46

What a lovely job I have. My boss pays me to sit in the air-conditioning and watch TV. I do occasionally have to draw something or the other, but that takes up around 1/18^th of my time. Today I came late and left early, and she didn’t even notice. What a darling she is. Absolute saint. If she wasn’t still alive I’d ask the Pope to canonize her.

Can non-Catholics be canonized? What does it take to be a saint?

I haven’t felt happy in ages. I haven’t felt alive in ages.

I think it’s Ramadan. Getting up in the morning (and in this case before dawn!) has never been my thing. I rarely miss Fajar but honestly on the Day of Judgement Allah’s probably going to play a recording of all my dua’s at that hour and ask what language they’re in; He’ll probably ask me to do a breath test too.

So anyway, even though my mum and my boss are kind enough to let me sleep in til 10 a.m, that still means I have 3 hours of sleep to make up for. My body’s compromised a bit with the situation; so  even though I’m physically alive at ten, my mind  wakes up at my usual time of 12:30. I reach work, turn on the tv, plop myself down on the divan and zone out. If Saria (my boss) would just provide me with a coffee machine, I’d start paying her to keep me employed .

Yet even though my job’s great, and my family’s not acting as whacked out as it  normally does, and S. isn’t being the exhausting (if adorable ) drama queen he is, I just can’t bring myself to be the cheerfully miserable girl you all know and love.

Maybe I should go back to my original plan. The infallible recipe for being high- without the drugs!

The quantity of kopikos varies from person to person. I usually take around 15 of the candies to put myself in the zen+ecstasy frame of mind.  You’ll probably get there in 5.

When you hold it in your hand, does it turn into sand?

Hey Hira,

You were an idiot when you were 18.

Really. You were.

Where were you then? Oh right, college…yeah, I remember those times. Not attending classes (can’t blame you there, it’s not like that shit would help you in the future), skulking round in the library having an illicit love affair with Fyodor and J. Steinbeck simultaneously, your two-timing heart not able to decide between either. Hating yourself, hating your friends for being beautiful, hating yourself, hating school because it was boring, pointless, and  too f-ing far away from home and did I mention hating yourself?

Remember that chapter in Sweet Thursday? Fauna telling Suzy how to make someone fall in love with her? How many times did you read it- twelve or thirteen…hundred? How many times did you tell yourself “this is the key”, this is the key to it all. To be honest, I doubt you remember a word of it now. To be even more brutally frank, I doubt you had remembered a word of it then. In any case, it didn’t work on you. You still remained as far from loveable as possible.

And do you remember how you and your best friend used to come up with these lame-ass Indiana Jones meets Mills & Boons rescue stories, starring Arjun Rampal as Indiana Jones (but with fashion sense), a bus-full of screaming children – we even set some on fire to add pizzazz to the tale, a cliff, and random Tarzan-y vines hanging from trees only found in rainforests, even though both of you knew vines don’t hang down from trees, they grow up them, and you can’t find rainforests in Pakistan, and where in heaven’s name would you be able to procure a bus, and fill it with screaming, burning children? Oh, and don’t get me started on the complete dearth of Arjun Rampals (or look-alikes) in this world. But it was a fun game. Luckily for you, you never took it seriously; sadly for her, it was the cornerstone of her existence.

At 18, your world revolved around wanting to be something you were not- different, intellectual, angry… it takes guts to accept your mediocrity and move on. At 18, though, I don’t blame you for trying. I don’t blame you for wishing you were better. Everybody else in your family hoped you’d be, why not add yourself to the list?

Sigh. You ijjut. All that pain, all that anger, all that wonderful wonderful misery. You had such a store of emotion, and yet you didn’t produce a single poem, a single worthwhile story or essay, or (ha!) novella.

And now look at you, five years have passed and it’s all mellowed down into this murky swamp. My volcano has sunk, Atlantis style, into the depths of Dagobah.

Where the F- is my Yoda???

Not part of the Countdown. Or it is. Whatever.

Don’t you

Forget about me.

Don’t, don’t don’t don’t…

John Hughes is dead, by the way. Sigh, there ends another chapter in my life.

So I’ve rediscovered the 80’s. Again. I have little clue  as to what’s new in all things music since not having cable does limit one’s knowledge of the world (you can’t watch VH1 through the newspapers )

Random question- is VH1 still a channel? And does it still show videos?

Was watching MTv recently with my cousins. Sometime after an hour I couldn’t help asking them when the actual music would come. Turns out Mtv America doesn’t show music anymore. Haw. I love Americans. Their music channels don’t show music and they still use only toilet paper.

Anyway, watched three shows. One was about uber-rich black people showing off their homes- Mtv Cribs. I mean, what the hell? Why’re they always complaining about lack of equal rights? All they have to do is mumble sing monosyllabically on boom-boom-boom kind of music and surround themselves with scantily clad women and they’re stars. White people actually have to do things; like study,  and attend college, and become lawyers. And even they can’t manage the hard stuff though, like medicine and engineering; they leave those to the browns. And the chiptay.

By the time I actually marry S. he’ll have turned me into a racist.

Anywho, after that came Mtv True Life. This involved the story of three women who are in debt. Badly in debt. And I’ll tell you why. One of them- she’s 21- loses her job. Worried about how she can afford nice clothes and tanning, she goes and gets herself…wait for it…a credit card. Then she goes and gets another. And another. Now she’s all sad about being unemployed, so to make herself feel better she starts shopping; and charges everything.

Then around 3 months later the bills start coming in.

“Wait I have to pay for those things? What were the credit cards for then?”

Turns out, this brilliant specimen of the Average American has spent $20,000 that she doesn’t have on clothes, shoes and tanning which she doesn’t need (not to sound like a bitch, but she should have spent it on a gym membership instead) and must somehow pay for the $20000 worth of bills, which she can’t afford, that are now flooding her mailbox.

And you wonder why the recession came.

There were two other equally bizarre stories about the inadequacy of some people’s intellect (which were just as cheaply enjoyable) but I couldn’t help wondering what kind of person would allow themselves to appear on a show like this? Who in God’s name would  want their dirty underwear out in the open for the entire world to see? One must have exceedingly low self respect.

Wait- why am I stating the obvious?

Back to back; one show about hyper-wealthy people who have so much money they don’t know what to do with it; the other about people who have so little,  their bank balance is in negatives…

What do they have in common?

Well, the people in both shows drive big cars. Make what you want of this.

Hail capitalism.

PS:  Ok- I admit,  it is shit funny and a bit thought provoking but I must reiterate my question- why is this on a channel called Music television?

54

Various things have happened. None of them in the least interesting, but that’s never stopped me from writing about them before. Firstly, where I couldn’t find a single job, now I have two. Allah jab bhi deta he chappar phaar ke deta he. Chappar, patloon, chaata…in my case God doesn’t rain, He pours. Haye, how I love Him.
Both jobs are part-time, both are design-related (thank Heavens, I’ve been having nightmares of ending up as a *gasp* merchandiser) both seem exceedingly fun; one has a plus point of being in Zamzama- coffee and pastry galore *joy joy joy*, the other has this really cute guy…really cute. Such a gentleman, he helped me carry my portfolio out, and the most adorable laugh…
So what if he’s my boss?
And so what if I’m not single anymore?
Has that ever stopped anyone?

Meera
Am I the only person in this part of the world (regardless of her claims I doubt anybody in Lithuania has heard of her) who feels remotely sorry for Meera?
Am I the only one who thinks the way the media is treating her is disgusting, to say the least?
S. has been following the Meera scandal for some obscure reason. He finds it hilariously funny and because I don’t have cable, recounts every new episode of ‘Meera marries some dude’ in fresh, invigorating detail. As a bonus, he does a crazy cute impersonation of Sohail Warraich.
So anyway, he told me to check out Meera’s latest interview to the press and because he’s S. and I’m bored, I actually do. Seen it? Duh, you have. It’s all Geo’s talking about.
With the electricity crises, rising prices, Obama’s healthcare reform mission attacked by crazy white pointy mask wearing republicans, and other strange things in the air, Geo still focuses on Meera and her husband (?).

Tell me, when she asked for the cameras to be turned off, she wasn’t speaking in her famed unintelligible English- so why didn’t that jackass understand her?
What right does Geo have to show that footage?
And what right do they have to judge her?

If you’re in the Pakistani film industry, chances are you didn’t come from the best of backgrounds. Chances are you didn’t get an english medium education, or a sound upbringing full of little ethical tidbits stuffed with love and affection; chances are- and I’m not spitballing here- that you might not even know who your father is. I googled Meera- there’s nothing on the internet that suggests she existed before her first movie.
Google a relatively little known Indian actress like Dia Mirza and you’ll get her father’s name, her schooling, her first modeling stint and commercial. She exists, Meera doesn’t. Irtiza Rabab is nobody.
Irtiza Rabab has nothing going for her except her looks and a desire to be somebody, regardless of how she does it. So yes, she’s a film actress, yes, maybe she doesn’t speak English fluently, or have the smartest head on her shoulders- but you don’t treat a human, any human, like the piece of shit that Geo is treating her as.

So yes, that’s their job. But when somebody asks you to turn the camera off, you do it. Even if she takes off her shirt and starts dancing, you have no right to show that on public television because it is a breach of that person’s privacy. What is off air is off air.

You should know that shouldn’t you? Don’t you have background?

62

Ok- so this has been bothering me for some time now.

If these goray log think they’re so very smart, why haven’t they realized that only toilet paper isn’t adequate?

The muslim shower is king.

And how do they keep from scratching themselves  later?

Thank Allah for little blessings.

63

My mother and I are- different.

She’s a social phenomenon. I’m a bit verbal-accident prone.

She drives like a maniac- Nascar should be glad to have her. I drive. And that’s a big deal. Really.

She spends her days in a whirlwind of energy doing good deeds and completing the leftover tasks of others. I spend my days wondering what to do and how to avoid things that need to be done.

My mom gets what she wants. Me, I let her.

The one thing you truly learn because of your parents is the art of compromising. I’m Picasso in that field.

But that’s got to stop. Now. I’ve rolled over and died way too may times in my life; where I went to school, what I studied, and who I’m marrying; but I cannot let her make one of the most important decisions of my life: the furniture of my bedroom.

The only major disagreement I’ve had with my parents ever since my engagement has been what they’re giving me for my dowry. I’m anti-everything. It’s enough they’re giving their educated, soon-to-be-barsar-e-rozgaar (I got a job by the way ), intelligent, presentable, ex-rotaract president, naazon-pali yet still sugharr beti away; why do they have to go bankrupt thanking them as well? To be honest, S’s family should be the ones bending over backward in gratitude. But sadly, coming from a fascist family, all my logic and reasoning is drowned by a single glance from the dictator my father, who says it’s none of my Goddamn business.

And just like that, I rolled over and died again. Next time I won’t even try to save them money.

But back to my mother. She and I, as previously mentioned, are different. My mother is Baroque. I am Bauhaus.

Let me illuminate.

Baroque

Bauhaus

Baroque

Bauhaus

Baroque

Bauhaus

My mother said if that’s the kind of stuff I like she’d get me a chaarpai and two stools. I replied if that was the sort of stuff you were planning to give me, I’ll take the chaarpai and two stools gladly. Needless to say it all went downhill from there.

I didn’t take a stand for S. I mean, why should I have? He was gift-wrapped, with a bow and card, and dropped into my lap on Valentine’s day. Sorry baby, but you were. You’ll have to deal with the fact that I will take you for granted all my life.

And I didn’t take a stand against S. I had nothing and nobody to fight for- except a principle that I should be in love with the man I marry. I killed that principle too- experience has taught me being in love with a man doesn’t necessarily mean he should love you back. I’ve never regretted my decision for an instant though. I will, shukar alhamdulillah, actually  be in love with the man I marry.

I didn’t take a stand for SCAD either. That dream is dying a slow but painless death. Someday, maybe, I’ll be able to earn enough to pay my way through the Masters program…but all I have is my fingers crossed. I’m not giving up, just giving in right now.

I didn’t take a stand for pretty much anything in my life. I’m one of those crazy lucky people who don’t expect much and thus get handed over things they didn’t really ask for (mashaAllah). So I’m not really that adept at fighting the good fight. I prefer letting things go….and complaining later.

But I can’t compromise on this. All I’ll have in my new house, with my new family that would truly be mine (other than S), is this one room. I want something that’ll define me and him (who has marvelous taste in furniture by the way- almost exactly like mine) and not what my mother thinks is a fitting room for a bride. I’m going to be a bride for one night- the rest of my life I’ll just be trying to stay Hira.

64

November 6^th 2005 I fell in love. Truly, madly, deeply for the first time. It was new, and it was secret…or so I thought. Before a month was over though, he, and all his friends knew about it.

On October 5^th 2007, I lost my mind. And my self respect. Luckily nobody read my blog then.

On February 8^th 2009, I wrote this. And password protected it so that the myth of iron-girl Hira would continue.

On February 15^th 2009, a week later, I got engaged to the son of my father’s friend; and saw him for the first time that very day. Chalo, tu nahin, koi aur sahi.  Mainu ki farq painda?

I was right. You never forget your first love.

But I was wrong. You do get over him.

Once in your life, maybe twice, you fall in love obsessively, painfully, and self destructively. Times come when you cry yourself to sleep, when you can’t breathe because you haven’t seen them for some time, when his/her approval is all you live for, when his/her disdain makes you hate yourself. Some people are lucky enough to have this obsessive, compulsive, needy love reciprocated. Some, like me, aren’t.

And yes, you actually believe that it’s your fault; that somehow you’re un-loveable. You didn’t deserve him, he was too good for you etc. That phase comes when all the other justifications you carved out for him turn to ashes: he’s just scared of commitment, he’s too focused on his career or studies right now, he’s just got through a messy relationship and isn’t ready, maybe he likes somebody else…

Truth is, he just… didn’t like you. And man, is that truth just too hard to bear.

So for a long time, you go through the motions of existing when in all honesty, you think you stopped breathing when he said he was sorry, but it just won’t work. That painful, self destructive love for him has turned into painful, self destructive hatred of yourself. Because he didn’t love you, nobody can.

And then you write crap about how you can never get over it. How you can’t move on. Dear God, what crap.

Once in your life, maybe twice, you fall in love obsessively, painfully and self destructively. That love…thank the Lord…doesn’t last long. Humans can’t take such profound misery wrapped in longing, for all of eternity. That love burns brightly, but it’s a chemical fire. Whoosh, faster than you can call for help, you’re gone.

But if you survive it, you come out smarter. And you start looking for something that won’t destroy you from inside. That’ll build you up again, that’ll replace what you lost. That love, maybe not as volatile, is what makes existence in this world possible. You won’t be Romeo and Juliet, but who in their right minds would want to be?

69

He he.

Refrain from obvious (or not so obvious) comments about the heading.

The Jobless Elite

Textile designers are a rare species. They’re not like MBA’s or doctors that you pick up a random rock and find them swarming over each other. There are only four institutes that offer an undergrad degree in textile design in Karachi; KU, Indus, AIFD and the Textile Institute of Pakistan. AIFD doesn’t count because (haw!) nobody really goes there to study textile design, and the other three places each release an average of 30 grads every year to toil away their existence in the sethiya mills of this country. So, on average, around 100 designers graduate each year…and on average around 85% find jobs within 5 months, leaving the 15 leftovers to form a unique bond which not many other professionals will understand. The bond of un-hireability.

Khair anyway, today, at the ungodly hour of 9 30 A.M I was standing outside the Nippon paint factory in my lucky interview clothes (called so because they’re the only things I own that aren’t pigment stained) with my portfolio and resume, when I noticed another girl get out of her car and wave at me. I recognized her from one of my previous interviews and she recognized me because I was wearing the same outfit . Haye the mortification.

Anyway, interview began; hers was first. She came out in about two minutes. We exchanged cell phone numbers and a vow that we would tell each other about every job opportunity that came our way (us novelties must stick together) and then I left her to enter the den of the Boss.

Well, they didn’t look at my portfolio. Nope. They looked at…wait for it…my driving license. Which, by the way, reminds me that I have to post about how I managed to get myself a license. It’s pretty funny.

Back to the topic, so you know how in an interview they’re supposed to ask you questions about what you do? How much you know?  This wasn’t an interview, it was a mission call. They scared the living daylights out of me. I felt like a contestant in Fear Factor. One guy kept saying “yeh buhat khwaari wala kaam he”; “Khijal khwaari wala kaam”; “Har koi yeh job nahi kar sakta”etc. Any minute now I expected him to morph into Uncle Sam and recruit me in the army. The other guy kept asking questions like:

“Can you drive?”

“Can you work late hours?”

“Can you sell our paint?”

“You don’t plan to get married, do you?”

WTF?

I applied as color consultant, not Samurai door-to-door-salesman Jack. Correction. Saleswoman.

Sigh.

So then I came home, walked around miserably with that same filthy handkerchief for a few hours, and finally decided I needed comfort food for iftar. Attempted Pasta Alfredo. Murdered it. Survived on pakoray.

Man, what a day.

Day 70 (also known as 70 days left)

Influenza, she wrote

I don’t fall sick gracefully. You know how in Hollywood movies, the heroine lies dramatically on a couch covered in a shawl and people swarm around her, carrying juices and looking sad? Well that’s never me. I go around looking miserable with a filthy bit of tissue paper stuck between my nose and glasses, blowing my nose like geese honking or trumpets in a parade. I aggravate my cold out of sheer stubbornness until it turns into a full blown fever and then expect to be pampered, which I never am. Beth of Little Women, I am not.

Blah blah…wedding…blah blah

Khaer, my countdown’s started a lot later than when I actually started counting down. I started checking the calender in June; when I finally found time to look at the calender at all. Since then it’s been the only activity I have (other than sending my resume to every known design agency in town) and it’s tragic how little time of my time it consumes. The rest of my day is then spent roaming around miserably with tissue stuck between my nose and glasses. Sigh.

It’s funny how I don’t feel nervous at all. Considering the panic attacks I got just at the thought of being engaged, I’m surprised at my maturity. But then, I doubt I’ve registered the fact that I’m getting married (you would be surprised how emotionally dense I am); and secondly, I don’t think I’ve registered that marriage means forever. FO-REVER. FOR- EVER. Til death do us part. Now I’ve read the last two lines again and I’m still not freaked out, therefore the  only conclusion is that my mind doesn’t get what’s happening. It’s doped up; or so high on free arsenal mugs and chocolate that all it can come up with is “Whatever man…”

Wayli

Being farigh is the pits. I write my best when I’m ranting and this waylapan is leaving me nothing to rant about!

Anyway, I have an interview call tomorrow from Nippon paints. They need a color consultant and even though I KNOW I’m great for the job, the problem lies in convincing everybody else. Once again the fine line between confidence and arrogance becomes the enemy. I’ve given up on textile mills…the hiring criteria of textile mills is whacked. The first job interview I gave required the applicants to give an aptitude test. Needless to say I scored the highest. Needless to say I was the only one they didn’t call for the second interview. Maybe it was my killer charm. I can, after all, turn technology into a metal dump with a mere glance…or the ring on my finger which screams “Don’t hire her! She’ll leave once she’s married!” Or maybe it was neither. They probably thought they couldn’t afford me.

And damn right they were.

The Countdown begins- soon.

It’s surprising that with the little I have to do all day, I still don’t get time to blog. I wonder where time goes, and why it moves like a snail in front of you but once you pass it, it seems faster than a speeding bullet. In retrospect, you wish you had enjoyed the slow pace and savoured every moment. Memories are crap, I hate feeling sad about all I could have done.

It’s strange how my mum and I have started getting along two months before my wedding. She doesn’t get mad at me anymore, no week-long which eventually turns into month long silence spells because I’m just too stubborn to apologise, and no sloppily hidden verbal taunts about my various bad habits. Ammi’s getting soft. But then, I am trying my hardest to make up for all the years of intentional and unintentional torture I’ve put her through. We’re bonding, finally.

It’s moments like these I wish Time the snail would sit for a bit and take a breather. Have  a donut, smoke a cigar…I’ve got two decades of indifference, viral self-pity, pointless rebellion and laziness-for-the-heck-of-it to make up for. After the first two years of infancy, I’ve suffered 21 years of teenage- or should I say my parents have suffered? In any case, two months is peanuts…I wish I had been a better daughter.