Gulbadan

A brief strip club adventure

2009-07-11T00:42:00.004-04:00

“So what do you want to do tonight?” asked my host in Montreal, an acquaintance I shared common friends with but was meeting for the first time.

I was a bit hesitant to respond since I didn’t know the guy that well. Till now, however, he had been both kind and great fun, so I decided to say it.

“Well, I hear the strip clubs in Montreal are quite famous. Since I have never been to one, I’d like to visit.”

“Haha. Oh, yea, the strip clubs. Every tourist likes to go. Sure, we can go there. It’s a weekday though, so the crowd’ll be bad and the girls not the best.”

“That’s fine,” I responded. “I’ll take what I can get,” I thought. Being an excitable tourist, I was in no position to have everything perfect.

I had done my background research, and knew which strip clubs were famous in the city. We decided we would go to something called Club Super Sexe – it was as ridiculously delicious as its name suggests.

And so we entered the aforementioned establishment. It was a weekday so, naturally, the crowd was thin and the atmosphere wasn’t as crackling as I had hoped for. But since it was my first time, I was content. They offered us a seat next to the stage, but we refused it, keeping in mind that we’d have to tip higher, much higher, for that. We instead took a table with a reasonably good view and plopped down. We began observing the show. It was strictly so-so. I could not help but notice that the girls were not putting in their one hundred percent. I was not impressed; “what the fuck?” I thought, “aren’t they supposed to be professionals and putting in their best effort? Why are they performing on stage in such a dull manner when they should be cavorting about?” Not a good first impression, no doubt.

“Off day,” commented my friend, as if reading my mind. Clearly he knew his strip clubs. And my thoughts began to drift. Instead of focusing on the gyrating woman on stage, the intellectual in me started thinking about unnecessary and irrelevant things: why is she here, what made her do this, did she not have an alternative, why is she not into this, would she rather be somewhere else, what is her life story, who is she? Etcetera.

Normally men do not think like that in strip clubs. And yet, here I was, focusing beyond her dancing and her antics on the pole and her palpable nakedness and imagining her as a character in a novel; I could not help think about her beyond her obvious and blatant attempts at titillating her tipping patrons. Was she a student? How much student debt did she have? Which college did she go? Was she supporting her family? Clearly, she’s not in Pakistan where she has to get a younger sister married off. If not, then what? Is this good money? Good enough to support her loved ones? Or is she here because she actually likes it? If so, why does she like it? Is it the excitement and the thrill? Is it the high of performing in front of patrons and baring it all? Or is she an exhibitionist? All I wanted to do was get inside her head.

“Sir, you should definitely get a lap dance. You should not leave without one,” commented my friend.

“Hehe. I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s see how the evening progresses.” I really did not want to admit to him, a relatively new acquaintance, that beautiful women intimidate me, especially those with almost no clothes on.

Turns out, the evening didn’t have to progress much. Soon, a girl came over to our table, crouched on the ground next to me, and began having a conversation. She asked me my name. I was not going to indulge in a trivial conversation. One definitely does not come to a strip club to do that – unless, of course, one is old, or has a massively broken heart, or is just a plain sad fuck of a person. So, putting aside any pretenses of civility, I asked her about a lap dance. She was game (obviously, duh, that was her job) and gestured that I follow her upstairs. Yes, upstairs. Just like in the movies. Private room and all that. Yay!

And so we ended up in something that would qualify as a booth. Not the most private, but nothing shabby either. The sofa was comfortable, and there was a curtain hiding us from the outside world. “So, it’s fifteen dollars for a song, or seventy-five for twenty minutes,” she informed me in a rather business-like tone. I did a quick calculation in my head: one song is normally 4-5 minutes, so if I take two or three songs that’s about fifteen minutes and so about thirty to forty-five dollars. Hmm, I should just take the seventy-five dollar set and enjoy the whole twenty minutes or so. Oh, fuck, I only have fifty in my wallet. Surely, she will not accept a credit card. Oh well, decision made. “I will take two songs.” So, that’s thirty dollars, and then some drinks or tip and all that, and I should barely scrape through. Good. Let’s begin.

And here she cheated me. Bitch. There was a song playing (some random hip-hop song that I cannot identify right now, probably because I, in general, have little idea about hip-hop songs that are popular. In fact, I cannot even tell apart a hip-hop song from a rap song from a blues song from a pop song from a rock song. The perils of growing up on Bollywood and Pakistani pop and nothing Western except a solitary Billie Jean by the now-dead (may he rest in peace, that freak) MJ.) and she goes, “so I am going to start now. This is your first song.”

I protested in my head: “Woah, what the fuck, woman, you can’t start in the middle of a song! That’s not fair. You’re charging me so much for one song so at least give me a full one.” Of course, that was in my head. My body was too excited. “Okay,” I said out loud. And as I got comfortable on the sofa, she, well, proceeded to begin her lap dance.

After about two minutes of intense grinding against me, she noticed my hands were waving about. “You can touch, you know,” she pointed out. “Oh, can I?” I responded. Hehe. Clearly, I had heard otherwise. (Apparently it’s only in Montreal where you can touch a stripper just by paying a $5-10 cover charge at the entrance. Bless the city.) And so, I began touching, my hands wandering around her upper body like a naughty little reptile.

After a few minutes, I thought I should clarify. “Where exactly can I touch, ma’am?” I enquired. “Everywhere except down there,” was her response. “Ok.” Bummer. And so my hands started wandering even more and things started picking up pace and I started getting excited. “Is there anything else I can do besides touching,” I blurted out. Clearly my horniness was beginning to come into the equation. “Haha,” she laughed her big Eastern European laugh. “No, just touching.” “Gotcha, ma’am,” I told myself.

Soon, however, it was over. The two songs finished, and she promptly got off me. I was left thinking, “what the fuck.” I proceeded to give her the cash, including a reasonable tip, and walked downstairs to join my friend. He was sitting there feeling quite bored, a been-there-done-that expression on his face. “So, sir, enjoyed yourself?” he inquired. “Uhh, well, so-so,” I responded. It was true, really. The lap dance was nothing earth-shattering. The girl was strictly average, and her performance ordinary. (I had seen better on video!) And the only reason I felt the amount of horniness that I did was because of my natural proclivity, as a man, towards such occurrences.

I almost felt sorry for her. She was quite attractive, (oh, I don’t think I mentioned this before – she was tall, slim and blond, thus the Eastern European label I used earlier) but was quite young, and not very experienced I would assume. She was probably one of those student types who was here to earn enough to pay the exorbitant tuition. I obviously was in no position to enquire about her motivation or background, considering that the booth where she was grinding into me was not the most appropriate location for such a meaningful conversation.

And so, having had my lap dance, and seen a strip club up close and personal, I decided to leave. There was nothing here, after all, which I was finding terribly exciting. And that was the end of that. My trip to Montreal was finally complete.

A conversation on Facebook

2009-07-08T15:54:00.005-04:00

Me and Mullah Roommate, my housemate for my first academic year here, used to have quite random conversations. As like random conversations between any other pair of men, the topics would vary considerably, ranging from the erotic appeal of women's forearms to the religious undertones in the fantabulous TV show "Battlestar Gallactica."

Our best conversations, however, were through Facebook comments. Usually, we would be sitting in our own rooms and talking to each other virtually.

Going through some old photos, I came across one such time. It was indeed a most fun evening. I share the entire conversation below, in all its inanity.

The context is a photo of mine he had tagged, in an album called "California." The photo was titled "Dinner with OCD roommate." (He likes to think I have obsessive compulsive disorder because I tell him how to put things in the kitchen.)

Me: technically, you are grammatically incorrect. you should say "OC flatmate" or "flatmate who has OCD." just wanted to point it out, you know. :)

And btw, how the fuck is this photo in an album called California, when I've never even been close to the place?

Him: Yes, but I love you so much, I can't have an album without you in it. Naw, I like to have the first and the last picture of a travel album be a home picture.

Me: oh, thats v cute. but why is the last picture of this album not of home then?

Him: Because there is another album in the works genius. This is just part 1

Also, much thanks for the grammatical input.

Me: well then it should be labelled "California Part I!" rather than "California!" And what's with the silly exclamation mark? How would you feel if someone wrote "Balochistan!"?

Him: I would think: "Holy @#$! Our army @#$#$ up again!"

Was the Mummy called The Mummy Part 1? Maybe I will call my second album The Return of California!

Me: the army is not the root cause of every problem in pakistan, you neo-marxist luminite fucktard.

Him: Says the Punjabi guy.

Yar mein bata raha hun, koi parhai nahee honee aaj. Let's watch Top Gun instead. Come out of your room.

Me: punjabis are not the root cause of every problem in pakistan, you mohajir-hugging karachiite.

yar im sorry i am about to upload an album of facebook. then i will watch two episodes of how i met your mother, and then go to sleep. i have to wake up early morning and learn about jihad. oh, oops, that sounds totally dangerous and reckless on facebook. let me rephrase: i have to take a class in harvard, the most well-respected educational institution, about the history of jihad (in whose final paper i will naturally espouse the idea that it is a dead and irrelevant concept and its supporters should be bombed out of their rustic caves)

Him: I will have you know I am a Punjabi and am hence unable to hug anything, courtesy my fat tond.

Re your jihad training: I sympathize with your stance. I too shall attend a class on Democratic Theory soon, at the same august institution where I shall without a doubt argue in favor of the most auspicious democratic polity that surpasses all others for the sole reason that it is Western. I too shall then proceed to advocate the bombing of any (possibly oil rich middle eastern persian) state that attempts to incorporate the medieval Islamic political system into it's every day life. Either the buggers are with us, or against us.

Me: acha dont go all intellectual on me. i hate smarty-pants. and you are a disgrace to all punjabis. you have no tond. you, on the contrary, like to jog and swim. eek!

Him: That is true. I shall withdraw myself from the generalized pool of fat Punjabis with tonds. *walks away into the sunset, sniffling*

End of conversation. Sigh. I miss him.

(This was such a fucking lazy thing to do, what I just did above. Basically just a shit poor copy-paste job. Just another way to procrastinate at my summer internship. :D)

The Twenty20 World Cup: a constant hunt for streams

2009-06-22T18:36:00.007-04:00

First, something about the IPL this year, that concluded just before the Twenty20 World Cup. I had decided to boycott the damn thing as it was not featuring any Pakistani player. I found that to be insulting and pointless, and thus made it a point to not watch a single match and, essentially, ignore the competition's existence. I swear, I did not watch any game. I did once give in to temptation and decided to see what was going on, but seeing Yuvraj Singh bat pissed me off even more, and after two balls I shut it off. And look how things have turned out - the kids that were ostracized from cricket's big, glamorous clusterfuck now fucking own the world cup. While everyone else in the world was busy ogling at sexy Katrina Kaif (even though I boycotted the tournament, I know from my regular following of Bollywood websites that she did, indeed, perform), our boys were probably staring at TV screens in their homes wondering what could have been. Fuck that shit, boys, you did it without the IPL, hence proving the absolute worthlessness of the competition. In sum, screw you, IPL, you over-glorified domestic competition! You have been rendered irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. To add insult to injury, Pakistan's star performer in the final, the-usually-innocuous Abdul Razzaq, came from ICL, the equally-irrelevant-but-thankfully-less-pretentious-rival to IPL. Oh, how things turn out!

Now, coming to the World Cup itself. One of the drawbacks of being a cricket fan and currently living in a country where, at best, people don't know about the sport, and at worst, mock it, is that it is difficult to access the sport. TV channels hardly show matches, making us Paki expats reach out to the internet and hope and pray some blessed soul somewhere has put up a live video stream that we can follow online. And so, in this tournament, the hunt for the streams began.

More than anything else, for me the tournament has been defined by a constant game of cat and mouse between me on one end, and some pissed-off network administrators or web managers on the other who kept booting me off their streams to make space for others. Things were usually so bad that I hardly ever got more than 5 minutes of uninterrupted video before the feed would go off air while the bowler was in his run up, or the ball was in the air having just been hit. It was quite frustrating.

And so, with this wretched experience, I went to my friend's house to watch the final and indulge in this most ridiculous cat-and-mouse for one final time. We had hooked up his laptop to his giant TV, so that we could see the live action as it could be seen back home. (Those who have seen the pathetic video and audio quality on these streams should now imagine that shit expanded ten times, and with the audio commentary now sounding like someone making announcements at Lucky Irani Circus.)

Anyway, while overall the experience was fun and stuff, and we ended up successfully watching a majority of the match, it was still a constant hit-and-miss. The maximum uninterrupted stream we got was 10 minutes (an improvement from before, so yay!). During one particular period we were getting booted off every 30 seconds, essentially meaning we would watch one ball, and then get kicked off line, try to find an alternative stream, and reconnect back in time for the other ball.

The worst bit was that this constant nonsense made us miss some absolutely crucial moments. You can get an idea of what I mean when I tell you that I did NOT witness the most important wicket of the match (Dilshan being ass-raped by a seventeen year old) and I also did NOT witness our final run that led to victory. Yes, both at the start and at the end, I was a victim of poor-stream-fuck and thus missed out on the two most important moments of the match.

For the first one, the explanation is quite simple. We couldn't connect for the first five minutes. By the time we found a stream that worked, it was already 1.1 overs and Razzaq was charging in. I had to watch the highlights reel to figure out how the fuck we managed to get Dilshan so early. As for the mishap at the end, we were a victim of another stream going off air at the most ridiculous of times, when Malinga was charging in to bowl. When we reconnected, Umar Gul was on the ground with a stump in his hand and the Pakistani players were hugging each other. That's how I fucking saw how we won it - damn you, internet.

Oh well, all's well that ends well. In the end, the victory was embarrasingly easy, and reminded me of how we were thrashed by Australia in the 1999 world cup on the same damn ground. This was almost a reversal of that.

And even though Afridi will be showered with praise by all and sundry and has for ever, and finally, made his name synonymous with a big tournament victory, the real star of the match was no one but Abdul Razzaq. His three wickets at the top of the order really turned everything on its head, and gave Pakistan the confidence that they can kick this massively talented batting order's butt and restrict them to a low score. It is all the more important because Razzaq is a most useless bowler who on a day that is to come soon enough will be thrashed around all over the ground. But this day, I guess, belonged to him. The most important bowling performance of his career. Well done, boy. Now please, go fucking retire and let younger allrounders replace you. People like Fawad Alam. Who are probably fucking sick of running around the field all day without actually "playing".

Also, praise be to Mohammad Aamir. People are raving about how well he did. Even I, yes, grudgingly admit, he might be a good fast bowling find for the future. But before everyone starts dry humping Aamir, let it be said that our great fast bowling finds in the past that have made a stunning impression at the start of their careers but have then seen those very same careers go down the drain soon enough make a fucking long list:

Mohammad Zahid
Shoaib Akhtar
Mohammad Sami
Rana Naveed ul Hasan
Mohammad Asif
Sohail Tanvir

(Please remind me if I am missing someone.) Let us hope that Aamir does not go that route.

Finally, I cannot help but feel that while this is a stunning victory that has undoubtedly brought a lot of much-needed joy to the country (and, from what I hear, caused massive poondi outbreaks on the streets of Lahore and Islamabad during the post-match celebrations, much to the delight of all but the most picky of oglers), it is not the same as a 50-over World Cup win. After all, that is the cup where we were humiliated in Bangalore in 1996; that is the cup where we were pummelled into submission at Lord's in 1999; that is the cup where we could not go past round 1 despite a star-studded team in 2003; and, finally, that is the cup where we sufferred our most ignominious defeat in history (and also had to deal with a coach who conveniently plopped dead) in 2007. So that is the cup that needs to be won. Let's do it in our backyard in 2011.

PS - apparently the next Twenty20 World Cup is in the Caribbean next year. Next fucking year. 2010. What nonsense is this? We will be champions for only, uhh, 10 months? That's not even enough time to build a memorial in some chowk in Lahore. Fuck you, ICC. I hate you so much. God, why did Lashkar-e-Jhangvi not attack your offices instead of the poor Sri Lankans' bus? Sigh.

Oh, and this Afridi picture is destined to become the defining image of cricketing glory for a generation of Pakistanis.

The mysterious smoking uncle who turned out to be a legend

2009-06-14T22:27:00.004-04:00

For the best part of the last one year I have been living in an apartment complex owned by my university that usually houses families, older students and scholars in various departments and disciplines.

Almost every day while walking to class or to run the usual errands, I see a man sitting on the stairs of his townhouse talking on the phone and smoking a cigarette. He is quite old, has a mane of bushy, unruly grey hair, and always appears lost. When I return home in the evening, I see him there again. Then, late at night, when I head out to have my final cigarette of the day (my house is sadly non-smoking, a regulation I have begun to flout recently), I see him again - he's sitting on the same stairs, looking into the distance, and enjoying his drags.

I never spoke to him or even acknowledged him while passing by, always intrigued and fascinating but a bit afraid. Until today, that is.

I ventured out at night to have a cigarette (even though I now sneakily smoke inside sometimes, the weather was rather nice so it was worth enjoying the deathstick in fresh air), and walked up to my usual bench in the corner where I sit in solitude and think big thoughts while slowly reducing my life. This time, however, the mysterious smoking uncle was sitting in the same area, rather than on his stairs as usual.

I quietly sat down on my bench of choice, exchanged a smile with him (our first acknowledgement of each other's existence in the entire year), and lit my stick. Suddenly, he spoke, and that too in heavily accented English: "Tonight is a great night for smoking, isn't it?"

I smiled hesitantly, and said, "Yes, it definitely is," and would have ended the conversation then had I not noticed his heavy accent. Now I was mildly intrigued. So I straight up asked him, "Uhh, where are you from?" (In retrospect, I realize that's a pretty rude start to a conversation.)

"Iran" he replied very slow.

"OH" I went, a bit too loud. I had spent the whole day catching up on the mayhem and protests and election rigging and everything going on in that country, and so naturally was quite excited to meet an Iranian in flesh. "I am from Pakistan," I finally added.

"Oh, that's nice," he said, smiling, almost happy to hear that.

"So, what do you do here," was my next obvious question.

"Oh, I write."

"I'm sorry?" I blurted out. My bad. See, I was expecting something like "I am a professor of history/political science/international relations/insert-important-sounding-subject-of-choice."

"I am a writer," he replied, still very polite and gentle.

"So, what do you write? Novels? Scripts?"

"Yes, novels mostly. Or stories. I am writing a novel about censorship right now. My agent is trying to find publishers around the world."

Me, now obviously intrigued: "So, have you written before this, or is this your first novel?"

"Oh, yes, a lot. I have about eleven books or so."

Holy fuck! That's a lot of books.

"So, this book is about censorship. Are all your past books about political stuff?"

"Well, in Iran, if you're a dissident and you're not writing for the government, all the books are about political stuff."

"Oh" was all I could say. "So how long have you been here?"

"I have been here three years. Sadly because of my books, I can't go back."

"Wow. I'm sorry," was again all I could say. "Umm, so your family lives here too?"

"No, my wife and daughter are back in Iran. The Americans don't give my daughter a visa, she has tried five times. Has taken a lot of expensive trips to Istanbul and Ankara. By the way, what does Musharraf do now?"

"Oh, Musharraf? Hehe. Well, umm, nothing really. He pretty much tours the world giving lectures and making money, and lives on a farmhouse outside the capital, stealing electricity. Nothing exciting. So, umm, things are bad in your country right now."

"Yes, very bad," he says, suddenly turning very gloomy. "I was quite hopeful, but it's all very fake. Very fake. And our president, he's such a shame."

"Is he popular in Iran?"

"Yes, a little bit. People believe him. They make a mistake."

"Well, I hope things work out. There was a protest today in Harvard Square, I believe," I said, trying to sound consolatory.

"Yes, yes, I know. I went to that. It's all very sad." He then paused for a bit. "And how come your English is so good?" he suddenly asked.

"Pardon me?"

"Your English. It's very good. How is that?"

"Oh, hehe, well, umm, British legacy, I guess. We were ruled by them for 200 years, so some of our education system is in English. It helps us now. Everyone in the world speaks English," I tried to explain.

"Heh, yes, that is true. In Iran they don't teach English well. I wish I could speak it well, write in it. I have a translator, I have to write in Farsi and get everything translated. It is very difficult."

"Oh. Umm, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name sir?"

"Hmm? Oh, heh, Shahriyar."

"In case I want to read your books, I should know what to search for."

"Yes, of course, Shahriyar Mandanipour." He then went ahead and spelled out his last name, letter by letter, so that I would remember.

"Right. I'll definitely go to the book store this week and try to find some of your books."

"Yes, they are on the Amazon website."

"Okay, I will check that out. Right, I need to head back now. My laundry must have dried," I said getting up. "I hope things get better in your country soon."

"And in yours too," he said.

And I proceeded to pick up my dried laundry, came back home, sorted and folded and put away my clothes, and plopped in front of my computer to do a quick Google search on the dude. I forgot how he spelt his last name. All I could remember was a Shahriyar M-something-pour. Hehe. After a few tries, I was finally able to locate a Shahriyar Mandanipour. Sounded like him. So, I clicked.

And, oh my Deobandi God, was I in for a shock. Turns out, the quiet, almost-scary looking, mysterious smoking uncle I was seeing every day and never acknowledging is one of Iran's most famous writers. Mr Mandanipour is a true artistic legend. And the book that he was talking about is actually out now. It's called "Censoring an Iranian Love Story." I couldn't believe it.

Now I will definitely be reading it, and all of his other work. And hopefully I'll run into him again, and bum a cigarette off him, and finally have a mildly interesting story to share with my kids. :)

An application of microeconomics: Supply and demand in the Pakistani market for suicide bombers

2009-05-16T17:34:00.006-04:00

Time to sound like a total self-absorbed douchebag. So I wrote this article for an online magazine run by a couple of acquaintances titled The Green Kaleidoscope. This appeared in the May 2009 edition, and you can see the original here. Some people have found it funny; others think it is offensive, nonsensical and uncalled for. :)

The other day I was attending a seminar titled “Youth radicalization in Pakistan” where the speaker mentioned in passing that there now seems to exist a sort of market for suicide bombers in the country - a market that functions like any other. Just like you would go to Ehsan Chappal Store to buy shoes, you can now buy or hire suicide bombers for your esteemed missions.

This got me thinking as to how this market functions in practice, and if textbook microeconomics can help me comprehend it. Turns out, it can. After just a few hours of incoherent thinking, I have been able to decipher how the invisible hand of free markets plays its role in this particular domain, and how the supply of and demand for suicide bombers is equilibrated to provide the optimal levels of quantity of bombings. I present my analysis below, and suggest areas of further research to improve our understanding of this recent but rapidly developing market.

What is the “price” in this case?

As we all know, every goods or services market has two elements: how much quantity will be produced and consumed (the “quantity”) and for how much will it be sold for (the “price”). While the quantity in this case is clear (the number of suicide bombers), what’s the “price”? Surely willing bombers don’t sit in the aisles of Al-Fatah with price tags on them waiting to be bought. Instead, the “price” in this case is the compensation received by families of suicide bombers for their services. These are often in lakhs of rupees, and thus we will use that as a unit of price in our analysis.

The supply of suicide bombers

1. Deriving the supply curve

Holding everything else constant, an increase in the compensation paid to families increases the number of suicide bombers willing to provide their services. This is quite rational: if you offer a broke, unemployed, hopeless soul one lakh rupees to blow himself up, he might be a bit hesitant, but he’s surely yours if you suggest two. Thus, as the level of compensation goes up, more and more potential bombers enter the market. This results in a conventional upward-sloping supply curve, as seen in the diagram below, which should be familiar to students of basic economics.

2. Shifts in the supply curve – what changes supply besides the compensation?

i) Drone attacks

No points for guessing that these kill people, and hence increase anger in the population. Also, they often leave victims’ family members and relatives with little else to do except seek retribution. This increases the supply of suicide bombers, as more enter the market, and more bombers are now available at any given compensation than before. In graphical terms, this means that the supply curve shifts to the right. An area of further research is to determine the exact, quantitative impact of drone attacks on the supply of bombers. A simple empirical study, for example, can try to tease out the causal, incremental effect of one additional drone attack on suicide bombings in Pakistan. A friend has already begun collecting data for this purpose, and hopes to get his research funded by the Jamaat-e-Islami or the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaaf.

ii) Changes in preferences

If I use an old Nokia phone and my best friend buys an iphone and starts using it in front of me, I will be very, very tempted to buy one as well. This is true – if I could afford an iphone, I’d ditch my crappy Nokia tomorrow. So, preferences matter, and can be changed by circumstances. This applies equally well in the market under study. If my best friend or fellow tribesman becomes a jihadi and declares that the mission in his life is to mutilate apostate Pakistani Army soldiers and go away literally in a blaze of glory, I’d be tempted to get inspired and follow suit. In technical terms, this results in an increase in the supply of suicide bombers at any given rate of compensation. The supply curve, thus, shifts rightward again.

iii) Education and reverse indoctrination

The more educated you are, the less likely you are to get inspired by half-baked theories of victimization, or get jealous of your friend’s iphone, so to speak. At least that’s the theory behind investing in education to reduce extremism. The supply curve shifts left, reducing supply at any given rate of compensation. This, though, remains unproven in practice and further research and empirical study is suggested in this area.

iv) Economic incentives and jobs

The theory is that if youngsters have jobs that provide stable incomes allowing them to lead respectable lives, they are less likely to be induced by the compensation provided by suicide bombings. If this works, the supply curve shifts to the left, reducing supply at any given rate of compensation. This theory holds merit, and I have been told that it has been tested in Iraq to get support of Sunni groups fighting American forces.

The demand for suicide bombers

1. Deriving the demand curve

Suicide bombers are demanded by those who want to use them to do, well, whatever they do. The usual suspects apply here: Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) and its various local chapters, other assorted militant organizations like Lashkar-e-Toiba, Harkatul Mujahideen, Jaish-e-Mohammad etcetera, and, as some would allege, even our patriotic brethren in the intelligence and security community. These organizations reveal their preferences for suicide bombers by their willingness to pay the required compensations to families.

Given that the resources at the disposal of these organizations are not limitless (at least till now), holding everything else constant, the quantity of suicide bombers demanded is inversely related to the going rate of compensation. In simpler words, the cheaper they come, the more we want. This results in a conventional, downward-sloping demand curve for suicide bombers, essentially identical to what you would obtain for the other precious Pakistani commodity: Ehsan Chappal Store shoes.

2. Shifts in the demand curve – what changes demand besides the compensation?

i) Military action against militant organizations in Pakistan

After suffering casualties in military operations, these organizations crave revenge and thus want more shock troops and suicide bombers, as they cannot really compete effectively in conventional warfare involving devilish equipment like gunship helicopters. Thus, military action increases the demand for suicide bombers, pushing the demand curve to the right – more bombers are demanded at any given compensation rate.

ii) Cultural events

Cultural events are great targets for making a statement, and so increase the demand for suicide bombers. Thus, one should expect higher demand in seasons when cultural events are in abundance. Again, the demand curve will shift towards the right to reflect that. An interesting case is that of the winter wedding season. Soon, the impact of this increased demand for suicide bombers will be felt in the wedding season, where there is an abundance of haram music, general fahashi and terribly un-Islamic levels of skin show. This is actually quite useful for the suicide bombers’ market to remain efficient, as it counters the lull in demand that is experienced in the winter months due to a let up in fighting up in the northwest. Thus, in the future the demand should remain smooth and strong throughout the year, rather than showing erratic peaks and troughs as before. As any economist will tell you, this is good news for market efficiency!

iii) Price and availability of substitute services

If rocket launchers are more easily and cheaply available, if more troops surrender to the militants due to the low morale of security forces, or if improvised explosive devices become easier to produce, then the demand for carnage is satisfied elsewhere, and there is no need to hire more suicide bombers. Thus, as conventional microeconomics will tell us, favorable prices and availability of substitute services reduces the demand for suicide bombers. This results in a shift in the demand curve to the left.

Equilibrium in the market for suicide bombers

Put the supply and demand curves together and, viola, we get the equilibrium level of quantity of suicide bombers and the rate of compensation to their families!

(Of course, actual numbers here will be of great help. This remains another area for future empirical research.)
Briefly, let us see how a typical equilibrium will look like in the market for Ehsan Chappal Store shoes, using a similar level of basic microeconomic analysis.
As you can see, the similarities are uncanny. Readers are left to draw relevant conclusions and snicker at subtle ironies, if any exist.

The role of madressahs

In this market, madressahs often act as a sort of clearinghouse, gathering the supply of suicide bombers in one centralized location and allowing consumers (the various militant organizations) to pick and choose and purchase services with relative ease. Their role is similar to stock exchanges in financial markets and shopping malls in markets for consumer goods. Without them, these militant organizations would have to track down each individual supplier, thus probably prohibitively increasing their transaction costs. Thus, in this sense the madressahs increase the efficiency of this market manifold, and their role here should be appreciated.

Some important experiments

To make our analysis more relevant to current affairs, and to allow our model to predict future outcomes, let us now conduct some pertinent experiments to see what happens to this market in certain situations.

Experiment 1: the Lal Masjid fiasco

An incident such as the Lal Masjid episode, where military action is taken against armed zealots (especially when they happen to be teenage girls) has a profound impact on the market for suicide bombers. It increases the demand for bombers by increasing the necessity for retribution and revenge that militant organizations feel. Further, it increases the supply of suicide bombers due to both the victim factor as well as a change in the preferences of local population, inciting more potential suicide bombers to enter the market. Thus, both the supply and demand curves shift to the right.

The effect on the quantity of suicide bombers is clear: it increases significantly. Whoops.

The effect on the going rate of compensation is ambiguous though, and depends on the relative size of the shifts in both demand and supply. For example, if the demand increases more than supply, the rate of compensation goes up. In the interesting case of equal increases in the magnitude of supply and demand, the equilibrating compensation rate remains the same as before, as shown in the diagram below.

Experiment 2: investment in propaganda

An increased level of anti-state, anti-imperialist, anti-U.S. or anti-insert-enemy-of-choice propaganda also affects the market. This propaganda can include the following: a higher number of Al-Qaeda videos bashing the West and propounding global jihad, an increase in anti-U.S., anti-Zionist and/or anti-India speeches by key religious figures and opinion makers especially during Friday prayer sermons, a proliferation of jihadi literature and multimedia both online and off, and, finally, more television appearances by world-famous defense strategist Zaid Hamid.

However it is done, an increase in propaganda increases the supply of suicide bombers as it alters the preferences of the suppliers, making them more amenable to serving the true and just path and shunning worldly, materialist comforts emblematic of Western cultural dominance. This results in a rightward shift of the supply curve. The impact on the market is quite clear: the quantity of suicide bombers increases, whereas the rate of compensation paid to families fall, as there is just way too much supply of bombers to get a competitive bargain for the orphaned families.

In sum, this is an important investment that the militant organizations can make, as they are the beneficiaries in the new market equilibrium. An area of further research is to conduct a cost-benefit and net present value analysis to assess how the costs of this investment are providing returns to these organizations.

Experiment 3: Balochistan declaring independence

If Balochistan declares independence, it is not expected to have any effect on the market for suicide bombers in Pakistan. No one cares enough about the Baloch for them to matter.

The mullah versus the chief

2009-04-16T03:00:00.004-04:00

Time to sound like a total self-absorbed douchebag.

So I wrote an article for a Pakistan-based online magazine run by a few acquaintances called 'The Green Kaleidoscope". (On a side note, I personally find the title of the magazine fascinating, although the word "kaleidoscope" is a total bitch to spell.)

My article, one of many rather fantabulous pieces in the April 2009 issue, is called "The mullah versus the chief" and takes you, the esteemed and glorious reader, into the near future where CJP and Mullah Fazlullah are locking horns over legal matters.

Okay, enough navel-gazing for now. You can read the article here.

Also, you can read the entire magazine (which, admittedly, has articles better than the late night rant I sent in) here. Bookmark it, and check it once every month for updates.

Sinful procrastination, and the resulting depression

2009-03-26T15:07:00.010-04:00

First, let me start off by saying that "procrastination" is an extremely difficult word to write, and an even more difficult one to say. I always confuse it with "procreation" for some odd reason.

Anyway, now that that's out of the way, we address the topic at hand: procrastination. Everyone procrastinates. It's really a fundamentally important part of human nature I believe. And yet, everyone feels guilty when they do so and, more importantly, surprised when it actually happens.

That happened to me yesterday, where the procrastination devil hit me hard, and I ended up wasting what was supposed to be the most super-productive day ever.

This is what was supposed to happen yesterday - my ideal daily planner told me this:
1. I was going to wake up early.
2. I was going to enjoy a nice, healthy, filling but quick breakfast and then a nice, warm but quick shower.
3. I was going to head off to the library, reaching there around 11 am and begin work.
4. I was going to spend 3-4 hours applying for a few dozen summer internship positions by writing cover letters, tweaking my resume and sending out the necessary emails to contacts and employers.
5. I was then going to break for lunch - a quick but health bite, really.
6. Post-lunch, for the next few hours I was going to invest all my energy doing (and completing) research for a final paper I am supposed to write for a course I am currently taking.
7. I was then going to come home late at night after many hours of hard labour, warm up the leftover pasta for dinner, and then head to bed all tired and satisfied.

So yea, as you can see, this would have been a very productive and useful day.

This is how it turned out.

1. So I woke up late. Bad start. I had slept at 3 am the night before, because I was watching Battlestar Gallactica season 2, so that's really the root cause.
2. I made breakfast - healthy and filling. Then I thought I'll watch one more episode of BSG because I really need something to do while I have such a large quantity of breakfast.
3. So obviously since the show is so fucking addictive I couldn't resist watching another one. Two episodes later I realized I needed to rent the remainder of the season from the university library, but couldn't stop, so went online to search for streams of the next episode.
4. Couldn't find them, ended up noticing that new episodes are out for both Gossip Girl and How I Met Your Mother. Said to myself that it's really just 2 measly episodes, there's no harm in watching them. That was another hour or so gone.
5. Thought I'd catch up on the news while I was online, so went to the DAWN website. Read a few articles, and came across the phrase "we must be vigilant all the time." Probably a Pakistani-terrorists-creating-mayhem-and-causing-the-rest-of-the-world-a-big-fat-headache story.
6. Started thinking how the word "vigilance" is so cool. Remembered something I had read somewhere, a lot: "constant vigilance." Started raking my brain but couldn't place it. Where was it? Lord of the Rings? Gandalf? No, unlikely. Harry Potter? Hmm. Likely. Sounds like something Dumbledore would say. "Harry, we must show constant vigilance (or else Voldemort will anal-rape Hermione and spear Ron.)"
7. Went to Google searching for "constant vigilance" and found it. Aha! Mad-Eye Moody's pet line. Why did I think Dumbledore? Hmm.
8. Came across a Harry Potter fansite specializing in trivia and assorted information about all things relevant to the books.
9. Ended up spending seven hours on it. Yes, seven fucking hours. On one website. (Clearly you can see how much I like Harry Potter.)
10. Realized it was too late in the night to start doing anything productive, so started watching the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" movie. Fell asleep within one hour. I think that depressing robot did the trick.

The next day, today, hasn't fared so well either. Although I did end up waking up on time, and did make a healthy and filling breakfast again (btw, I also watched the latest Scrubs episode while eating it), and did make it to the library on time, and did start researching for my paper, I ended up getting distracted on the internet again, and started reading up semi-related articles and the like. And then, in an unexplained moment of utter madness and stupidity, I somehow ended up having a conversation with a recent ex girlfriend. That led to a flood of a thousand good memories and fun times spent together and the inevitable and totally sour parting of ways, resulting in pain and heartache and depression that will probably last for another few days, if not weeks.

So, yea, that was pretty screwed up. Should never have stayed up late at night watching Battlestar Gallactica to begin with.

Bad Zardari + Good Long March = One Fucking Cool Wedding Procession

2009-03-15T05:25:00.012-04:00

So Asif Zardari, that mischievous little bugger I proudly call head of state, has finally committed mistake number one. After one year of building a solid innings on a difficult pitch facing a barrage of chin music and using nothing but Steve Waugh-like guile and resolve, he has unfortunately given a halwa catch to mid-on only one stroke away from what would have been a glorious century on return (from, of all places, prison).

For those whose heads the above cricket analogy flew over (and allow me to point out that I use a cricket analogy only to register my strongest condemnation of the sport's recent anal-rape in Pakistan), allow me to translate: Zardari has basically lost the plot.

Obviously he has made a total mockery of the government by responding to the Long March how he has. As someone said, it is like watching the Musharraf government's action replay. What is surprising to me, however, is how a man of his calibre could allow such a thing to happen, completely far-removed as it is from how I expected him to handle it.

Here is how he should have handled this crisis (and how, frankly, I thought he would, the cunning little ninja turtle that I know him to be). By following these simple steps, he would have turned the situation around in his favor:

1. He should have turned Constitution Avenue in Islamabad into a big marriage hall, covering it with tents large enough to protect the expected 100,000 people from the evil Pakistani sun. He should have covered the approach road with the traditional red-and-yellow carpet of our wedding season, and sprinkled it with rose petals.

2. When the Long March arrived, he should have asked the IG Police to shower Aitzaz Ahsan and Ali Ahmad Kurd with even more rose petals, like we would to welcome a grand wedding procession. He should have also asked some of his paramilitary troops to engage in aerial firing as a celebration of the guests' arrival. Of course, for a second, the Marchers would have been totally mind-fucked thinking the police has opened fire on them. Hah, that would have been quite a fun sight. I am sure our esteemed president is entitled to have some fun - it's been a rough year.

3. Once the guests, having completed their journeys from far flung corners of the motherland, had rested adequately, Zardari should have served them with a grand and monumentous feast including such obvious delicacies as biryani, qorma and fried fish, followed by a healthy serving of kheer and zarda. After all, you do not send your guests back on an empty stomach in Pakistan, now, do you?

4. Once everyone was well-fed and ready to party, Zardari should have arranged for the musical entertainment to begin. After all, the marchers are experts in singing/listening to songs and chants and, since most of them are talented but wasteful young people, love having a ball of a time. To grace the occasion, he would have invited Shehzad Roy and that new LUMS-exported Marxist band making the rounds nowadays to serenade (!) the audience with their politically charged and uplifting numbers. The irony should have pleased my leader.

The party should have easily continued till the wee hours of the night, at which time the Marchers, having obviously decided to have a sit-in (since they have such a kickass supply of shade, food and entertainment), should have been handed makeshift tents, sleeping bags and mattresses, all courtesy of the Ministry of Tourism (donated by the said Ministry since the stuff was lying idle in all its motels, resorts and camping sites around Pakistan for many years for an obvious lack of tourists). This would have made the Long Marchers' night much more comfortable, enabling them to rise again the next morning to continue their quest for political revolution and positive social change (which really should never be happening on empty stomachs and minimal hours of sleep).

5. On the following day, Zardari should have personally ventured out of his mansion and made a courageous and historical speech to the gathered audience. In that speech, he should have explained to his listeners how much inherently cooler he was compared to them, should have derided their guts in thinking they can create a dent on his popularity (both in rural Sindh and the USA, currently his main constituencies), should have elaborated on the general theme that he is not scared of these sissy-pant foreign-funded elitist urbanites, and in general should have put in its place this motley crew of corrupt lawyers and ex-judges, hot chicks from fancy private universities, overweight, uncouth Nawaz sycophants and Taliban-supporting-and-India-bashing Jamaat kids.

6. He then should have continued to supply the Marchers with a daily dose of food, boarding and entertainment until they, out of shame and misery, would have returned back to their comfortable little abodes and living rooms with a constant supply of entertainment, Hamid Mir and Zaid Hamid.

Yea, that’s the Zardari I know and love. That’s really what he should have done. Instead, he fucked things up big-time. Instead, he made a mockery of everything he won his election on. Instead, sir Mr Zardari, you have become a quasi-dictator. Shame on you. Shame, shame!

On a side note, I wonder had the energy, effort and resources going into the Long March been spent on a similar anti-terrorism procession from Karachi to Swat (if not beyond), how much of an impact it could have created. I guess that’s irrelevant now. After all, once the Chief is back, he’ll deal with Mullah Fazlullah himself. Yessirree, he shall kick Fazlullah’s butt like it’s never been kicked before! Oh yea, suo moto that, you cheap radio jockey! Run before your remand comes! Run on that purty little white horse of yours! F.E.A.R. T.H.E. C.H.I.E.F!

Delhi-6: tsk, tsk, tsk

2009-02-26T03:49:00.005-05:00

Since I am a humongous Bollywood fan and know pretty much everything there is to know about it, when the opportunity came up to check out the latest offering, Delhi-6, in the cinema, I immediately jumped on it. I had been looking forward to this film for eons and thus could not resist when a few friends decided to go.

Some context: first, I have been to Delhi a few times, and find the city to be quite fascinating. As many before me have observed, it is a bigger, grander, older (unless you believe that silly little myth about Ram founding Lahore back in the day), more historically-relevant version of Lahore. It is also great for sightseeing, shopping, food and general merriment. I have had great fun aimlessly roaming around the place, or getting lost and then successfully finding my way back, and even randomly coming across some deliciously debauch rum candies (:p). I have some fun memories of the city with some very close friends, and some wonderful acquaintances live there. (Hello to you all! I know I am horrible at keeping in touch, but I still know what you're up to so it's all chill. Joy Facebook!) (Uh, that "joy" thing was a Bengali reference. Is that correct usage?) Overall, it is a kickass experience that I recommend to anyone. So when I found out there's a movie about the city, I was naturally very excited.

Second, I downloaded the soundtrack (illegally, as always. Joy P2P.) and found it to be completely mesmerizing. I thus really wanted to see how they played with the songs in the movie.

Third, it is directed by the dude who did Rang De Basanti, which was a pretty big landmark in Bollywood filmmaking, and the only film in recent memory that I saw with my father. So some good father/son memories are involved there. (Well, when you don't have a lot of those memories, you make do with and hold on to whatever shit is available.)

And blah and blah. So how was the movie?

They say expectations are always a bad thing, as they set you up. Well, in this case, that's spot on. The movie was quite painful to sit through, and by the time it was over I actually felt relieved. Reasons are enumerated below.

First, and really most important, the whole monkey angle was really very, very ridiculous. Now, I know this was based partly on true events (I remember a few years ago reading in the newspaper about strange monkey-man attacks on Delhi rooftops and people going crazy about it and thinking to myself, "man, the folks across the border have really lost it this time!") but it was quite silly how the monkey-man dominated pretty much the entire movie. As I said earlier, it was ridiculous. I really have no other word for it. I am assuming the director was going for a cool, abstract social message ("there is a black monkey inside all of us" is an actual line from the movie!) but when Abhishek decides to dress up in a monkey suit and leap rooftops in a single bound, that just became comical. I am sorry, but I refuse to take seriously any sombre lecture about social harmony in a diverse society when it is given to me in a fucking monkey suit.

Even without the monkey suit, I did not understand Abhishek's fascination with jumping rooftops in single bounds. Now I know old cities are super-dense clusters of old, low- to medium-rise residential housing piled on top of each other (I come from one, I have seen them often) but if the director was trying to inject some humor into the film by showing how Abhishek can jump so well, and for no apparent reason, then he quickly needs to take humor lessons from xkcd.

Second, it appeared to me (and my fellow, and equally perceptive, movie-goers) that the story moves from one random arc to another. There are spatterings of a love story, a fluffy journey of self-discovery and connecting with your roots angle, and an even fluffier social harmony-type message. All of it with a sleazy, good-for-nothing photographer (and he really did nothing good for the movie), an old lady who refuses to die when she should and a black monkey who...well, I've already made crystal my opinions about the fucking monkey.

Third, how the songs are used. This should have been the highlight of my Delhi-6 experience. Instead, I was forced to endure what has become my favourite (and is possibly the sweetest) romantic song in recent Bollywood memory (AR Rehman singing Rehna Tu Hai Jaisa Tu) being filmed on two guys with a twenty-year age difference playing pool by themselves. Bad, bad choice Mr. Director.

Fourth, the movie really takes at least one hour to appear interesting. The first one hour is quite useless, trying to indulge in some pitiful character development but instead ending up using cliches and trite dialogues.

So yea, overall a pretty wretched experience. However, we are gracious people and thus must appreciate the positives as well.

First, the movie really is a pretty funky postcard about the city of Delhi. The above-mentioned first half, as trite and full of cliches as it might be, does a wonderful job of convincing Western tourists to book a flight to Delhi for their next vacation. There are scenes of random kite-flying (I wonder if they have Basant in Delhi?), people chilling out drying chillies on the rooftop, inner-city alleyways and meandering roads, and all the necessary exotic shindig. Yes, now that Mumbai should have tourists back due to Slumdog, Delhi needed a boost as well. Hear that, Lashkar-e-Toiba? You. Have. Failed. (It appears Pakistanis cannot even pull off grand terror attacks efficiently. We have a lot to learn from our Arab (or Zionist, if you choose to believe so) masters and 9/11!) LeT, you probably need to revisit the drawing board back at Muridke.

Second, Sonam Kapoor. That woman is breathtaking. And the best thing, she has that classic eastern beauty thing going for her. Such women are rare who look better in a loose-fitting shalwar kameez than belly piercing-exposing flimsy hippie attire. She is one of them. Whether or not she can act, I am now going to be watching every film of hers with the same gusto I usually reserve for the likes of Kareena Kapoor.

Third, Atul Kulkarni playing the village idiot Gobar. I have been a fan of Atul Kulkarni ever since a scene in the aforementioned Rang De Basanti where he recites magically that inspirational little mindfuck of a poem called 'sarfaroshi ki tamanna.' In this movie, his character is endearing and fun. His cute love story with an untouchable sweeper, as a perceptive fellow moviegoer observed, also has more chemistry than the two leads'. Also, the policeman is a complete treat to watch!

Fourth, well...that's pretty much it as far as the positives are concerned.

So that's the movie in a nutshell. Watch the first one hour and then go do some shopping at Target.

On a parting note, something about the act of random losahs like myself indulging in armchair movie reviewing such as this: I do think it is highly pretentious of us lot to pretend to be pseudo-movie critics and try to sound all informative and insightful. We are indeed quite full of ourselves, expecting someone will actually pay heed to our opinions. But then again, I always did despise film critics for their know-it-all high horse-ry, so if my little act of taking over their jobs leads them to unemployment and thus starvation (or, even better, mutual cannibalism) then let the reviews flow. I should in fact do an Oscars recap (And, ooh goody, possibly deflate Slumdog a little bit! No, I just kid. Everyone likes Slumdog. You have to be a cold-hearted cynical bitch not to do so. Ahmad Abdul-Karim, you are a cold-hearted cynical bitch.)

An ode to dishwashing

2009-01-14T12:55:00.005-05:00

So there I was this morning enjoying a delicious cheese omelette and a not-so-delicious cup of chai (which tasted like turnips - yes, really, turnips! Long story.) that I realized where all the resources of time, energy and money that are currently being spent on my higher education are being utilized: dishwashing.

It hit me this morning that ever since I came here a few months ago, I have spent more time washing dishes than doing the usual masters student stuff - researching for papers, writing papers, editing papers, making papers look pretty, and eventually whining about getting poor grades on papers. (Okay, well, the whining bit is still going strong. I never was good with writing papers, really. I have always preferred final examinations which require less preparation and are over in a couple of hours rather than lingering on for days and days and making your life a living hell. Fuck that they give more creative space – I’d rather follow the Joe Bloggs approach, guess and tick off a multiple choice any day.)

Anyway. Dishwashing is the topic of the day. So why have I been spending so many hours standing in my kitchen washing dishes while listening to new Bollywood songs when I should be out and about networking with Hahvahd-types and boosting my future (as yet unknown) career? Two reasons mainly: one, my flatmate is an oaf. Now he’s a swell guy and everything (and I shall forever love him for getting me hooked to Battlestar Galactica), but he is averse to cleaning up after himself. Example: while today he was boarding a flight to San Francisco for his fun winter trip, I was busy getting rid of his freshly-trimmed moustache hair from the bathroom sink. But it’s all good – we seem to have come to a mutually agreeable arrangement. He cooks, I clean. And he cooks a lot. Which is great. Greater still, he cooks desi food and adds tons of spices. You know, daal chawal, chicken karahi, biryani and shit. It is a much welcome change from this fracking bland crap known as American cuisine.

So yea, he cooks, I clean. Mostly. That was reason number one. Reason number two: my obsessive-compulsive anal-retentive nature cannot stand unorganized, messy shit lying around the house. Cleaning dishes is thus a compulsive necessity. So is wiping the stove clean. And scrubbing the toilet with my bare hands (eww, I know). And other necessary but not-so-fun-to-do stuff. I have to do it. Can’t help it. So every morning I wake up and while going to the loo notice dirty dishes from the previous day. Even before I have washed up for the morning, I roll up my sleeves and begin work on them. I often get a few minutes late to class because I spend too much time every morning washing dishes. And the process repeats itself ad nauseum.

Considering all of the above, it should come as no surprise that I have gained significant expertise in washing dishes, and even enjoy the mechanical task. It is especially easy and enjoyable if you ritualize it, like I have. This comes from my one-year stay in Karachi before coming here, when I was working for AIESEC. In fact, one of the most tangible, less fluffy skills I developed during that time was dishwashing. (Note to any future applicants: haha, and here you were thinking you’d be learning about team management and cultural diversity! Okay no, you learn that too actually.) On my very first day in Karachi, a dear friend taught me a most efficient method of washing dishes, something I still admire and utilize and will probably continue to do so until I wash my last dish.

It goes as follows, and involves three steps: step 1, you rinse everything. Step 2, you close the water tap, and apply detergent to everything. Most people frequently miss the crucial closing-the-water-tap bit, which wastes so much water. Yes, new flatmate and old roomie, I am looking at both of you! Step 3, rinse the detergent off everything. Result: sparkling clean and wonderful smelling dishes. Why is this process efficient you might ask? Two reasons: first, it is akin to an assembly line. Rather than doing the three steps for one dish and then moving on to the next one (and thus requiring constant shifting between water and detergent and sponge etcetera), you finish one step for all dishes before moving on to the next one. The usual labor productivity numbers and graphs apply. Second, it saves water and thus is good for planet Earth. Can I hear a “yay” for planet earth, peeps?

Right. So now you know the secret process for effective dishwashing. Let’s move it up a notch and introduce you to some more advanced material: the unbreakable rules of dishwashing. Rule number one: when you are using that two-sided, two-colored sponge thingy (the yellow and green ones made by Scotch Brite and pretty much everyone else, and really the only sponges worth using for dishwashing), you must use the smoother, yellow side for cutlery, glasses, bowls and plates (and other items used for eating food), while the rougher, scourer-like green side must always be reserved for pots and pans. Never clean pots and pans with the yellow side. The cutlery will be offended. Respect them, they have feelings. There is a simple logic to this rule yaar – the pots and pans are ‘dirtier’ and thus deserve special treatment. Give them that treatment, make them feel special.

Rule number two: always apply detergent to drinking cups first, followed by cutlery, followed by everything. Exactly and always in that order. You do not want the taste of pasta or chicken teriyaki on your water glass or, worse, chai ka mugga, right?

Rule number three: always listen to uplifting music when washing dishes. This does not have to be a tedious, boring task. On the contrary, dishwashing can be made into a fun activity. Or, if you really value your time, listen to the news while doing so. You know, streaming channels and internet radio and shit, for people like me with no television.

Err, that’s pretty much it for ritualized dish washing. Play around and experiment, and let me know if you come up with something interesting and revolutionary. Oh! I just remembered! There’s also something called a dishwasher! Now I personally have a love-hate relationship with it. Before coming to America, I had never really seen a working dishwasher. It was just one of those mythical things I heard about or saw on TV. And when I came here, I realized there is one in my apartment. So naturally I gave it a shot. First, it took me about three hours and five readings of the manual to figure out how it works. Once past that initial nervous stage, I realized that it’s quite useful, especially when you host large dinners and are too lazy to wash a thousand plates. Well, personally I’ve never, ever hosted large dinners (or small ones for that matter) but for some odd reason my flatmate loves hosting them, and then cooks for the entire bunch, and then naturally requests me to clean the dishes, and I can’t say no because it is only fair that the cooker and the cleaner be two different entities to ensure more equity and better accountability. So that’s when I use the dishwasher. But, it has one crucial weakness: it is an energy-and-water-guzzling behemoth. For a two-person household like mine, it is almost always more efficient and environmentally friendly to simply do the dirty work by hand (and, as mentioned above, to get through it by making it a fun and lively exercise!). For a closet environmentalist like myself, this is an important benefit and worth the time spent in front of the kitchen sink at the expense of time for researching papers.

Yes, for those of you interested enough, I am a wonderfully idealistic environmentalist by heart. This is solely and purely due to my childhood affection for Captain Planet and the Planeteers, pretty much the best cartoon show ever. What a gloriously effective tool for teaching kids about the environment, much more so than listening to that fat old bastard Al Gore mumble on and then win a statue for his mumbling buffoonery. On a different note, I was such a big Captain Planet fan that when I was living as a child in Rawalpindi I was once bullied by some older boys out of the playground and I proceeded to do the only thing that made sense at the time: wear my Captain Planet mask (yes, I had a Captain Planet mask. It was cut out from a big Captain Planet book purchased from Jinnah Super. Cute, no?) and go around the residential colony picking up trash. I had a funny childhood. Hehe.

Celebrating a movie that is totally mundane

2008-12-21T15:32:00.003-05:00

So last night, with a relentless barrage of snow outside, I stayed up till very late watching a movie that was special in all ways. It was a freshly-released, little-heard-of Bollywood film by the name of Dasvidaniya, a title that is vague and exotic-sounding, but not in the most pleasant, intellectual manner.

The movie stars good but less popular actors like Vinay Pathak and Rajat Kapoor, who have consistently appeared in well-made, funny movies, like Bheja Fry last year. So after I had finished the illegal download, I pressed play expecting some nice, smart jokes and what is pretentiously referred to as 'clean humor.'

Surprisingly, the movie turned out quite differently. It was an emotional, moving tale about a totally mundane dude living a totally mundane life who negotiates through a difficult episode in his life with such endearing mundaneness that it made me root for him all throughout.

Our 'hero' is a 37-year-old guy, single, stuck in a mindless job with a horrible boss and silly coworkers, even more average-looking than yours truly, not having ever done anything fun in life (smoking, drinking, chicks, gambling etcetera etcetera; when someone asks him if he's ever paid money for a prostitute, he innocently mentions that he once saw a porno aged fourteen) with a mother addicted to television serials and an estranged film director brother. The highlight of his day, in fact, is to make a fresh to-do list every morning. This list includes further mundane things like shouting at the laundry guy, fixing the tv remote, getting batteries for mom's hearing aid, etc. And as someone who's been making such lists for the past many months, I can tell you with great confidence that these damn things come to dominate your life totally and completely.

And so, this is our 'hero' - ruled by his mundane to-do lists for the day. Until he finds out that he has stomach cancer and, because of a late diagnosis, only three more months to live. And then it hits him: his whole life has been an absolute useless waste. Realizing he hasn't 'lived' (and spurred on by a guy he meets in a bar while drinking for the first time who tells him that with the kind of life he has lived he's better off dead in any case), he then proceeds to make the final to-do list of his life: "things to do before I die."

The rest of the movie then follows him as he tries to do each of those things, which range from the most basic (buying a new car, going on his first-ever foreign trip) to the most personal (making up with his brother). Throughout his journey, he suffers one setback after another, realizing that it is going be harder than he thought to give his life meaning before his time runs out. Through sheer persistence and at times dumb luck, though, he is, one by one, able to check the items off on his seminal to-do list.

The movie is filled with touching scenes. The most impactful one is when, on his foreign trip and realizing how this new list is a complete waste of time and his life is useless and not worth living, he breaks down for the first time since his diagnosis, crying his heart out sitting alone in a foreign land. Even a selfish, inconsiderate buffoon like myself had a small tear or two in his eyes, as our 'hero' bawls away. In another one, when he has finally accomplished his childhood dream of learning to play the guitar, his tutor notices him sad and asks "any problem in life?" he responds with a smile and says "sir, life has become my problem."

This movie is no Slumdog Millionaire. There is no glamorized concept, a funky hotshot Hollywood director discovering a touching fantasy in one the largest slums in the world, and no Oscar buzz either. This is also not a Rab Ne Bana De Jodi, fuelled by star power, where a geeky Shahrukh Khan transforms into a sexy dancing stud (although the film has by far the most catchy Bollywood music in recent times). Nor is this a Warner Brothers-funded Chandni Chowk to China, with Akshay Kumar becoming an ancient Chinese emperor from a random cook. Instead, this is the most simple, under-the-radar film that promises to endear itself to you.

Two hours well-spent, people. This movie has put me in a happy mood. And very few things do that. :) Go download it off torrents right now.

For my countrymen, wherever they are

2008-10-19T12:12:00.003-04:00

So I originally wrote this article for an electronic magazine called The Green Kaleidoscope that an acquaintance or two have started. The website's cool and can be checked out here. Anyway, the article below is for the October 2008 issue, and can be found on their website. I just wanted to post it here so that it can be used as Sohaib-bashing fodder by a larger audience.

For over sixty years, scholars and ordinary people have talked about the Pakistani identity – or, more critically, our failure to establish one. No one knows what it means to be a Pakistani, and we frequently are accused, mostly by our own, of having an identity crisis.

So what exactly does it mean to call Pakistan your homeland? Is our identity a sum total of a collection of disparate elements representing our history, shared values, norms and other such items normally comprising any comparable nation’s cultural distinctiveness?

Is being Pakistani equivalent to appreciating, or acknowledging, such typically pervasive Pakistani things like biryani, chai, 14th August, Imran Khan, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the Ghori missile and Mobilink Jazz? Is the answer to the question “So what’s the best thing about Pakistan?” always supposed to be an unequivocal “It has great food!”?

I disagree.

In my opinion, being a Pakistani does not mean anything. In the grand scheme of things, we have no place, no maqaam. When the green and white flutters in the wind it does not symbolize anything. Our cultural heritage is a hodgepodge of Arabian, Persian and Indian influences mixed together with the unique and divergent traditions of our various ethnic communities. We are, as they say, a country without a nation: disunited and fragile. And quite frankly, I like it this way.
I like it this way because it gives us a chance to create a new identity, one that we own; one that does not rely on famous individuals or historical instances or culinary delights; one that does not draw inspiration from the past but is a sign of what is ahead; one that provides hope and optimism, presently our scarcest resources; one that allows you and me to play a role that will have a decisive impact on how our country progresses.

Our country was meant to be a secular democracy with equal rights, they say. Our founder and leader intended it to be so. No, our country was made in the name of our religion, say the others, meant to provide a safe haven for our ancient and grand religious traditions and represent everything that is true and pure about them. I say they, and the others, are being irrelevant. They are being redundant, not because it is unimportant to define the true nature of a country’s political outlook, but because this argument can only have one logical conclusion if continued in its present form: the elimination of one line of thought as the price of the ascendancy of the other. Being inconsistent with each other, these separate arguments, and their proponents, cannot co-exist if they continue along the same path. For the sake of the country and its strength, thus, we must consider its political outlook irrelevant.

This is important because both arguments (as well as their proponents) are right. “Pakistan is not to be a secular country based on ideals of Western democracy” says the Pakhtun picking up a gun. “It was founded in the name of Islam and we shall make that dream come true. That is the only solution to our problems.” “You are uninformed and uncultured,” replies the arm-chair historian. “The Quaid meant for Pakistan to be for the Muslims, not for a religion.” What makes the arm-chair historian more right than the armed Pakhtun? Nothing. History has become irrelevant. Regardless of what was meant to be sixty years ago, we are here and we are now: we are both secular and Islamic. Adopting one wholly cannot be accomplished without the destruction of the other.

This is why we need to learn to co-exist. To accept the historian and the militant as our own. They are both as much Pakistanis as you and me. They both have a stake in the country. They both want their homeland to prosper and flourish and be a haven for their children to grow up well in. They just want to do it in different ways. We can either accept one and make the other a pariah, or we can accommodate both.

This lesson of co-existence does not end between the secular and the religious. It applies equally to you, who is a Shia, and me, a Sunni. It applies to Punjabi bureaucrats and Mohajir merchants; to Baloch nomads and Sindhi farmers. It applies to you and to me. It makes us one, whole, unified. It makes Pakistan stable and, hopefully, prosperous.

So let us forget questions of history and of what was to be and could not be had, and of opportunities lost and mistakes made. Let us not question the decision to carve out a new country from an ancient kingdom, or to allow millions to leave their native lands in search of an empty promise. Let us not censure past leaders for their transgressions as that is nothing but spilt milk and cannot be undone.

Let us instead build hope.

Let us not belabor about losing half of what we had and blaming others for it, but instead ensure that we lose no more.

Let us not blame our fellow countrymen for ruining our country if we do not step up ourselves. Let us not run away. Let us stay and fight. This is our chance to make our mark: to say to our children “I made this a better place so you can go outside and play without worry.” Let us, to paraphrase Gandhi, be the change we want to see.

Let us make this our identity: a country full of hope and optimism for the future, confident of the enterprise of its young, cognizant of the mistakes of its elders and the lessons learned from them, proud of its diversity and, finally, on the road to justice and prosperity, one small step at a time.

Together, let us build a new Pakistan.

A most fascinating Pakistani woman

2008-09-11T18:06:00.002-04:00

A week or so ago I decide to tour the city of Cambridge and visit a mall for some shopping. As a proud indicator of my nationality (and to announce it to the world), I decide to wear my Experience Pakistan t-shirt. For those who have not seen it, it's dark green in color with a crescent and star on the front and the words "Experience Pakistan" on the back. Turns the wearer into kind of like a walking talking flag.

On my way back, while at the bus stop, I notice a lady wearing a headscarf carrying a million bags of groceries. Thinking she is Arab, and keeping in mind by general dislike for Arabs (as a retaliation to their normally held view that the Islamic world consists just of them and not of anyone outside the Middle East. (Hehehe.)), I decide to ignore her and not be a gentleman and help her with the grocery bags which she was quite obviously struggling with.

As I am boarding the bus, she turns to me and says (in perfect Urdu): "where in Pakistan are you from?"

Me (thinking): oh, that's a pleasant surprise. She's Pakistani.

So I tell her and we board the bus. And then we start chatting. And that's when the fun begins!. Within five minutes, she informs me of her entire life story. She chats without break and does not ask me a single question about my life. So I now know she's born here and is an only child and has lived here all her life but went to the homeland for medicine and is now back working as a doctor and does not normally make friends with girls because Pakistani girls are the jealous type and always work to demean her and the desi girls she has met here are very hypocritical and of weak moral standing and always bring boys home and she does not want that kind of people as roommates which is why she rejected their roomie requests and always befriends boys as they are more genuine and less conniving and even at the hospital she only has one female friend who is also a Muslim and in fact an Arab and since she can speak Arabic fluently they enjoy conversing in that language and...and...and...

Yea, so there was no full stop in that sentence. Because there was none in her monologue.

Me: so if you are an only child, where do your parents live?

Her: oh, they live in Saudi Arabia. Oh shit, I shouldn't have said that aloud. Now everyone in the bus will hate me. Anyway it doesn't matter. I am fasting today by the way. Even though Ramzaan is starting tomorrow, my parents follow Saudi Arabia and I don't know why even though most of the people there are idiots but still I thought what the hell so I'll fast today and that's why I went grocery shopping to buy lots of stuff for sehri tomorrow and I also bought ice cream but I've been waiting for the bus for half an hour so that's probably melted now. Hey, you want ice cream?

Me: Heh, no thanks, I'm good.

Her: oh, why don't you come to my house right now. I'll also show you where the mosque is.

Me (thinking, and quite clearly taken aback): right, so let's analyze what's just happened here. This is the very first time in my twenty-four years of existence that a girl has invited me into her house like this. This is definitely a moment to relish. But, wait a second, what did she just say about a mosque?

Her: Oh, so here's our bus stop. Come, let's get off!

I reluctantly agree. This time I decide to help her carry her bags. She lives in an interestingly quaint little house typical of this city, and takes me inside. It's empty. She just moved in yesterday and is sleeping on the floor, a fate that, interestingly is to soon befall me in the coming days as well.

Her: Have water. It's really hot outside.

She hands me a glass. I start drinking.

Her: Oye, what are you doing? Don't drink water standing up. Shaitaan does that!

So naturally I plop myself on the wooden floor and gulp away.

Her (fondling with the ice cream box): Okay, so this ice cream has clearly melted. Which means you probably don't want it.

She then proceeds to lick the ice cream box to enjoy the melted goo. Yes, lick. And then...

Her: Oh shit, shit, shit! I was fasting! Shit, shit, shit!

Me: Oh, yea. Hehe. It's okay, it's a mistake. Doesn't count.

Her: No, no, no! Excuse me.

She then proceeds to the bathroom, puts her finger down her throat, and throws up the entire contents of her stomach, including, I presume, the freshly-licked ice cream.

Me (thinking): wow, I thought only drunk people did that to get the alcohol out and sober up as quickly as possible. (Actually, there is a similar story where I was eating haleem at a restaurant after consuming some....acha, more on that some other time)

Her: okay, now that that's out of the way, have some chocolate cake. And please keep it away from me.

And so now I have chocolate cake. It's actually quite tasty. :)

Her: great, now let's go to the mosque and I'll introduce you to everyone!

Me (thinking): introduce me to "everyone"? Who is "everyone"? Abu Musab Al Zarqawi? Baitullah Mehsud? Wait, is she Dr Aafia Siddiqui Part 2, looking to recruit? Sohaib, beta, run for your miserable little infidel life.

"Actually, I better be going. I have to get to my Kennedy School orientation as well, and they are expecting me."

Her: Eh, what's Kennedy School? Acha, doesn't matter. I'll just show you the mosque from outside so you know where it is and you can proceed onwards.

Me: That sounds reasonable.

With that, we exit our house. A bus is just leaving the nearest stop. It's the same one that apparently goes to the mosque and in the general direction of Harvard.

Her: shit, that's our bus! Run!

And she starts running. With headscarf flying in the air. Naturally, I follow. We manage to get the bus.

Her: hehe, that happens every day with me! Anyway, so I get off at the next stop. That's where the mosque is. You proceed to Harvard. I'll hopefully see you some other day. You know where I live, do drop by!

And hence ends my most interesting one hour so far in the new country.

Interesting observations in new lands

2008-09-07T19:18:00.016-04:00

It has been about two weeks since I left home and arrived in the US, and almost every day I have noticed something intriguing, fascinating or weird. Proponents of culture shock have devised entire theories on how people react to such new experiences, and I must say they are probably right.

They are also right when they say that it is those little things that affect newies the most, and often cause the most excitement or frustrating. Since my experience attests to that, I wanted to share some of those little things that have dotted my journey so far:

Some context here: I have extremely limited travel experience and exposure. My only international visits in the past eighteen years have been to India (which doesn't really count as it's so damn similar and was on a bus/train/on foot) and Turkey (where I stayed for a week or so with friends).

My flight was routed through Abu Dhabi and Heathrow airport (London). Naturally, this was my first time at these locations.

People had told me that Abu Dhabi airport sucks. They were right. It's apparently shaped like a football/alien ship and its roof is painted dark blue and yellow in hexagon patterns. Utterly scandalous stuff.

Heathrow, on the other hand, is a different story. The airport is huge (probably the size of a small city), superbly well organized and very classy.

There were more desis in Heathrow than goras. That was quite surprising, and was my first taste of the supposedly massive (ala Goodness Gracious Me) South Asian community in the UK. I saw more sikh turbans and brown skins than yellow, white and black ones combined.

I also found out that 'innit' is actually a word that they use, and not just something I've heard on TV. It was almost surreal having a conversation with an airport worker who kept on using innit. "Innit, mate, innit." It is possibly the funniest word I have ever come across in English. Innit?

MIAMI

I first went to Miami for four days for my Fulbright orientation. So, yea, the first thing I saw of the United States was Miami. Quite unusual for a Pakistani.

Immigration took me four hours. Mostly because I am Pakistani and they probably do not get very many of us in Miami. There were tons of people ahead of me, which took longer. Students from Europe who'd shown up without visas, exiles from Latin America, etc etc. All kinds, really. Sitting there observing the flow was quite fun, actually. One security guy asked the officer if a certain individual required "hard or soft" treatment. Hehe. I wonder what that meant.

Miami is a beautiful, sunny city. Full of beaches, ocean views, palm trees and hot chicks. A bit like what DHA in Karachi is tying to be. (Although I hear they model themselves after Dubai. So I guess that means Dubai is trying to be Miami. Not that I've ever been to Dubai.)

There is a place in Miami called Star Island. It's a small little, well, island (duh) with houses of rich and famous people. So I saw where Elizebeth Taylor got fucked for one of her honeymoons, where Julio Iglesias lives (and probably ogles at Anna K while his son is fucking her), where Madonna once lived, etc etc. You cannot set foot on the island unless you live there or have been specifically invited. (Kind of like an Army mess in Pakistan.)

All chicks in Miami are hot. All of them. So, naturally, I had no chance.

There are beggars in the USA too. Man, was that a shock! So here I am walking back to my hotel at midnight and a guy walks up to me and goes "spare some change, son, so I can eat food." Another guy offered to bet a sandwich that he'll guess my last name. I so wanted to take him on that offer: try guessing Athar, you fuck! But I didn't. He looked scary, that's why. And everyone knows I'm chicken.

One of the things I did on my first night in Miami was visit Hooters. Apparently it's a quintessential American thing to do, and necessary for immersing yourself in local culture. Hooters is a restaurant where the waiters are women with large breasts and little clothes. One of the Turkish dudes with me was quite amazed and wanted to go there every night. I, on the other hand, being more of a leg person, found the place to be strictly average. But, yea, the ladies were quite nice. So, son, when you come to America, visit Hooters.

BOSTON / HARVARD

Eventually, I arrived at Boston and Harvard after a few days in Miami. My only knowledge of Boston is from a TV show called Ally McBeal. I used to watch it for the cute babes and the sharp wit. Some people now watch Boston Legal and it's apparently a really funny/sharp/hit show, but I've barely seen an episode or two and find the two main characters highly pretentious and obnoxious. But enough about TV shows.

The first person I met in Boston was a Muslim. Imagine the odds. He was the taxi driver from Somalia. He could barely speak English, so I decided not to ask him about Halal places in Boston. Not that I care, really. :)

Harvard University is quite beautiful. Most of the buildings are old, stately and imposing. They are also without exception red. So walking around is quite fun as one always comes across something new and ancient. The campus, however, is integrated into the city of Cambridge (across the river from Boston, and no relation to the university of the same name). I don't like that. I am a fan of quaint university campuses with miles of open land, something like Aitchison College. So this urban setting is not something I am enjoying. It makes one less of a student and more of a resident of an area. I prefer the relaxation of the former.

On that note, I hate walking. You have to walk everywhere here. And ugh, my legs are not made for life without private transportation. Usually they are shaking every step I take, cursing me for not quitting smoking when I had the chance and sitting on my bum all my life not playing any sports besides the occasional cricket and football a few years ago (and achieving nothing but embarrassment in either).

The mobile phone system in the United System is ridiculously fucked up. I fail to understand how a country supposedly resting on the pillars of consumer choice and the free market can have such a complicated, user-unfriendly and exploitative cell phone system. In fact, the thing I miss most from Pakistan is my trusty old Warid connection, with its simple and convenient post-paid structure and wonderful network. (The other thing I miss is biryani. I don't know why. I don't even like biryani that much.)

Harvard is full of Pakistanis and desis. Especially my school. Out of a student body of approximately 900 students, about 25 are of Pakistani origin and 75-ish Indian. That's 100 students, making a percentage of 11%. Shit son, that's a lot! Now I don't know about India, but clearly some Fulbright magic is working here at Harvard. I wonder what connections they have with the university that so many of us get admitted every year. (Out of the 25 Pakistanis at my school, about 20 are on Fulbright). Naturally, my admission was probably the result of some quota arrangement as well. And here I was thinking I got in based on pure talent and achievement. Sigh.

Finally, the most important point: before coming here I was petrified of the possibility of having to use toilet paper - that uncivilized symbol of poor bum-hygiene. Being so used to water (and finding the muslim shower to be an invention at par with the wheel in convenience), I was quite nervous of the possibility of having to use astonishingly thin paper to clean heaps of shit. And as God would have it, the moment of reckoning came on my very first day: I ended up shitting and using toilet paper within my first few hours in the country. Interestingly, western barbarity defeated eastern civility: I had no reasonable amount of discomfort in using paper, and, contrary to my expectations, did not feel icky or dirty or eww-y or crass afterwards. Even more interestingly, the two people I thought of as I wiped my ass were foreign men who I had converted to the use of the muslim shower as an essential item of bum-cleaning: Michael Kamau and Andrew Webster.

So, Michael and Andrew, is it not ironic that last year you became comfortable with water after much persuasion from my side on our Zamzama rooftop, and now, in a twist of fate, I embrace the paper? Oh how times change!

Kashmir: why the fuck do we still give a fuck?

2008-08-23T15:38:00.004-04:00

So after many months, I could not resist writing about my favourite topic: politics. And the issue I have chosen is of fundamental importance to the past, present and future well-being of more than a billion people spread across thousands of acres of land in two nations.

As every Pakistani would know, the Kashmir cause is the be all and end all of foreign policy debate in Pakistan: fundamentally more important than any silly super-power led terror (and terrible) wars on warrior tribes; more worthy of passion than any illegal occupations of ancient, collapsing mosque-structures and a totally loser bunch of people (yes, Palestinians, I refer to thee, le idiots!); and more inextricably linked to our history, shared culture, boyhood slogans, oratory arousals for maulvis than Madan Noor Jehan.

As every Pakistan would know, we have grown up with chants and dreams about Kashmir. Allow me to reproduce a few:

1. Kashmir is the jugular vein of Pakistan
2. Kashmir, Kashmir, only Kashmir
3. blah-blah-kashmir-blah-blah

and, my personal favourite:

4. Kashmir ki azadi tak udhar bandh hai
(No credit till the freedom of Kashmir)
(On a sign at the photocopy shop of my school)

As every Pakistani would know, many a household has lost a valiant son who went awry and decided to become a jehadi and get recruited and cross the line of control and run off to Indian-held Kashmir and then get deservedly blown-up by an Indian rocket. Hell, my good friend ran off to a training camp last year to 'rescue' his younger brother!

And yet, despite all of the above, here I am asking an extremely pertinent question: why the fuck do we still give a fuck?

Kashmir is a lost cause. L.O.S.T. Deal with it, bury your patriotism, move on, save your sons. Oh, and do restore the judges while you're at it.

Allow me to explain why:

Reason # 1: bad start, bad luck, bad planning, bad move boys!

So the idea was right: since the Maharajah has fucked you over and handed a Muslim-majority state bordering Pakistan to India, you enlist a warrior tribe and stage an invasion to claim what is rightfully yours. Afterall, your neighbors did the same with Hyderabad Deccan. Sadly, our leadership did not realize the one major flaw with this plan: trusting Pathans.

Now I have nothing against our Pathan brethren (actually I do plenty, but more on that later), but this was just too much. A whole band of Pathan tribesmen start a holy jehad for a noble cause by leaving their homeland and march across the land and enter Kashmir to claim it for Pakistan. So far, so good. Then what happens? Well, they start looting. They actually start stealing from empty and abandoned shops. They do that all night. To fill their pockets. And turbans. And probably shalwars too. And by next morning, Indian forces have landed at Srinagar airport. And what was supposed to be a silent, sneaky invasion turns into a full-fletched war. And we end up with a silly little piece of Kashmir that we pompously name Azad while the real meat is left on the proverbial camel's body. All because of those greedy little pigs.

When reckless adventurism gets off to such a bad start, you should know that this is not your game. But we attack again in 1965. And achieve nothing. And then we do Kargil. And the magnitude of hilarity in that venture can be judged from the fact that there's even a Hrithik Roshan-Preity Zinta movie about it. Hah!

Reason # 2: sheer and utter lack of progess

For the past 61 years, we have not moved an inch closer to 'solving' the Kashmir dispute. Not a single fucking inch. The territory is now divided between India and Pakistan, with both claiming ownership over the entire, undivided land. The Pakistani tract is a meaningless square patch with its only use being good scenery for the latest Mobilink ads and the sappy I-love-Pakistan-and-its-dinosaur-classical-singers videos they release every year on Independence Day. The Indian part, apparently more beautiful and with more touristy value, currently has our boys kicking some serious butt, which they've been doing quite consistently and commendably since 1989 apparently (so informs Angaar Wadi, the PTV play to end all PTV plays). And by "our boys" I actually meant Kashmiri insurgents, using the general, widely accepted notion that we Pakistani are responsible for every bit of nuisance that takes place in that part. Err, yea, sure, like we don't have enough problems of our own. Like that smiling little chameleon becoming the next president.

Thus, there is a deadlock right now. As it has remained for the past many decades. And so it shall remain for the future many decades unless something drastic happens. Which brings me to...

Reason # 3: only wars break deadlocks

We like to think that since owning Kashmir is our birthright as the Islamic republic, we need to simply walk over to Srinagar, plant our flag and claim ownership.

Well, clearly, the Indians are not going to give Kashmir to anyone on a plate, with some firni thrown in. The only way the Kashmir dispute can be resolved decisively is if both countries fight it out and claim the entire land as their own. No divided, LoC, my-part-is-called-Azad-while-yours-is-called-Occupied-coz-you-are-an-evil-devilish-nation-you-cocksucker-lolzzzz! bullshit anymore.

And yea, our military is ready to fight this noble and holy war. Ready and willing. As soon as they free themselves from getting kidnapped and maimed by the TTP. Hmm, maybe they can actually outsource this war to the TTP. Now that's a good idea.

Oh wait, they already tried that once in Afghanistan. Ouch man.

In sum:

The Kashmir cause is teh dead-est of them all causes. Move on, save Pakistan from fiscal collapse, and build some damn fire-proof girl schools in Swat. Prioritize, bitch!

Harvard blues

2008-08-13T14:07:00.009-04:00

In exactly ten days' time I will be embarking on a life-altering journey, one that will take me thousands of miles away in pursuit of higher education. I will be going to the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University for a two-year Master degree in public policy, and that too on a full scholarship.

Since this appears quite fancy on paper (or on screen, to be correct), one would expect me to be extremely excited. And yet, I am not looking forward to going at all. I am, instead, feeling scared, nervous, edgy and dreading the last ten days which I count down in my head. Things are so bad, I regret waking up every morning because it brings me all that more close to my departure date.

So why am I feeling this way, when I should be looking forward to, what a friend says, is the land of free pussy. Well, I have short-listed the following reasons:

Unclear future and career shift

I don't know what I will do with this degree when return home. I have so little information about its future prospects that whenever someone asks me what I'll do when I come back after two years, I shrug and reply "Well, I don't know. Let's see. Any ideas?" I also can't seem to recall exactly why I applied for it. You see, I just filled out my scholarship application because everyone in my university was doing it, and for pretty much the same degree. So, I thought, why not. And I got the scholarship. And then I got into Harvard. Well, heh, didn't really expect that, you know. Since then I've been trying to convince myself this is the coolest thing that could happen, but it's not working that well.

It also doesn't help that it's a big career shift for me. I was always under the impression I will end up selling soaps at a multinational alongside some pretty chicks, or analyzing stocks like most of my other fellow university graduates are doing. They get great money and seem to have a lot of fun. And here I am, going to study public policy when I don't even know what it means!

This uncertainty is one of the major reasons for my nervousness. They say you should only go for a masters degree when you are fully ready, and if you know exactly how it will benefit you professionally. I am totally blank in that respect. I envy those who are sure and confident. You lucky bastards.

New housing

For my first week at Harvard, I will be without housing and will be staying with random people, sleeping on their couches or on the floor with my trusty sleeping bag. This is a bad, bad way to start a new life: being unsettled and not getting into a routine from the very start. This is not helping me mentally and causing much anxiety.

Soon, though, I will move into my own apartment. Now this particular lodging comes completely unfurnished. Which means the only place to sit in the damn thing is the toilet seat! So, all furniture has to be purchased/borrowed/stolen for my use. There are two problems with this:

One, I don't know jack about filling a house up with things of use, especially furniture. I think I should make a list or something. Hell, I probably need to search for decorative paintings as well to make the house look more livable and welcome.

Two, my apartment is on the 3rd floor with no elevator. I wonder how I will move everything from cupboards to mattresses to couches up three floors. I could barely carry my suitcase the same height in my Karachi apartment!

Away from home

I grew up in a completely sheltered and protected life, and am a complete failure when it comes to being independent and managing on my own. This will be the first time I will living on my own, alone. I spent a year living in Karachi recently, with tons of colleagues, which was of immense help. Otherwise I would've crying right now.

This is also the first time I will be going out of Pakistan for more than a 2-week vacation. I've never been outside Asia, and have thus rarely experienced how life in Western countries is like or what I am supposed to do.

Being away from family (a set of parents that do everything for me), friends (people who I have much in common with) and a someone who I will be unable to see for ages is not something I am looking forward to. Add to this my general incompetence in social situations, and inability to make new friends, and I predict a very quick attack of anxiety, homesickness and finally depression.

Scared of small things

A friend once said, "Sohaib is a genius at the most complicated of things, but completely inept at the most basic ones." Now I will not be pompous enough to assume he's correct about the genius bit, but concede that he's spot on about the latter part. I can barely accomplish basic tasks without either screwing up a few times, or repeatedly asking for assistance from sheepish onlookers.

This has done my anxiety no favors, and has completely mind-fucked me. To get a drift of things, just look at the questions and concerns circling in my head before departure:

How do I change planes after stopovers? How do I go from one terminal to the other? What if I fall asleep at the stopover? How do I check-in at counters?

How do I buy things online with credit cards? How do I use a credit card number? How the fuck do I even get a credit card? How do I settle credit card bills?

How do I ride a subway? Is it claustrophobic or suffocating underground? How do I pay for subways if they don't accept cash?

How do I download things in America? What if the FBI sues me for piracy? Why can I not download Angelina Jolie clips from torrent sites anymore? What the fuck?

So yea, you get the drift.

Scared of winter

I have never seen a live snowfall. I have only twice seen snow lying on the ground, which was in Murree both times and a few days old and thus slushy and icky both times. I do not know what waterproof boots are supposed to do or what they look like. Problem is, I'm going to Boston, and it's supposed to be fucking cold there, with regular snowstorms and winters lasting 4-5 months and temperatures going to -20 celcius.

What will I do? And to top that, unlike all Lahoris, I hate winters. Leaves me fucking shivering all the time. I am a summer man through and through. Sweat makes one feel like a man. Hehe.

In conclusion

So these are just some of the reasons I could figure out as being the cause of my anxiety and nervousness. Some of you might (rightfully) point out that I am acting like an ungrateful brat who's got a lucky break and an ideal scenario and is intent upon whining his ass off to get even more attention than he has already received and deserves. Well, that's definitely true to some extent. :)

But my concerns are genuine and real, peepz. So any help or assistance will be greatly appreciated. And no sissy pep-talk lines like "Oh don't worry, once you settle in it'll all be fine." Fuck you, it won't.

Public Buses

2008-05-31T02:17:00.003-04:00

For those of you who don't know, my job entails changing the world. One person at a time. Sadly that job's coming to an end. Which means, essentially, that I will stop changing the world at exactly midnight July 1, 2008. Instead, I will start preparing to expend another nation's taxpayers' money that I will be receiving by virtue of pure, dumb luck to visit a leading university to pursue a graduate degree that is quite useless so that I return to my country for many years to do a job that will benefit or cause the the well-being of no one, myself included. (Wow, that was a long sentence. Most people struggle with constructing long sentences. I don't. All because of some good, solid preparation back in the day for an SAT II Writing exam, one that wasn't even mine! Oh, that's dark on so many levels.)

For those of you who don't know, my world-changing job pays peanuts. That's okay - most world-changers were used to noble and glorious poverty. Abraham Lincoln grew up in a log cabin. Superman lived on a barn. Etcetera etcetera. Add to my peanuts-paying job the fact that I recently lost some money in poker (that's a sign of the beginning of my ultimate renunciation of faith and slide into the sexy world of sin.), this meant that some serious cost-saving measures needed to be implemented.

And that is exactly what I have been doing. Cost-saving. Which brings me to the real point behind this rant. Public buses. Too broke to travel on rickshaws (this is the first time economic conditions of the country hit a sheltered and protected soul like me - richskaw prices have increased by at least 50% due to stupid oil and gas things going on, which I don't even understand!), I thought I'd try out some public buses.

Now Karachi is very different from Lahore. It is not blessed with a nice and efficient bus service run by a private Korean firm that provides the luxury of airconditioning to people used to standing up in buses. No sirree, Karachi has those good, old-fashioned colorful, ramshackle buses that pseudo-intellectuals like gawk at and guffaw at the pop "art" inherently contained in them. Foreigners do the same, the gawking and guffawing I mean. At the trucks and buses.

Unfortunately, my experience on these works of art has been rather unpleasant. Once you get over being impressed by the sheer volume of color plastered over every square inch of the wretched machine, you realize that they're not all that:

Firstly, they're fucking suffocating. Now you would expect a vehicle with open windows and no AC to be a natural conduit for Karachi's cool sea breeze, but no. The smell of sweat, rust and god-knows-what, coupled with the cramped space within the bus, ensures that there is no regular breeze ruffling your hair (not that my hair are the kind that ruffle, but well).

Secondly, the buses never stop for you. They merely slow down. Which means you need to run and jump to get on and run and jump to get off. Normally that would be quite a fun exercise, but you're forgetting it's me. Me - the chicken-hearted scaredy-cat who doesn't even go to amusement parks because he's afraid of the rides. And heights. And fast cars. And lizards. And cockroaches. And eagles. And dogs. Etcetera etcetera. So getting on the bus, and getting off, is an activity of heart-stopping proportions for me. I also do not, as my gut and general demeanor should imply, posses any acrobatic or athletic skills to assist me in my bus-hopping, or at least make me look graceful while doing that. Instead, I'm a stumbling wreck jumping up and down with my big blue bag on my back.

(Oh, hehe, notice the four B's in the last six words of the last sentence. That's LOLZZZ for you!)

Thirdly, they are extremely uncomfortable. The buses look like they are thirty years old, which is probably because they are. The entire structure seems so ramshackle that it threatens to collapse on every large bump. Which means there is a lot of discomfort that your butt is subjected to during random braking, swerving, successfully avoiding potholes, unsuccessfully avoiding potholes, etcetera etcetera. In general, they are only marginally better comfort-wise than that wretched creation called a rickshaw (another one of those fancy little colorful contraptions that foreigners love to gawk and guffaw at but in reality is a monster of a creature that consumes any sort of comfort or good feeling you might want to have).

Thus, I hate public buses. You should to. The colorful paint and drawings are a facade that hide evil beneath. Kind of like the Nawaz Sharif-Asif Zardari coalition. Anyway, have a good day.

Emergency and me

2007-11-16T17:47:00.000-05:00

Right, so I haven't shared my thoughts with the world for many months now. It has not been because of any dry spell that befell my infinite wit or acerbic tongue, but simply because of a shift in priorities. See, I was too busy changing the world (ask me in private about that, if you want to) to care about writing on a random page on the world wide web about issues that matter to no one for an audience that numbers a total of seven people. But, as like some other people in my circle of associates, I have been awoken from my slumber (excuse the grandiosity) by, naturally, the single most disgusting act of injustice I have ever witnessed in my entire twenty-three years of dignified existence. Yep, that's right...the fuckin' Emergency, baby!

So there I was on the 3rd of November in a random resort far outside the city of Karachi minding my own merry business and enjoying an AIESEC conference that was going rather well when bang! comes the news that Captain Planet and the Planeteers have been sent packing from the Supreme Court and life is going to be one hell of a mess from this point onward. Now, while I can take such things in my stride, I had a wonderful troupe of foreigners with me who had come here through AIESEC and were living and working in our country. (For those of you who don't know, wherever you see something AIESEC, you will see some international people in all shapes and sizes not far behind...unless, of course, it is AIESEC Lahore, which happens to be just a bunch of testosterone-plus horny young men from LUMS! :p)

Naturally, some of my gora/kala mates begin freaking out. Calls start coming from home, and confusion reigns supreme. Add to that the fact that I'm personally not the best motivator around and generally tend to make people less at ease with my not-so-positive comments and am thus probably a nuisance to have hanging around in such times of crises, and you can pretty much imagine the stress levels shooting up.

Thankfully, the day and night pass off without incident, and our conference continues along its merry course. I, though, being the politically-inclined and extremely well-informed little bugger that I happen to be, realize that these are important times for our poor country and begin considering my options as a noble citizen. A quick call to a politically-active friend (future PM of this country he is, so he likes to claim) informs me that I am now liable to be arrested and held without charges for creating 'disturbances,' and that criticizing the Armed Forces can lead to a treason charge which obviously is one easy way to get yourself placed on a table and have your head chopped off with a sword. (At least that's how they do it in Saudi Arabia. We, thankfully, are more merciful).

"Oh fuck" was my natural reaction, in short. Personally, army-bashing has been a well-liked sport of mine for a few years (or ever since I grew up mentally, which sadly wasn't many years ago) and I was/am severely offended by the fact that my right to whine about and diss those in hideously-colored uniforms wearing a plethora of unnecessary badges and running the country into the ground and then dolloping truckloads of shit on it has been taking away by a single swipe. My objections are quite logical and easy to comprehend: if I do not indulge in this whining while sitting comfortably on my sofa or at a khokha smoking cheap Gold Leafs, then not only do I lose a valuable source of release and casual entertainment, but, more importantly, how the fuckety fuck am I exercise my right to free speech, enshrined as it is in the (ass-raped) Constitution of this country? Eh? I, sir, am not impressed at all!

Adding on to that, I am also not very pleased at this blatant assault on democratic practices. Save your PTV-rhetoric and your logic for doing so; I cannot be made a fool of this easily! I am a fucking Fulbright scholar, for God's sake yar! I am sick and tired of seeing these bozo-lotas parading around as elected representatives of my countrymen and competent administrators of this glorious nation. Give me a chance to vote, darn it, and I shall prove to you that I deserve and am fully capable of democracy.

I have, after all, inspiring leadership to choose from: on one side I have my lady friend who has milked both her father's name and this country's resources dry, while on the other I have my lion (nay, 'Sher' is more like it!) from Lahore who has made by far the most productive investment we've seen since the hydrogen bomb invention: the gleaming, shining motorway connecting his two houses. If bored by those, I will have to make the difficult choice between our most valuable export to London, the butcher Bhai from nine-zero and the "say-Allahu-akbar-and-then-blow-up-ten-children" maulana from Swat. I am spoiled for choice, if I do say so myself. Alas, just when I was flexing my muscles to exercise my democratic right as a civilized citizen and vote this crap into power, Mr President you betrayed me again. So close and yet so far. Such travesty must never befall a man else his heart breaks!

Well, at least someone's taking a stand. It's extremely, extremely heartening to see my alma mater, LUMS, taking off its sissy-Giordano-pants for a change and standing up for what's right. This is truly the beginning of something new and big, and when I run for public office many years down the road, I shall proudly lie to a gullible crowd that I was there at LUMS every day leading these protests shana-bashana with my other brave fellows, and was a harbinger of social change via the revival of political spirit amongst the youth!

I have only one request for my LUMS friends and colleagues: I am a lonely man in this lonely city by the sea, and miss LUMS poondi terribly. So can you, to comply with a feeble man's wishes, please stop blackening out women's faces in those wretched photographs you are uploading everywhere? It is honestly my only source of checking out some fresh maal and admiring what I left behind and sorely miss! Have pity, fellas!

Thanking you immensely in advance,
aap ka pyara bhai

Karachi, baby!

2007-06-12T14:00:00.000-04:00

So I've finally moved to Karachi and started my one-year term as blah-blah for AIESEC in Pakistan. I have a super-cool apartment in Zamzama, right above Gunsmoke (if you call sharing one with eight other people whose stuff is lying in suitcases all over the floor supercool). And for those of you who thought I was doing shitty, meaningless, from-home work, fuck you all: we have an office, and at a pretty neat location too! It's in the SIEMENS building somewhere in Saddar (it's actually right next to Zainab Market, from where my gora colleague has somehow managed to purchase the same tshirt twice!).

So, anyway, allow me to present an account of my time in this city so far:

The train was on time. Yep, fucking amazing. I am now in love with Karakoram Express. Karachi Express Night Coach can kiss my naala good-bye!

I made aloo bhujia on my first night. Unfortunately due to a slight miscalculation in the quantity of ingredients it turned out to be a bit more spicy and discolored than I hoped for (picture shows the horrid color), but was an overall worthy accomplishment all things said and done. My first hurdle in the way of becoming a master chef in the next one year has been crossed. Baby steps, I say.

The breeze simply doesn't stop! It's the coolest darned thing ever! Everywhere you go, you feel like there's a big pedestal fan following you! Utilizing this to my advantage, I have been sleeping on the roof of my apartment building ever since I arrived. Yep, charpai and all. You see, even though the breeze is cool and all, there is still the bloody humidity to contend with, which turns you into a cucumber in ten minutes. Add to that the fact that we sadly have not been blessed with airconditioning in our apartment (on a 10k salary, you can hardly afford such luxuries), and sleeping inside becomes difficult for a spoilt brat like me used to water coolers and Russian ACs and the like.

Water. It runs out. Often. We have 2 backup tanks, but still. My boss theorizes that the Gunsmoke people below are stealing t. What with their cowboy hats and mean playacting, they might just be crooked enough to do that. Bastards. In conclusion, most of the time there's no water. So the dishes lie unwashed, shit remains unflushed, and roomies continue to stink. I have discovered the magic of using buckets all over again. In your face, stupid running water!

The beach. So the other day an old friend invited us over for BBQ at a fancy beach hut far far away. In getting there I saw some interesting areas (read: low income neighborhoods that are a far-cry from the uptight snotty luxuries of Zamzama). The fun, though, only started when we got there. We indulged in the usual hanky panky that kids indulge in at such times, and a miserably failed attack on Emad and a small confrontation with Klepo later, I had tasted salt water and sand twice, was completely inundated, had almost been washed away by the powerful high-tide waves (random fat guy saved me - I don't know swimming :p), was covered head-to-toe in sand, and realized only later that I had forgotten to empty my pockets. The results were obviously not pretty: daddy's business cards, currency and my ATM shit in the wallet got damaged slightlycell phone got permanently screwed, and sand had reached every single angle and crevice of my pristine body (there was even sand on my testicles somehow!). Considering the above-mentioned events, I henceforth hate the beach.

Finally, I.I.Chundrigar Road was a massive disappointment. Fucked up, dirty, dug-up, messy, down-market, congested, you name it. Such high expectations, so badly let down. How can a self-respecting corporate whore work there is beyond me. Leaving that and heading to Pakistan Chowk (for some work-related stuff), I observed a view that was quite ironic: in the foreground, an expansive, congested street with overflowing sewage water; downtrodden and closely-built residential buildings; random MQM monuments, flags and markings along the whole route; rude and impatient shopkeepers; while the tall and handsome MCB Tower rising magnificently in the backdrop. Quite the contrast between the rich and gleaming and the poor and stinking. I wanted to whip out some cell-phone camera shit and take some pictures, but have been advised not to show such cool gadgetry in public :p

Plus I miss my mommy. But don't let her know :)

Leaving LUMS

2007-06-07T13:13:00.000-04:00

So on June 5th, 2007, I ended my association with LUMS by giving my last final exam. It was quite an interesting experience, as having spent four long (and sadly rather uninteresting) years at the place, I felt a great tinge of sadness at leaving it. This was quite surprising for a number of reasons: first, I am normally a tight-ass who considers showing emotions a weakness that only those unworthy souls display who are pansies (this is probably the reason why Bellatrix Lestrange is my favourite Harry Potter character - I wonder who'll play her in the movie. They said Elizabeth Hurley was supposed to, but that didn't work out. Cinema lost a few cool moments because of that, I can tell you!) and second, it was not as if my LUMS journey was a rollercoaster ride of memorable moments. On the contrary, most of my time was either spent in class, or bunking class to go to the nearby market for food, or, most of the time, sitting in one of the labs playing one obnoxiously addictive video game or another. And yet, everything felt extremely sad. The labs area smelt unnecessarily sweet, the scant plantation around campus appeared greener, the few chicks braving the blazing sun appeared chikni-er. Everything, thus, appeared rosier and nicer.

The last exam went really well. I had the choice of preparing for it really well, or indulging for one last time with my newly crowned favourite person in the world, who was most generously treating me to some extremely valuable liquid costing 3 fucking rupees per millilitre! Ably supported by him and two old buddies, I spent the night indulging in the most banal of conversations that normally accompany such occassions, and went to give the paper at an insanely early 8.30 am next morning with a strong headache and half-shut eyes. Thought I'd use the grand effect on my last ever activity at LUMS. Kher, the paper went fine, but when Aqeel called time (bastard was my TA), I continued to write one last line of my brilliantly crafted answer and he, in all his audacity, came and snatched the paper away from me! Saala! I could not believe my eyes as he walked off clutching my unfinished paper. Not a memory I wanted to take to the grave!

Of course, studying with the ACF group over three years was most fun. Some teachers were excellent, and taught a lot. The learning and self-discovery was good. Being involved with AIESEC was a fascinating experience, something which will continue for some time in the near future, no matter how much fun my friends make of that.

I now begin the next stage of my life, which involves me heading to Karachi for one full year to work full-time for AIESEC. It's scary, exciting and extremely challenging at the same time, and one of the things I am most looking forward to is how it will make me become truly independent and self-sufficient. Now, if only I was better at washing my own underwear and cooking aloo bhujia!

MTV Pakistan

2007-05-02T14:22:00.000-04:00

I’ve become such a bitter, jealous old hag, reduced to staying at home on weekends watching MTV Pakistan.

Ah, yes, MTV Pakistan, another welcome addition to an array of repetitive, mind-numbingly mundane, unproductive and hollow entertainment outlets for our overly-westernized, urbanized, elitist youth living in a self-contained bubble and spoiled by a steady diet of excessive carbohydrates and Friends. Criticism aside, the arrival of MTV is a welcome addition to the Pakistani landscape by all means. It creates jobs (where else will those video jockeys take their baggy pants and blow-dried hair), it stimulates the economy (the more Josh you play on MTV, the more their CDs will sell, hence making sure that those poor souls who live off piracy continue to feed their seven children with halal ki rozi), it boosts our exports (how else will Ali Zafar, our most exportable commodity – besides, of course, footballs stitched by the delicate fingers of a twelve-year-old Sialkoti - being all chikna and dashing, be able to lip-sync at the MTV Asia Awards with his gelled hair and white top) and it promotes the emancipation of women (after all, women are free in a society where they can take live calls on television from obsessive callers and not have bhaijaan beat them up). Plus, who cares about the one-dollar poverty line and most of the nation being below it when you can get a fancy billboard on Liberty Roundabout smack in the middle of Lahore announcing your arrival and preparation to conquer the market that has produced some of the greatest and most formulaic pop singers in all of Asia!

Yep, MTV Pakistan sure is a blessing. Now I have yet another channel catering to my boundless need to listen to quality Pakistani pop music twenty four-seven, and can view Ali Azmat’s latest video on five distinct channels, each with a funkier looking VJ giving valuable insights into its making. Spoiled for choice, I truly am. Next thing you know, we’ll have IMAX theatres being built in place of children’s playgrounds! Oops, now that’s an obscure reference if there ever was one!

Daily Times Sunday

2007-05-02T13:56:00.000-04:00

An acquaintance of mine who works in the Daily Times Sunday magazine asked me to write an article for the magazine. Realizing that it'll be my first ticket to fame and glory, I obviously complied, and resultantly came up with a masterpiece. Unfortunately, they refused to publish it, saying it was not in tune with their magazine. Well, since I've put in so much effort to rake my thoughts and type that bloody thing out once, why not use it somewhere? So, find below the article in its entirety. It is as random, self-obsessed, and pretentious as anything else on this pointless blog.

I have always been intrigued by the Sunday magazine that’s printed by Daily Times. When it started, I used to go to my maamu’s place every weekend specifically to read it. Since I’m not much of a family man, it came as quite a pleasant surprise to my mother that I had suddenly taken an interest in my uncle and his family, so much so that I engage with them in that ultimate family affair – the Sunday lunch. Sadly, though, those visits didn’t last long as I soon discovered the online edition of this magazine, which allowed me to sit on my lazy posterior on my hard and uncomfortable cane chair (with a weird O-shaped orange seat cushion on it, recommended to me by an incompetent doctor for my incessant tailbone pain) and simply download all the pictures from the website for future viewing.

Ah yes, the pictures. Like all hot-blooded, immature, freshly-out-of-their-teens boys, the only reason I used to regularly view the magazine was because of the fashion column and its nice, funky pictures of pretty models looking, well, very pretty. Actually, ignore the past tense in the previous sentence…it’s still the only reason. Being a massive fan of Pakistani models like Tooba Siddiqui has its disadvantages. There aren’t enough websites out there where pretty pictures of them are uploaded for the general entertainment of tharki men across the urban landscape of our pure country, which is why the Sunday magazine website is a rare treasure (and which is also why whenever there is a male model featured in the fashion segment people like me always, always, let out a disgruntled groan, simply heartbroken at the great travesty of having to wait another week for someone like Tooba to grace these pages. (Or Neha, as is now the trend.)

Of course, then there are those society pages, where pretty people pose wearing pretty dresses and holding prettier drinks. I normally browse through them in a bored manner, commenting on how it’s the same people week in and week out (so much so that I’ve even begun to memorize their names as a pastime - Aamir Mazhar, you are one busy social kitten, whoever the fuck you are!) and bemoaning how I, despite having a personality that oozes eloquence, pure charm and quick wit beyond measure, am never invited to these get-togethers at all, hence depriving me of my God-given right to enjoy a feeling of sheer liberation and abandon dancing the night away completely inebriated.

So there I was one fine day clicking away looking at those pictures and wallowing in my usual self-pity feeling discontent at not being invited to the big Halloween bash that I suddenly came across a picture with a lady in black. Whoa! Why is she familiar? Holy mother of all things good and pure, she’s in my university! And that too a sophomore. Now it’s not that I don’t expect freshmen girls from my university to be more socially acceptable than I am, or look exceedingly hot in a slinky black outfit. But it’s quite disconcerting when a person you watch on a daily basis in her pajama pants and sweats speaking in class in that horribly pretentious and accented angrezi that she has become notorious for suddenly appear in front of you, in the society page of a leading magazine, looking like a million dollars canoodling with charming and eloquent men and engaging in stimulating conversation (I’m sure) while you sit here sulking at how mommy doesn’t let you get out of the house after midnight.

1996 World Cup

2007-02-28T12:46:00.000-05:00

NOTHING OFFICIAL ABOUT IT

This time the World Cup came home. The final was to be held in my city, and what a cool stadium the guys had come up with (though to be honest anything would have been an improvement from its previous shape which I had confused with a jail cell as a kid numerous times. Don't ask.).

The round robins, or whatever they are called, were rather boring, and the usual useless teams were disposed off. I remember going to see Pak vs Holland at Gaddafi and enjoying Waqar making mince-meat out of the poor souls. Pakistan, naturally, qualified for the quarters, and we heard we're going to Bangalore to play India. Ooh, fun!

Obviously, the excitement was unparalleled. But Wasim bhai decided to back out at the last minute due to the 'injury' (yea, try convincing the guy who stoned your house :p). Oh well, the match began, and well enough, as Ata-ur-Rehman, of all unlikely fucktards, removed Tendulkar. In fact everything went pretty smoothly till Jadeja decided to go berserk on Waqar, and all the good work was ruined in 2 evil overs. And then we batted, and oh what a start. Saeed bhai and Aamir bondi at their sublime bests. And then, oh, what comedy. What sheer, utter comedy. As any self-respecting Pakistani cricket fan would like to forget, Aamir was made to look like a complete baffoon by Prasad, and the only fetching he did was of his bails rather than the ball from the fence. After that of course, it all went downhill, and we crashed out. Half the people blame Wasim bhai, the others blame Aamir. I blame Miandad for making a mockery of his career by still insisting on playing.

Of course, every Pakistani fell in love with a random island nation called Sri Lanka when it ended up beating India in the semi-final. Divine vengeance or something, we reckoned. And Indian fans burning their stadium in disgust, to boot. Yes, yes, we were having a field day here.

And then we welcomed the Sri Lankans to our home town for the final. Naturally, being India-beaters and challengers to the perennially-constipated-and-stuck-up Australians, they got our full support. I still can't believe I ended up going to the final. Being a social outcast, I never get passes to the cool events. (I guess it helps having resourceful uncles.) Oh, how magnificent the stadium looked, and how passionate the crowd was. It was a dream for me. Notwithstanding the fact that I had horrible seats and couldn't see half the pitch.

De Silva batted on and on, and we cheered. The crowd star ted commenting on how the Aussies are overloading on chewing-gums due to the tension. And when it was all over, everyone was happy that the underdog had slayed the constipated giant.

1992 World Cup

2007-02-28T12:02:00.000-05:00

WE RULE THE WORLD

The cricket world cup is fast approaching, and will naturally become the centre of my universe for the one month or so it continues (or at least till the day Pakistan is eliminated). So I thought why not build some anticipation by going down memory lane and remembering past world cups, or those that I had the opportunity of seeing (clearly I haven't seen all of them as I am not yet a dinosaur).

So it all started in 1992. I was an eight-year old living in Faisalabad, and remember waking up one morning and finding out that Pakistan was winning the semi-final. The only match I had previously seen was Pakistan being bowled out against England for 70-odd, and remembering I bat better in the lawn outside than this Rameez Raja fucker. Hehe. So I turn the TV on, watch a few big hits via Inzi, then see Moin Khan hit "that" six, and soon Miandad is jumping like a crazy retard, arms up in the air, and a quaint ground on the edge of the world is flooded with Pakistani flags and a couple of thousand really depressed white-boys.

Then comes the final. Imran Khan looks silly wearing a t-shirt to the toss. Some 'cornered tigers' symbolic statement, apparently. We bat. Openers useless. (I guess some things never change.) Imran hits a massive six, bats on and on. Miandad gets out playing reverse sweep (!). And then, wow, two lanky awkward boys make chicken qeema of the English. What massive amounts of fun! Innings closes with Salim Malik being run out in comical fashion.

Aamir Sohail gives Botham and his mother-in-law appropriate invitations to visit the country (get the joke, get the joke!), Mushtaq is a little, adorable genius! Aaqib grabs the catch of his lifetime, and does the coolest possible celebration! Wasim bhai swings one out, and then brings one back in, and the entire nation realizes the day is special! Moin grabs one running, Rameez takes his first skier, Salim Malik proves useful for once and gets a wicked throw in from the ropes, and (in a surprisingly consistent display of fielding prowess) Rameez grabs his second skier. Arms go aloft, heads are bowed, flags flood the MCG, we rule the world!

After the match I went out, got together with about 5-6 friends from the neighborhood, and carried out a few victory laps of the community playground, complete with flags, whistles and frying pans for sound effects. Also donated 100 rupees to Imran Khan's fund when he came to collect donations for his cancer hospital.

:D

Raast-goi part 1

2007-02-13T15:53:00.000-05:00

So my four years in LUMS are almost drawing to a close. I joined the institution with great hopes and aspirations. Most of them included me impressing numerous women with my superior intellect and wit and making them swoon left right and center, spending my time surrounded by them and abandoning londa pursuits once and for all. Sadly that never materialized and most of my time here was spent enjoying (begrudgingly of course) the sausage fest that happens to be my posse of friends. There were instances here and there that broke the norm, but mostly I was a social outcast playing video games in a loud computer lab surrounding by a rather motley crew of londay.

Having said that, I’ve now decided to chronicle my time at this esteemed institution year-by-year, and will be doing so in two parts (it's too taxing to write an account of all four years in one go). First part follows (covering years one and two):

First year:

Being the ungrateful twit that I am, started out sullen and glum that I wasn’t admitted to any sexy American university and will now have to spend my time in this hell-hole.

Was impressed by the amount of poondi on show. Fantasized about getting it on with most of them.

Life’s first interaction with so many Karachi-people, of which LUMS was flooded with, was rather shocking. Naturally, made fun of their accent. Ironic that will be spending first year out of college with them. Heh.

Spent more time wasting money at Neomatrix playing games than at college. Realized country’s upper-class youth is going to the dogs.

Started doing Accounting & Finance major. Thoughts at the time: oh, this is rather easy and straightforward and I seem to be doing pretty well in it - appears to be something I can do for a living. How fucking wrong was I on all counts.

Developed strong hatred with resident Islam expert Dr.Khalid Zaheer. Reasons were purely personal: he used to have a morning class and a quiz in the beginning, and since I was always lazy I never made it on time and missed most quizzes, resultantly getting my worst grade ever (till date at least).

Closed year in love with a history teacher who never showed up again. Oh what charisma his ponytail had.

Second year:

Made out outside music room. The miffed sound of a drum beat gave a nice, rhythmic flow to proceedings.

Went to India for first time. Realized Indian girls don’t shave armpits regularly. Wondered if things were the same back home. Certain events changed course of life.

Got together with bunch of idealistic, ambitious boys and girls and started AIESEC in Pakistan. Got heavily inspired by certain Aussie girl.

Realized ACF major had no poondi. One student was nice “overall”, while one had a pretty face. Wished for some kind of genetic incubator that would combine the two and come up with a more saleable product.

Doped for first time. Felt disappointed at lack of buzz. Got weird shivering sensation instead that scared the living daylights out of me.

Got involved in some serious hanky panky for thrills and cash. Mostly thrills. Spoiled reputation. Yea, as if that matters.

Got threatened by friend’s father for landing his son in the deepest of all deep shits. Realized hanky panky has limits. Also realized some uncles need not be pissed off.

Closed year interning with some chartered accountants. Started pitying their lifestyle.