m Pakistani. We’re the gods of immigration and cultural fluidity. I’ll manage.

 

The time that it took writing words for my book
Seems to have broken in half
The gate that I shut last time I got hurt
Seems to have opened itself

 

There’s power in the nikkah somewhere. You don’t feel like this before you’re married- even if you’ve been engaged for decades. He becomes perfect, flaws that were mildly irritating become endearing, a face that was endearing becomes essential for survival. It’s not just love anymore. I’m not sure whether it has a name, but it feels like you’re bound for life with every breath that he takes. That you’re finally where you’re meant to be.

 

Oh the world, its spinning now. It’s trying to catch me up
and tell me to appreciate the here and now

 

The uncertainty’s gone. That feeling when you woke up each morning not sure where life was headed…it’s in the past. It’s replaced with the belief that no matter what happens, and where life takes you, your rock will always be with you. That your ship will always have an anchor. It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world.

 

0. Lift off

Didn’t expect me to be online today, didja?

That’s a hundred bucks (read dollars) for me, courtesy Absar. Yeay, shopping!

So November 6th is actually here. And I STILL can’t type at all. Mehndi and these extremely annoying nails make typing harder than clipping grass with tweezers on a football green.

I’ve realized long hair and nails are the biggest setback to women’s progress. We chop ‘em off and there’s just no stopping us.

 

I don’t know, do you expect a soliloquy about my feelings? What I’m going through- whether I’m together or panicking everybody else’s butt off? You shouldn’t.

I’ve been preparing for this day for a pretty long time. All girls do; this day is symbolic. This is the day a girl becomes an individual in her own right. And I don’t mean by getting married- I mean by leaving the house of her parents. Walking out of their shadow, stepping away from their protection.

Now we’re the tree- the guardian and the provider. It’s such a world of responsibility and unless we’re completely inept, our parents won’t be bailing us out all the time. After the romance dies down, real life kicks in, and it doesn’t matter if you’re not ready for it. If somebody’s fallen into the sea, and they can’t swim, they improvise. It’s unbelievable what man can come up with in desperate times.

 

So this is a toast to me. A toast to who I was and maybe one day, who I will be. I’ve had a good run. There’s not much I regret having done, and what I regret missing out on… well, life is long and unpredictable. Maybe SCAD’ll just pop up into my life the way S did.

“Hello Hira, we’ve accepted you for a full expense paid scholarship! All you have to do is show up at the airport, we’ll pay for the flight and dorm. Please don’t say no, our college would be proud to have you!”

Add a fridge full of candy and I might concede :p

 

Next time you see me here, I’ll be married.

I’m picturing a yacht with streamers all around and someone opening a bottle of wine…for what it’s worth, I’m still open to fantasies.

 

Here’s to me, ladies and gentlemen

And a reasonably happy tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

2

4^th November

I’ve got nails.

And I really have no clue how you nail-ed (what else do I call you?) people get any work done. I can barely type. I’ve got so much to say and just putting my fingers on the keyboard is giving me a heart attack- what if they chip, or break, or I damage the coat?

Dear god, that’s 1/4^th of my salary down the drain…

Went to Nabila’s yesterday and got acrylics. My hands look awesome

Ok I can’t type at all.

 

You nail-ed people are stupid.

 

2^nd November

Forever. The longest  word in the English language..not a word in fact, but a sentence.

Forever.

Remember how we threw it about?

H + M forever.

H + A forever.

Now H + S forever.

This time for real, if God is willing.

Can you grasp it? Grasp the concept of eternity, in this life at least?

Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t just happen. It’s not accidental, it’s not something you can’t prevent. Love is cultivated; it’s a decision you take, sometimes spontaneous, sometimes deliberate. You control its extent, and maybe, if you’re stronger than the average person, you can control its potency, but love is not all powerful. Love is not a god.

I chose to let myself fall in love with S. and now I realize it had little to do with him. It was all me, 100%. It happened because I kept taking a few steps forward; he helped, but I chose the course.

I think of things that could have been; even though it’s pointless now and I’ve realized that I’m one of those lucky few whose problems solve themselves. People choose their battles, and I just watch and let my battles rage on without my help.

Faded  hearts sketched on old note books- makes me happy knowing how human one can be.

 

 

8.

Hmm.
Where do I begin?

Bilal
This is Bilal.

This is how he looks like all the time. His expression never changes. It’s freaky.

Bilal’s my cousin. I’ve spent 23 years of my life being either annoyed, ignored, or verbally assaulted by him. I’m pretty sure he has a crush on me.

Bilal’s also  scary lazy. His idea of a good day is sleeping 18 hours, during the day. The six at night don’t count. Whenever he’d be over at my nani’s, nobody would be able to sleep on the bed because all 6’ 2” of him would be sprawled on it. Diagonally.
He’s monosyllabic, but the one syllable he’ll be able to spew all day will be dipped in acid. Guess where the acid dipped arrows usually land?

Now me, I’m very witty- with a keyboard. That backspace key is my best friend. But Bilal could make a simple “yes” sound like the biggest insult in the world. It was a gift. It’d take me ten minutes to think of a comeback and by then he’d be asleep.

Back when we were kids Bilal used to be obsessed with flying kites. Once he made I and my brother run up and down eight flights of stairs in his high rise apartment (no electricity hence lifts wouldn’t work), just fetching and carrying odds and ends so that he could fly his kite on the roof upstairs. We were exhausted and he was barely able to lift the damn thing above his head. Trust Bilal to want to fly a kite on the one day there was no wind.

When we were kids he used to eat four toasts for breakfast, dipping them in sugar- flavored tea. He lived on a diet of daal chawal achaar, and eggs; it was hardly fair he reached 6’ 2” while I stayed a measly 5’ 1” regardless of my protein heavy nutrition. He grew tall, I grew fat. God is a man, hence proven.

Somewhere around a few years ago Bilal and I grew up. We stopped being fren-emies and just became first cousins. I guess time had a lot to do with it. Boys and girls can’t stay friends in a jamaat-e-islaami family. We decided simply throwing each other a taunt once in a while was enough to keep familial relations going.

Two years ago, Bilal joined the army. My khalu made him leave IBA in his third year, for whatever reason, and packed him off to the PMA.

Bilal graduated on Monday. He’s home now, but in a week’s time, three days before my wedding, he’ll be reporting for duty in the artillery unit at Waziristan.

Please pray my cousin comes home safely.

Amen

 

Exhaustion

People say I think too much. How little they know. I try not to think at all.

When my friends look through old university or college pictures they always say how much they missed that time. I can’t ever agree with them. I don’t miss anything. I never wish to go back to my school days, or college or university. I wouldn’t even want to go back to a few days ago, though it’ll mean more time with my family. Thinking back is a waste of time; thinking forward, pointless. Thinking of the present is asking for a headache. Solution? Don’t think.

Easier said then done.

My mind exhausts me. I wake up tired. Basic conversation is like philosophical discussions on Kant to me right now. Even random, meaningless questions seem either a jibe, or patronizing.

“Where are you getting your make up from?”

There’s no right answer to this question. Any answer, even if it was Nabila’s (which it’s not), would be a cause of consternation to the other party. If Nabila’s then from whom exactly, and why not Bina Khan who is much better? If not Nabila’s, then why not Nabila’s since no place else is good enough.

Oh, Sabs? From Saba Ansari, you mean ?

Um. No. Hiring her’ll cost more than my shadi dress and atleast that can’t be wiped off with baby lotion.
Make up is make up. The main difference in all these beauty salons is the price.

“Where are you going for your honeymoon?”
Well, I don’t know.
“Don’t go to Malaysia, pitt gaya he”
Err…ok, any ideas?
“Why don’t you try Greece?”
Thank you. Great idea. I’ll just sell my jewellery and S. can liquidize his assets or whatever and we can go there. In fact, why don’t we stop over at Switzerland for a weekend?

So what do I do? Act sweet and pretend that I don’t find this in the least annoying, or go on the offensive? After all they can’t do anything to me now, I’m getting married.

“So what do you plan to get me as a wedding present? Oh please, not that cheap set of dessert bowls you gave whats-er-face!”

“You are getting new clothes made for the shaadi na? You should check out Umar Saeed’s latest collection- it is to die for! And Nickie and Nina are totally worth the 15000 rupees they charge for a single outfit, if you can afford it!”

“Yeah…meri shadi ho rahi he. Feels weird but S. is a darling…absolutely devoted to me. So when will you finally nab a guy?”

Sigh. If only I could.

 

On Beauty

S. thinks I’m pretty.
It’s one of the reasons I love him. He’s delusional.

I know the hallucinations won’t last. A year, or two maybe; then he’ll notice the bitten off nails, and the dark circles and the not-so-glossy lips and he’ll think he was bewitched and probably want to have me burnt on a stake…I’m kind of ready for it when that happens. I’ve spent my entire life being told how completely unpresentable I am.

When anybody compliments me on anything physical I can’t believe them.
My mother has spent the last decade pointing out various flaws in my personal make up. Nothing I do is right, nothing I do is up to mark. I’m too dark, I’m too fat, my nose is the wrong shape, I don’t wear make up. My mother is my greatest, most persistant critic.

It’s what she does- that’s her job, she’s a mother.
She criticizes you so that nobody else does.
If she won’t tell you, who will?
It’s supposed to help you. It’ll make you a better person; a stronger person.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Congratulations ammi. You’ve made me very happy I’ll be leaving home in a week.

16. 16!!! Six-F’in- teen!!!!!

Expect me to blog a lot in the following…let me count…16 (!!) days. I’m officially on leave now- my Zamzama days are over- for the time being. Haye how I miss them already… though honestly if I continued working there I’d be hopelessly bankrupt regardless of my salary. Butler’s Chocolate Café will be opening three galis down shortly, I’ve already adopted it as my new home. S. will have to visit me there whenever he feels he needs my company. Not that he will. Once he starts living with me I’m sure he’ll prefer things the way they were ages ago (read: before we were married).

I haven’t been doing much. Driving myself crazy watching all the wrong kind of movies. Ah…do not misunderstand mon amises! It is not the genre that is questionable in my choice of films, it’s the content. Let me give you examples:

V for Vendetta

The Shawshank Redemption

The Motorcycle Diaries

In the name of the Father

Fight Club

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, that you do not see the connection between above stated movies and Hira’s loss of sanity?

No?

The underlying theme of all these films is man’s inextinguishable need to be free.

Noticed how it’s always ALWAYS raining when people escape from prison?

And here I am getting married. It seems only man has the inextinguishable need to be free, women are born slaves.

Hrrumph. We’ll see about that.

Ugh. Whatever. It’s actually not my fault but my brother’s. If he kept chick-friendly movies like, I dunno, I don’t watch sugary sweet movies, on his laptop, my life would be happier.

If anybody is still reading my blog I’d like suggestions. What do I watch that will make me pro hitching up, getting married, staying married and all that crap? And not give me diabetes either?

Oh by the way, check out this crazy funny video I found after going through another crazy funny video suggested to me by my cousin. I’m putting both up.

Charlie the Unicorn

Llamas with Hats (this is the one Farya suggested)

Also look for Dr. Horrible’s sing along blog.

The whole video’s on hulu; sadly that’s not available for you non-amreekis (obnoxious snicker*) and us, non amreeka- rihaishis (kicks dirt dejectedly*), but you can find all its 6 parts on youtube. Only 42 minutes long, but totally worth it.
And don’t say you have better things to do. If you’re on my blog that proves you have no life. Go do something worthwhile and look up Dr. Horrible (who is just too cute for words).

Shoo.