A debate is currently over a study whether schizophrenia is or is not indeed a total and exhaustive result of gene mutation.
Two comments below ... are the ones I found most interesting to this article:
Danielle C March 29th, 2008 10:38:
Hello,My mother is schizophrenic, my brother was as well.My brother died last year, at age 53. He had had the disorder since childhood.I am interested in biology and medicine and have studied both. I am also a student of shamanism. I have studied with a traditional healer in the Peruvian jungle.Yes, there is probably a genetic predisposition to schizophrenia. There is also a spiritual dimension that is ignored by the medical profession.My brother was “inhabited” by a very evil being who was not my brother. It became very obvious during the ceremonies I participated in on his behalf.I was able to be by my brother’s bedside before he died, and that being was very aware of me and the ceremonies. It was very scary.There was no way for my brother to be aware of my work on his behalf, and yet the being new.I was able to help my brother go in peace.I know this seems strange. Schizophrenia is strange.I believe that we will not address the fundamental root of the disease as long as we do not address the spiritual nature of man. I hope that we can bring science and spirituality together in order to really help people in this terrible predicament.Danielle
Roger March 30th, 2008 14:26:
I have a severe case of schizophrenia (and have known people (mostly) with (much lesser) cases and find many of the posts here rediculous. First of all, medications ofter work very well most of the time. I am on 200 mg of Geodon and 6 mg of Ivega, both newer anti-psycotics. Before I started taking them, I had been homeless and without even one penny for many years and eating almost solely from dumpsters and sleeping on the ground even in the snow with a tent of piece of plastic in the winter in Pennsylvania. I was rediculously delusional. Just before I was finally helped by being arrested (yet again) and locked in a mental hospital (yet again) and given one of the new medicines in June, 1999, I was seeing people that weren’t there (and they looked perfectly real, not like in a dream) and rediculously delusional. For example, in a period of hours I went from thinking that I had to go on a suicide mission to kill the Serbian leader in Serbia (a missile would target us both) or my baby (no longer a baby in real life) relative would have to go and I would be tortured if caught, to thinking that I was already in Serbia all my life and should have realized it from all the evidence around me like the names of towns where I grew up (really, Indian names) and that the police arresting me were going to torture me and that my father was the head of a secret CIA type organization that was running the country (and very evil) and that my mother was a captured Soviet agent. Then, when they had me strapped to a cart, that the doctors and nurses were really martians and were about to stop torturing me with super effective alien torture technologies and were going to be able to keep me alive for hundres of years for more torture with advanced martian technology so I could be tortured longer. That was the most suffering I’ve ever been through for that long. You can’t imagine the terror. A non-paranoid person would be not even scared if it was actually happening to him comparted to how terrified I was. Then I thought Hitler was going to take over my body and that I had been fooled into thinking he lost World War Two all my life just so that I could be made an example of. I had other delusions then over a period of hours. For instance, I thought all patients in the Hostpital were really spies, as I thought all people in Wilkes-Barre were when I got there. Anyway, eventually I decided to sign some papers so that I could be drugged for some reason and I did and was drugged and the delusions almost went away in days. Anti-psychotic drugs can be very effective is the point. I think it was Prolixin, then.
I still have bouts of fear of the government sometimes and very great hatred for the government and its operatives to this day (based on actual experiences with them, not delusions). I also believe that I have come up with a number of super ideas, for instance, a design for a vastly better processor chip than anything in existance to day, like the Pentiums used today that it makes obsolete. You can judge for yourself wether my design is vastly better than Intel’s by checking out my website that describes it at http://howcomputers.com . You should think I might be right about some things because I graduated with high honors (3.7) from Penn State with a physics degree from Penn State in 1981, where I had a physics scholarchip, and went on to work on a PhD in physics a the University of Texas, Austin with a research assistantship for one semester, then got a secret clearance and worked for Northrop on a secret program for 3 year and at Texas Instruments for 3 months and was crazy the whole time and getting crazier all the time, but hid it.
Anyway, anti-psychotic drugs can be super effective. I have experienced it and seen it. I have also seen people get crazy by stopping taking anti-psychotics. A terror of my life now is that somehow, through poverty, I would not be able to get anti-pyschotic drugs. It would be a horror I can’t imagine.
Luckily, psychiatrists have seen it all many times and believe none of the nonsense in many of these comments. It must be boring to them because it’s the same stuff with person after person. Spiritualism, oh brother.
Mar 31, 2008
Meera on "Slightly Off".
Anoushey: So what kind of a person would you like to marry?
Meera: I only have one criteria. (Spoken in a fake-civilized Urdu)
Anoushey: Uh-huh.
Meera: He should be very shareef.
....
One of those moments where shock and laughter are really confused with each other.
Meera: I only have one criteria. (Spoken in a fake-civilized Urdu)
Anoushey: Uh-huh.
Meera: He should be very shareef.
....
One of those moments where shock and laughter are really confused with each other.
Mar 29, 2008
This pen doesn't work.
This pen doesn't work.
I must throw it out. He lit the cigarette, puffed its smoke out his nose and scratched his round, bulging belly.
I'll get to it later.
The afternoon heat was blistering. His family had never understood why or wherefore he had discovered the love of sitting right under the scorching sun. His sister always hated the fact that it never did anything to his complexion and his mother was always worried about melanin balance. 34 years of his life had made no difference to his family's concerns. He was still his mother's cocooned child, his father's precious asset and his sister's source of all psychological dilemmas. He puffed again. The slight burn in his nostrils made him smile. If only they knew he was smoking inside the house instead of in the street, where he was strictly instructed to fill his lungs with tar.
The senile servant brought tea and biscuits, he never liked those biscuits. "Bring me back something else," he drawled and shuffled back with is cup of tea and enjoyed the sun glaring on his closed eyelids.
His hands comfortably enclosed the round cup. This was his cup. He knew the comfort of his engraved initials, the grooves of its design, the slightly chipped handle. No one could drink from this cup. No one could touch it apart from he who owned it or he who washed it, put it carefully up in the shelf and brought tea, water or coffee in it. You don't have memoirs from the French Riviera everyday.
"Sahabji. Phone."
"Hello?"
"You have to be here. I don't know when you are going to get that guy to fix your cable, but you can't miss this. Get over here, and bring cigarettes, okay?"
He didn't have to say goodbye because the line had been disconnected. He didn't have to ask who it was or what it was on television that was so urgent to watch, but he got up, carefully and deliberately. He called the servant to take the dishes, ordered him to clean the room and, of course, do it without touching anything of consequence, and tell Maa that he will be back late.
This street is neat. Too neat. A sudden image occurred in his head. The street was filled with all kinds of filth and dogs and mice. He wondered what that would make residents feel. If we turned into a slum area. Just one day. One fine day, out of the blue, if we found these nice, shiny roads filled with dirt and garbage. He parked the car, got out, lit his cigarette and dropped it halfway, right on the road. That felt good.
Throughout the game, he only laughed or yelled obscene remarks whenever his favorite team lost a wicket, dropped a catch, misfielded, yelled at the umpire, got no-balls, wides and did what it could to lose the game. His cigarettes finished, his eyes felt heavy and tired, so without explaining much, he smacked his friend on the back with his heavy hands and walked out. They never needed to know what was going on in his head. It was only him, who knew, and what an odd satisfaction that was. It was satisfying that he never had to explain. It was satisfying that he only laughed when he needed to, wanted to. And that he never had to explain what he was laughing or grinning or quiet about.
He went back to his bedroom after quietly listening to his family go at lengths to discuss how it must be for his friends to live in Pakistan without their families, how terrible it was for Pakistan to lose the match, what a sad day it was for so many who had lost their lives in a terrorist attack recently in the city.
He opened the window to his room to let out another puff of smoke so that the morning maids wouldn't go snitching to Maa about it. He saw the street again and leaned on the window frame. Obsession. Shit. He had to go to that meeting his father had set for him in the morning. Quickly blowing out the leftover smoke, he yelled out his door for someone to get his clothes ready in the morning. By 12, at least.
Now I don't know what I'm going to do at that damn meeting. Sit and stare and hear Abba talk until I stop listening. He flopped back on his lounger. His eyes wandered to his hands, his increasing waistline, his loafers, the foot of his servant-made bed, the bookshelf. The pen that still lay on his writing table. Is this the same pen that didn't work? He went up to it, saw that the ink indeed had run out of it and put it back on the table. These five rupee ballpoint pens. I don't know why I buy them. And use them.
The sun was gleaming again, the shadows were interesting if you fidgeted with the biscuits. Kept one busy on an afternoon like this.
"I don't understand you, beta."
"Abba. Didn't see you there."
He was white haired and had less of a waist than any member of his family. The people at the office secretly called him the sixty year old Heidi Klum of corporate executives.
"You were ... quite ... late yesterday."
"Aa-aah.. when, exactly, Abba?"
"At the meeting? I had especially asked you to be there because we were discussing future strategies? For our company? Now that ... I think you should get ... more ... involved?"
He hated that word. "Abba, you know I ... "
"Yes, beta, yes, you aren't made for that kind of work, but who is going to-"
"Not me, Dad. Not me."
"Son, I have no one else." He got up and said the harshest words he could have mustered in his lifetime to his son. "Why is duty a dirty word to you, boy?"
He lay there all night, smoking as much as he could, out of rebellion, out of anger, out of hope, out of misery. He couldn't move, couldn't sleep. He couldn't even think. All that went on in his head were thoughts so random, they had no place in his reality or could offer no help to his situation. It was sunrise and he collected the remains of the cigarette butts and threw them out the window on the street. The morning sweeper gave him a glare but he had closed his window before he could admonish him with looks or words or a threat of complaint to the household.
5.25 a.m. Sleep still evaded him. God damn it. He picked up a book. Some autobiography. Facades. So he tossed it away to pick up a magazine and began filing through its pages. Hmm. Fiction. At least they're not pretending to pretend. Jokes. Crosswords. Where's Waldo?
He picked up a pen and was irritated that it was the same dysfunctional piece of stationery that was not thrown out after three weeks of lying there. He angrily got up from his bed, opened his window and aimed directly at the morning sweeper.
Lousy bastard, he muttered, and put the pen back in his shirt pocket.
That night he dreamed he was being chased by dogs on a conveyor belt at JFK. But they weren't dogs. Their faces were like dogs, but they wore ties and had small briefcases at the end of their leashes. "But I won the game! I did my best!" he kept shouting but the dogs were barking and ferocious. He woke up suddenly, almost as if he'd been given the Heimlich Maneuver, and breathed loudly. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he went down to breakfast, saw his father's sullen face turn into an expression of shock when he saw him.
"But it's only 9..."
"Yeah, I .. slept early."
Still confused and dubious, Abba poured him some tea. He stiffened. "Just a second, Pop. My cup." He pointed at the topmost kitched cabinet at the word 'my'.
"Oh. Sorry." The cup was half full.
The servant hurriedly brought forth 'his' cup and placed it on the table with hot coffee.
He looked up and saw his father staring. "Doing a bit of writing are we?"
"No."
"I've never seen you wear a pen. On your night suit."
He quickly pulled it out and placed it next to his cup.
"This. Doesn't work."
His father's stare deepened. "Right."
"What doesn't work doesn't have to be thrown away."
Abba raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to tell me something, beta? Because I'd love to hear an explanation."
He shook his head.
Abba waited. After a minute or two he got up and walked back to his room.
He picked up his pen and cradled it in his palm back to his room. He reached behind his dress coats and dry cleaned clothes and felt a wooden box. Pulling it out and opening it, he put the pen inside. Right next to a faded piece of cloth that his mother claimed was the first bloody nose he'd had. Next to the couple of coins he'd collected. Next to the letters he had exchanged from his old French flame. Next to a small gel minute minder his father got from Holland that he and Fari had fought over like lunatics. He put the box back inside. He smiled and shut the closet. His eyes felt very heavy and the sun was gleaming. It was time to sleep under the sun.
I must throw it out. He lit the cigarette, puffed its smoke out his nose and scratched his round, bulging belly.
I'll get to it later.
The afternoon heat was blistering. His family had never understood why or wherefore he had discovered the love of sitting right under the scorching sun. His sister always hated the fact that it never did anything to his complexion and his mother was always worried about melanin balance. 34 years of his life had made no difference to his family's concerns. He was still his mother's cocooned child, his father's precious asset and his sister's source of all psychological dilemmas. He puffed again. The slight burn in his nostrils made him smile. If only they knew he was smoking inside the house instead of in the street, where he was strictly instructed to fill his lungs with tar.
The senile servant brought tea and biscuits, he never liked those biscuits. "Bring me back something else," he drawled and shuffled back with is cup of tea and enjoyed the sun glaring on his closed eyelids.
His hands comfortably enclosed the round cup. This was his cup. He knew the comfort of his engraved initials, the grooves of its design, the slightly chipped handle. No one could drink from this cup. No one could touch it apart from he who owned it or he who washed it, put it carefully up in the shelf and brought tea, water or coffee in it. You don't have memoirs from the French Riviera everyday.
"Sahabji. Phone."
"Hello?"
"You have to be here. I don't know when you are going to get that guy to fix your cable, but you can't miss this. Get over here, and bring cigarettes, okay?"
He didn't have to say goodbye because the line had been disconnected. He didn't have to ask who it was or what it was on television that was so urgent to watch, but he got up, carefully and deliberately. He called the servant to take the dishes, ordered him to clean the room and, of course, do it without touching anything of consequence, and tell Maa that he will be back late.
This street is neat. Too neat. A sudden image occurred in his head. The street was filled with all kinds of filth and dogs and mice. He wondered what that would make residents feel. If we turned into a slum area. Just one day. One fine day, out of the blue, if we found these nice, shiny roads filled with dirt and garbage. He parked the car, got out, lit his cigarette and dropped it halfway, right on the road. That felt good.
Throughout the game, he only laughed or yelled obscene remarks whenever his favorite team lost a wicket, dropped a catch, misfielded, yelled at the umpire, got no-balls, wides and did what it could to lose the game. His cigarettes finished, his eyes felt heavy and tired, so without explaining much, he smacked his friend on the back with his heavy hands and walked out. They never needed to know what was going on in his head. It was only him, who knew, and what an odd satisfaction that was. It was satisfying that he never had to explain. It was satisfying that he only laughed when he needed to, wanted to. And that he never had to explain what he was laughing or grinning or quiet about.
He went back to his bedroom after quietly listening to his family go at lengths to discuss how it must be for his friends to live in Pakistan without their families, how terrible it was for Pakistan to lose the match, what a sad day it was for so many who had lost their lives in a terrorist attack recently in the city.
He opened the window to his room to let out another puff of smoke so that the morning maids wouldn't go snitching to Maa about it. He saw the street again and leaned on the window frame. Obsession. Shit. He had to go to that meeting his father had set for him in the morning. Quickly blowing out the leftover smoke, he yelled out his door for someone to get his clothes ready in the morning. By 12, at least.
Now I don't know what I'm going to do at that damn meeting. Sit and stare and hear Abba talk until I stop listening. He flopped back on his lounger. His eyes wandered to his hands, his increasing waistline, his loafers, the foot of his servant-made bed, the bookshelf. The pen that still lay on his writing table. Is this the same pen that didn't work? He went up to it, saw that the ink indeed had run out of it and put it back on the table. These five rupee ballpoint pens. I don't know why I buy them. And use them.
The sun was gleaming again, the shadows were interesting if you fidgeted with the biscuits. Kept one busy on an afternoon like this.
"I don't understand you, beta."
"Abba. Didn't see you there."
He was white haired and had less of a waist than any member of his family. The people at the office secretly called him the sixty year old Heidi Klum of corporate executives.
"You were ... quite ... late yesterday."
"Aa-aah.. when, exactly, Abba?"
"At the meeting? I had especially asked you to be there because we were discussing future strategies? For our company? Now that ... I think you should get ... more ... involved?"
He hated that word. "Abba, you know I ... "
"Yes, beta, yes, you aren't made for that kind of work, but who is going to-"
"Not me, Dad. Not me."
"Son, I have no one else." He got up and said the harshest words he could have mustered in his lifetime to his son. "Why is duty a dirty word to you, boy?"
He lay there all night, smoking as much as he could, out of rebellion, out of anger, out of hope, out of misery. He couldn't move, couldn't sleep. He couldn't even think. All that went on in his head were thoughts so random, they had no place in his reality or could offer no help to his situation. It was sunrise and he collected the remains of the cigarette butts and threw them out the window on the street. The morning sweeper gave him a glare but he had closed his window before he could admonish him with looks or words or a threat of complaint to the household.
5.25 a.m. Sleep still evaded him. God damn it. He picked up a book. Some autobiography. Facades. So he tossed it away to pick up a magazine and began filing through its pages. Hmm. Fiction. At least they're not pretending to pretend. Jokes. Crosswords. Where's Waldo?
He picked up a pen and was irritated that it was the same dysfunctional piece of stationery that was not thrown out after three weeks of lying there. He angrily got up from his bed, opened his window and aimed directly at the morning sweeper.
Lousy bastard, he muttered, and put the pen back in his shirt pocket.
That night he dreamed he was being chased by dogs on a conveyor belt at JFK. But they weren't dogs. Their faces were like dogs, but they wore ties and had small briefcases at the end of their leashes. "But I won the game! I did my best!" he kept shouting but the dogs were barking and ferocious. He woke up suddenly, almost as if he'd been given the Heimlich Maneuver, and breathed loudly. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he went down to breakfast, saw his father's sullen face turn into an expression of shock when he saw him.
"But it's only 9..."
"Yeah, I .. slept early."
Still confused and dubious, Abba poured him some tea. He stiffened. "Just a second, Pop. My cup." He pointed at the topmost kitched cabinet at the word 'my'.
"Oh. Sorry." The cup was half full.
The servant hurriedly brought forth 'his' cup and placed it on the table with hot coffee.
He looked up and saw his father staring. "Doing a bit of writing are we?"
"No."
"I've never seen you wear a pen. On your night suit."
He quickly pulled it out and placed it next to his cup.
"This. Doesn't work."
His father's stare deepened. "Right."
"What doesn't work doesn't have to be thrown away."
Abba raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to tell me something, beta? Because I'd love to hear an explanation."
He shook his head.
Abba waited. After a minute or two he got up and walked back to his room.
He picked up his pen and cradled it in his palm back to his room. He reached behind his dress coats and dry cleaned clothes and felt a wooden box. Pulling it out and opening it, he put the pen inside. Right next to a faded piece of cloth that his mother claimed was the first bloody nose he'd had. Next to the couple of coins he'd collected. Next to the letters he had exchanged from his old French flame. Next to a small gel minute minder his father got from Holland that he and Fari had fought over like lunatics. He put the box back inside. He smiled and shut the closet. His eyes felt very heavy and the sun was gleaming. It was time to sleep under the sun.
Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler.
Turnaround, every now and then I get a
little bit lonely and you're never coming around
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit restless and I dream of something wild
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit helpless and I'm lying like a child in your arms
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit angry and I know I've got to get out and cry
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit terrified but then I see the look in your eyes
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
And I need you now tonight
And I need you more than ever
And if you'll only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever
And we'll only be making it right
Cause we'll never be wrong together
We can take it to the end of the line
Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time
I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark
We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks
I really need you tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Once upon a time I was falling in love
But now I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart
Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart
Turnaround bright eyes
Turnaround bright eyes
Turnaround, every now and then I know
you'll never be the boy you always you wanted to be
Turnaround, every now and then I know
you'll always be the only boy who wanted me the way that I am
Turnaround, every now and then I know
there's no one in the universe as magical and wonderous as you
Turnaround, every now and then I know
there's nothing any better and there's nothing I just wouldn't do
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
And I need you now tonight
And I need you more than ever
And if you'll only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever
And we'll only be making it right
Cause we'll never be wrong together
We can take it to the end of the line
Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time
I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark
We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks
I really need you tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Once upon a time I was falling in love
But now I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart
Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart
little bit lonely and you're never coming around
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit restless and I dream of something wild
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit helpless and I'm lying like a child in your arms
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit angry and I know I've got to get out and cry
Turnaround, Every now and then I get a
little bit terrified but then I see the look in your eyes
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
And I need you now tonight
And I need you more than ever
And if you'll only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever
And we'll only be making it right
Cause we'll never be wrong together
We can take it to the end of the line
Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time
I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark
We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks
I really need you tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Once upon a time I was falling in love
But now I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart
Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart
Turnaround bright eyes
Turnaround bright eyes
Turnaround, every now and then I know
you'll never be the boy you always you wanted to be
Turnaround, every now and then I know
you'll always be the only boy who wanted me the way that I am
Turnaround, every now and then I know
there's no one in the universe as magical and wonderous as you
Turnaround, every now and then I know
there's nothing any better and there's nothing I just wouldn't do
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
Turnaround bright eyes, Every now and
then I fall apart
And I need you now tonight
And I need you more than ever
And if you'll only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever
And we'll only be making it right
Cause we'll never be wrong together
We can take it to the end of the line
Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time
I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark
We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks
I really need you tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Forever's gonna start tonight
Once upon a time I was falling in love
But now I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart
Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can say
A total eclipse of the heart
Who, me?
I don't know who I am anymore sometimes.
Because here I am, all day long, everyday, happy and contented. Confident.
And then I see ... a four car pileup on a national expressway. Or two filthy children walking alongside two clean ones on the same road. One pair holding their parents' hands and nibbling on chocolate bars. The other fighting over a small piece of rotten fruit. Or I hear about people killing their grandparents just because they couldn't take care of them anymore. Or two people not being friends anymore just because they refuse to talk it out. Or some other form of reality that is now reduced to a cliche or a marketing campaign or a footage for a 2 penny music video or a talk show promo.
Who the hell am I fooling? Where are we going and what are we doing here?
Mankind should've gotten extinct a long time ago.
And if we've somehow managed to escape our ultimate fate ... we're only two nuclear wars away from a total annihilation of this farce as we know it.
Half full? Faith and global politics?
Are you actually telling me there's hope?
I wish I could say the same to the man or woman breathing his last in that crushed Suzuki. But I cannot. I cannot be hopeful for something that is meant to be this way.
Mankind. What ... have you done ...
Because here I am, all day long, everyday, happy and contented. Confident.
And then I see ... a four car pileup on a national expressway. Or two filthy children walking alongside two clean ones on the same road. One pair holding their parents' hands and nibbling on chocolate bars. The other fighting over a small piece of rotten fruit. Or I hear about people killing their grandparents just because they couldn't take care of them anymore. Or two people not being friends anymore just because they refuse to talk it out. Or some other form of reality that is now reduced to a cliche or a marketing campaign or a footage for a 2 penny music video or a talk show promo.
Who the hell am I fooling? Where are we going and what are we doing here?
Mankind should've gotten extinct a long time ago.
And if we've somehow managed to escape our ultimate fate ... we're only two nuclear wars away from a total annihilation of this farce as we know it.
Half full? Faith and global politics?
Are you actually telling me there's hope?
I wish I could say the same to the man or woman breathing his last in that crushed Suzuki. But I cannot. I cannot be hopeful for something that is meant to be this way.
Mankind. What ... have you done ...
Mar 27, 2008
On my parents' 25th Nikah Anniversary.
The day that was 25 years ago joined my parents in holy matrimony. As is customary in the rich and lavish, the reception took place separately, with an almost 20-day gap (April 28th, 1983) in between for further festivities.
Anyway... they have spent 25 years married ... that's a quarter of century and half of their lifetimes. And this ... is for their silver jubilee.
Anyway... they have spent 25 years married ... that's a quarter of century and half of their lifetimes. And this ... is for their silver jubilee.
A Prayer in Spring by Robert Frost
OH, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orcahrd white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orcahrd white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.
Mar 26, 2008
Diagnostic Criteria for Aflatoons.
They are defined as people who consider themselves the last word in their own tiny little world of limited intelligence and restricted socialization and exposure. Such individuals are most prone towards a meaningless narcissism that they are the exclusive fans of. It is impossible to break through the outer crusts because they have a moat which can only be allowed to cross if every ridiculous idea that they produce is accepted with unconditional positive regard. Once you move past that moat, you will be subject to heinous tests and assessments of your loyalty to their narcissism. Whether you pass or fail is irrelevant. Because the result is pre-decided. No one gets through; if they did, they'd find a haunted house - which would be very bad for their publicity campaign.
Such individuals are generally considered to be a menace to themselves and to society. They are distinguished from the normal sample only by those who have gotten, by personal or clinical experience, unfortunate glimpses of at least 40-50 haunted houses in the past. Therefore the exact diagnosis of such individuals is tricky. Very tricky.
Self-diagnosis is almost always impossible. Those who may try to diagnose themselves will only compete for a revision of degrees and sub-statuses under the "Aflatoon" category. Other details will be missed or completely ignored.
Such individuals are generally considered to be a menace to themselves and to society. They are distinguished from the normal sample only by those who have gotten, by personal or clinical experience, unfortunate glimpses of at least 40-50 haunted houses in the past. Therefore the exact diagnosis of such individuals is tricky. Very tricky.
Self-diagnosis is almost always impossible. Those who may try to diagnose themselves will only compete for a revision of degrees and sub-statuses under the "Aflatoon" category. Other details will be missed or completely ignored.
Mar 24, 2008
Aeisha Varsey - contact information.
Many people visit this site for Aeisha Varsey information. So this is for those desperate people who need an Aeisha Varsey site really badly. According to Aeisha, the site is currently under construction. But. If you guys want to get in touch with her, this is the contact info.
Aisha Varsey - "A Celebration of Life".
Contact: Store # 326, Park Tower, Level 3, Karachi.
Phone: +9221-5361288, +9221-5832525
Head Office: +9221-4391240
Ware House: +9221-5404487 Ext 326
Store: +9221-5361288
Cell Phone: +923219244556
BNK Fashion
Salam Street, Abu Dhabi, UAE
Tel: 02-6766264
Fax: 02-6781765
Cell: 0506681015
For further information please email at: aeishavarseyexchange@hotmail.com
Aisha Varsey - "A Celebration of Life".
Contact: Store # 326, Park Tower, Level 3, Karachi.
Phone: +9221-5361288, +9221-5832525
Head Office: +9221-4391240
Ware House: +9221-5404487 Ext 326
Store: +9221-5361288
Cell Phone: +923219244556
BNK Fashion
Salam Street, Abu Dhabi, UAE
Tel: 02-6766264
Fax: 02-6781765
Cell: 0506681015
For further information please email at: aeishavarseyexchange@hotmail.com
Mar 23, 2008
"Horton Hears a Who"
Starring Jim Carrey and Steve Carrell (I could not have more favorite comedians), this animated feature is based on the noted book by Dr. Seuss of the same name. Horton is an eccentric old elephant who has reached out to a world much smaller than himself. He has made contact with the mayor of "Whoville" (Carrell) who has 99 daughters and 1 son. Horton's free-thinking is a threat to his own survival in the jungle as the meddlesome kangaroo aunt is on his case: she doesn't like imagination, no, sirree.
Carrey and Carrell are both delightful of course. The script was funny and clever without being freakishly soppy. I remember the last Dr. Seuss book that got turned into a movie "The Cat in the Hat" which was very much digestible, thanks to Mike Myers ... but the Jim Carrey starrer "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" was so pathetic I wanted to puke every time I heard the word "Who".
Not just for kids, a modern day "Animal Farm" and a must-see for Carrey and Carrell fans.
"Life in a Metro"
Directed by Anurag Basu, this multi-starrer Bollywood flick has plenty of good points. Good performances by many of the actors. Strong dialog and a well-linked plot. But.Yes. The critical word. Which must not be spared.
After Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna "Life in a Metro" comes as yet another lesson in marital relationships. If you find yourself out of love in marriage after ten years - it is considered a-okay to find love elsewhere and rationalize it quite, quite thoroughly.
Honestly, where'd all the good ol' screamin', shoutin', yellin', overdramatic dames that would climb volcanoes and drink lava for their 'suhaag' go? Hello, ten years, and we're looking at slimmer, prettier, more camera and sound-friendly heroines that are easy on the eyes and pretty slick on the conscience.
As a mode of freedom of expression, films and television should be granted freedom to produce ideas and to encourage public opinion. As an agent of socialization, Media has a great responsibility to show what the society truly is. Bring them both together and films like "Life in a Metro" start with depression and end with a hurried tie of keeping an orthodox audience happy and a savvy save from the rush of critics. The woman turns around and goes back to her husband. Yippee. The over-achiever, conscience-less dude goes back to his roots. The pessimist finds a guy she can fall in love with to be completely against profile of the man of her dreams. And the orchestra rings true to the pitter patter of rain. Romantic, bluffing, social awareness, who knows, but hey. It's life in a metro and we're all trying to be understanding intellectuals here, so let's accept what the boob tube is telling us and forget about the functionality of social institutions, an alternative view of faith and loyalty (which doesn't always have to be about a Valentine's Day flower or an anniversary), and the fact that if your wife nags you - that does NOT give you the license to go bang another temp at the office.
But. Who am I to say. After all. Millions of people must have seen this movie - and 99 percent must have taken with them what I hated about this film.
Mar 22, 2008
The weirder sex.
I don't know what's all the fuss about the un-understandable sex is all about.
For all I know - they've had us figured out for years.
For example.
Everyone knows women love to shop, love to look pretty, love to go all pouty even when they're just kidding, love to get nasty every so often just to gauge whether people are paying enough attention, love to get involved in petty politics so that they've got something to do and basically find all the entertainment of their lives within the periphery of ten people.
But I cannot understand men.
I've always been chaperoned by my dad all my life. His way of loving me involves crazy obsessions that some calamity is going to befall me even if he leaves me for the slightest fraction of a second and therefore I must be accompanied by an adult at all times - and not just any adult. Only Dad himself. In no other entity he trusts. I just wonder how he's dealing with the idea that Miaan Jee is indeed going to come take me away.
Anyway - as I got off the car today to go pick some clothes from the tailor I told Ali to wait for five minutes because all I had to do was pick up the parcel and come back. When I got off the car, it was a minute long walk to the shopping centre, and I had to tolerate the gazes of at least 10-20 men who were milling about. My questions began to increase. What are these people looking at? I am not exactly Madonna here, my head is always covered, my gaze is always either on the ground or directly across some inanimate object of reach, I'm usually walked at a fast, convicted pace with a slight frown on my face - especially when in public. Overall verdict? NOT worth staring and wasting precious moments of the day at.
And here they were ... pouring out of nooks and crannies ... walking at their pace, but not without glancing and gazing and staring.
The real point of frustration came when I returned from the tailor (who by the way was way too distracted to pay any attention to his clients and took his sweet time to give me the dress he was supposed to give two weeks ago - yes, the irony is charming) I saw Ali nowhere in sight. I called him up asking his whereabouts to which he said that the traffic police had told him to move the car so he had to take a long route and come back.
So I waited.
Right in front of Nirala Sweets, on an island next to Bareeze and Minnie Minors, I waited with my packet of clothes and anklets in hand. Right. Men. Walking by. Staring. Left. Men. Coming out of the bank with papers in their hands. First they look. Then they move. So I began walking purposefully so that no one would think that I'm waiting for a rickshaw or taxi ... and be offered a lift!! ... (yes, Dad's paranoia has had its effects on me) ... I rummage the road with my eyes waiting for Ali to come round the corner, but he also decides to make me wait needlessly and I walk a bit more. Tiny pathan kids. Not more than 10. They join the fraternity, the little tykes. And stare with their blue eyes which must have the most intricate mechanism of x-rays fitted inside them to ever exist in nature.
In those five minutes of waiting (which really did seem like the cliched eternity) I could not for the life of me understand the POINT of looking at a girl, even if it is for 1/100th of a second, and like it. I could not understand their tolerance and stomach to look at a girl if she's fat, ugly, old, young, pretty, ordinary, covered, uncovered ... I don't understand it. It's just a bypassing stimuli. How hard can it be to avert your gaze and not make her feel like she's on display?
I do know what Freud spent all his life doing and at the end of the asking "What do women want?" ... but would it not have been scores better ... had, while studying libido on the side, he could have also wondered, "I know what men want - but is there any way they can be civilized about it?"
For all I know - they've had us figured out for years.
For example.
Everyone knows women love to shop, love to look pretty, love to go all pouty even when they're just kidding, love to get nasty every so often just to gauge whether people are paying enough attention, love to get involved in petty politics so that they've got something to do and basically find all the entertainment of their lives within the periphery of ten people.
But I cannot understand men.
I've always been chaperoned by my dad all my life. His way of loving me involves crazy obsessions that some calamity is going to befall me even if he leaves me for the slightest fraction of a second and therefore I must be accompanied by an adult at all times - and not just any adult. Only Dad himself. In no other entity he trusts. I just wonder how he's dealing with the idea that Miaan Jee is indeed going to come take me away.
Anyway - as I got off the car today to go pick some clothes from the tailor I told Ali to wait for five minutes because all I had to do was pick up the parcel and come back. When I got off the car, it was a minute long walk to the shopping centre, and I had to tolerate the gazes of at least 10-20 men who were milling about. My questions began to increase. What are these people looking at? I am not exactly Madonna here, my head is always covered, my gaze is always either on the ground or directly across some inanimate object of reach, I'm usually walked at a fast, convicted pace with a slight frown on my face - especially when in public. Overall verdict? NOT worth staring and wasting precious moments of the day at.
And here they were ... pouring out of nooks and crannies ... walking at their pace, but not without glancing and gazing and staring.
The real point of frustration came when I returned from the tailor (who by the way was way too distracted to pay any attention to his clients and took his sweet time to give me the dress he was supposed to give two weeks ago - yes, the irony is charming) I saw Ali nowhere in sight. I called him up asking his whereabouts to which he said that the traffic police had told him to move the car so he had to take a long route and come back.
So I waited.
Right in front of Nirala Sweets, on an island next to Bareeze and Minnie Minors, I waited with my packet of clothes and anklets in hand. Right. Men. Walking by. Staring. Left. Men. Coming out of the bank with papers in their hands. First they look. Then they move. So I began walking purposefully so that no one would think that I'm waiting for a rickshaw or taxi ... and be offered a lift!! ... (yes, Dad's paranoia has had its effects on me) ... I rummage the road with my eyes waiting for Ali to come round the corner, but he also decides to make me wait needlessly and I walk a bit more. Tiny pathan kids. Not more than 10. They join the fraternity, the little tykes. And stare with their blue eyes which must have the most intricate mechanism of x-rays fitted inside them to ever exist in nature.
In those five minutes of waiting (which really did seem like the cliched eternity) I could not for the life of me understand the POINT of looking at a girl, even if it is for 1/100th of a second, and like it. I could not understand their tolerance and stomach to look at a girl if she's fat, ugly, old, young, pretty, ordinary, covered, uncovered ... I don't understand it. It's just a bypassing stimuli. How hard can it be to avert your gaze and not make her feel like she's on display?
I do know what Freud spent all his life doing and at the end of the asking "What do women want?" ... but would it not have been scores better ... had, while studying libido on the side, he could have also wondered, "I know what men want - but is there any way they can be civilized about it?"
Mar 21, 2008
Mar 20, 2008
Mar 19, 2008
There's no such thing as a Frandshipper-Proof network.
Dear Friend
Hi.
I hope you would be fine and enjoying your life with good health.
I saw your profile on facebook and want to make you efrien.
something about myself ........
My name is M.Imran Siddique.
I am working in AHAN Aik Hunar Aik Nagar under SMEDA as Assistant Manager Marketing.
I have complete my MBA from PU.
My hobbies are collect currency notes, coins, watching movies, and make more friend.
I will wait your kind reply.
Thanks and regards.
M. Imran Siddique
Hi.
I hope you would be fine and enjoying your life with good health.
I saw your profile on facebook and want to make you efrien.
something about myself ........
My name is M.Imran Siddique.
I am working in AHAN Aik Hunar Aik Nagar under SMEDA as Assistant Manager Marketing.
I have complete my MBA from PU.
My hobbies are collect currency notes, coins, watching movies, and make more friend.
I will wait your kind reply.
Thanks and regards.
M. Imran Siddique
Mar 18, 2008
Behtar hai.
'Nasir' kyaa kahataa phirataa hai kuchh na suno to behatar hai
diivaanaa hai diivaane ke muu.Nh na lago to behatar hai
kal jo thaa vo aaj nahii.n jo aaj hai kal miT jaayegaa
ruukhii-suukhii jo mil jaaye shukr karo to behatar hai
kal ye taab-o-tavaa.N na rahegii Tha.nDaa ho jaayegaa lahuu
naam-e-Khudaa ho javaa.N abhii kuchh kar guzaro to behatar hai
kyaa jaane kyaa rut badale haalaat kaa ko_ii Thiik nahii.n
ab ke safar me.n tum bhii hamaare saath chalo to behatar hai
kapa.De badal kar baal banaa kar kahaa.N chale ho kis ke liye
raat bahut kaalii hai 'Nasir' ghar me.n raho to behatar hai
diivaanaa hai diivaane ke muu.Nh na lago to behatar hai
kal jo thaa vo aaj nahii.n jo aaj hai kal miT jaayegaa
ruukhii-suukhii jo mil jaaye shukr karo to behatar hai
kal ye taab-o-tavaa.N na rahegii Tha.nDaa ho jaayegaa lahuu
naam-e-Khudaa ho javaa.N abhii kuchh kar guzaro to behatar hai
kyaa jaane kyaa rut badale haalaat kaa ko_ii Thiik nahii.n
ab ke safar me.n tum bhii hamaare saath chalo to behatar hai
kapa.De badal kar baal banaa kar kahaa.N chale ho kis ke liye
raat bahut kaalii hai 'Nasir' ghar me.n raho to behatar hai
Mar 16, 2008
Eureka.
I think I've figured it out.
And I don't think I'm being narcissistic when I say that I have indeed had a breakthrough.
I think we believe in God because we like to think He exists because we don't find logic appealing after a point. After a point, it only becomes stats and maths and numbers, and it may turn some people happy, but it loses its charm. The two-plus-twos, the this-equals-that, the skies and the suns and the whole drama of human existence - is pretty much where rationale ends and faith begins.
We think, that based on certain qualities, people should be trusted, and that's rationality and hell yeah, I'm all for it.
But we'll keep going around in circles if we have to rely on logic and reason every time we have to make a trusting call. A choice. A decision. Mankind isn't that rational all the time anyway.
So we gotta let go of basing truth and lies, hope and faith, trust and doubt in all that is measurable, quantifiable. Once we have calculated our risks and chances - the next step should be to just let the experience be.
We trust people not because of their inherent qualities and what we see - but in what we feel. That is neither idealistic nor optimistic. That is what works and that is how we like to believe in things. That is where we silently decide to throw away the key.
What I say here may seem very old and said-before, but it makes sense today more than ever.
If I am going to use logic to find God, I may find Him. But I probably won't love Him.
So I shall use it to find Him. But I'll use my good ol' heartbeat to call Him when I need Him the most.
And I don't think I'm being narcissistic when I say that I have indeed had a breakthrough.
I think we believe in God because we like to think He exists because we don't find logic appealing after a point. After a point, it only becomes stats and maths and numbers, and it may turn some people happy, but it loses its charm. The two-plus-twos, the this-equals-that, the skies and the suns and the whole drama of human existence - is pretty much where rationale ends and faith begins.
We think, that based on certain qualities, people should be trusted, and that's rationality and hell yeah, I'm all for it.
But we'll keep going around in circles if we have to rely on logic and reason every time we have to make a trusting call. A choice. A decision. Mankind isn't that rational all the time anyway.
So we gotta let go of basing truth and lies, hope and faith, trust and doubt in all that is measurable, quantifiable. Once we have calculated our risks and chances - the next step should be to just let the experience be.
We trust people not because of their inherent qualities and what we see - but in what we feel. That is neither idealistic nor optimistic. That is what works and that is how we like to believe in things. That is where we silently decide to throw away the key.
What I say here may seem very old and said-before, but it makes sense today more than ever.
If I am going to use logic to find God, I may find Him. But I probably won't love Him.
So I shall use it to find Him. But I'll use my good ol' heartbeat to call Him when I need Him the most.
Mar 15, 2008
Definition.
"The best thing is to find a person who can love you for exactly what you are; good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, hand some, whatever. The right person'll still gonna think sunshines out your ass. That's the kind of person worth sticking with."
Mar 12, 2008
The Civil Service of Pakistan.
This post is a year late. Today it comes due to a small, insignificant event. I was at the bank to submit my salary paycheck to be encashed. On the cashier's desk lay a long list of "Civil Servants of Pakistan" paychecks.
So here I go.
Parents always exaggerate our real potentials. People who love us tend to always think that we're more than what we are.
It's true that we're not. It's true that we are ultimately the products of their gestalts. But if we have faith enough in their judgment, we sometimes feel that it kind of adds to our gestalts and then we tend to think - why not... why CAN'T I be twice the person I think I am?
So my Dad made me think I could do things larger than life. He thought I had the potential to set the pond on fire, create waves like never created before. I gotta hand it to him, y'know. He comes from a very patriarchal system. And to have faith in a woman like that ... a girl, a daughter ... takes some nerve. Courage.
He was the primary impetus for that fateful registration in the 2007 Civil Service Examination. That was our moment of truth. The ultimate judgment of my calibre. If I made it - it meant that everything I have done in my life was worth it. Everything was going to work out, we'd live happily ever after, and I'd never get to hear a harsh word from him ever again.
So I prepared. Not well, but I did what I could. Amidst family crises, educational hyperactivities and the day-to-day crazinesses, I began studying for what could be the most defining point of my life.
My last paper ended 3 days before my engagement, the house was a mess due to renovations and I was literally sleeping and drooling off my books which were always lying around me, next to me or flapped over my eyes. I was always thinking of some theory or some fact or some fill in the blank or some grammar rule that my fiance had relentlessly tried to make me remember and continued to say, "I TOLD you this is what comes after this!"
Six months and some days passed. I would only remember the fact that I had given exams only when someone asked me about it. I had taken Political Science, Psychology and Urdu. Urdu didn't go exceptionally well, but I did great in all others.
I knew it didn't matter to most people what result I would get - but I knew it heavily mattered to some. My dad. He was one of those people who said he KNEW it in his bones, from day one, that I'd get a position in it. He just KNEW it. Hah, I thought. ALL parents KNOW it. Even of those who fail miserably.
One night the result arrived. And I found out I hadn't gotten in. I hadn't made it in the written exam. I couldn't believe it - because deep down inside, I knew it myself. I knew it in my bones too (after all Dad and I are the same flesh and blood) that I would pass. I knew it.
I had to accept it. I had to accept that I was not going to be a CSS officer - that long, childhood idyll that my father had for me hadh cracked. I had let him down, I could not do the things he'd expected me to do as his brilliant, exceptional daughter, and it was that and that alone what made me sniffle.
A week or so later the marksheet arrived. And that's when my gestalt shifted.
That's when I found out that the Civil Service of Pakistan is nothing but a sham. Lot of people say that I say that because I have the 'misfortune' of having a Karachi Domicile.
Whatever the reason is.
It still doesn't explain why they failed me - in English GRAMMAR.
A subject I had been teaching to students since I was in O levels myself.
Something that I'm so particular about that when I'm checking Psychology and Sociology papers, still gives me the heebie jeebies when someone misspells or mispunctuates.
I got great marks in Political Science and Psychology. Even passed respectably in Urdu. Did well in all compulsory papers.
And failed. FAILED english GRAMMAR.
And then I started to laugh.
And then I thanked Allah.
This wasn't a result. It was a revelation. It was telling me that I hadn't failed the system. The system had failed me.
Just the way it has failed the entire Pakistani infrastructure.
Whoever it is, responsible for this weird theory of failing people so that there is a saving of quota or keeping Karachiites out on purpose or whatever the hell it is that you people are doing back there ...
Get over yourself.
Because what you're doing to this country is nothing but disaster. And trust me - it is my curse and of all the others whom you have not given that due credit - you will reap what you have sown. I do not know if 'our time shall come' but when it does - whether it's the Day of Judgment or any time before that - you people will get what's coming to you, what's been long overdue and has been biding its time since the day you failed the first deserving candidate.
How's THAT for grammar.
You filthy, green-plated, bureaucratic, biased, incompetent, white-collared jackasses.
So here I go.
Parents always exaggerate our real potentials. People who love us tend to always think that we're more than what we are.
It's true that we're not. It's true that we are ultimately the products of their gestalts. But if we have faith enough in their judgment, we sometimes feel that it kind of adds to our gestalts and then we tend to think - why not... why CAN'T I be twice the person I think I am?
So my Dad made me think I could do things larger than life. He thought I had the potential to set the pond on fire, create waves like never created before. I gotta hand it to him, y'know. He comes from a very patriarchal system. And to have faith in a woman like that ... a girl, a daughter ... takes some nerve. Courage.
He was the primary impetus for that fateful registration in the 2007 Civil Service Examination. That was our moment of truth. The ultimate judgment of my calibre. If I made it - it meant that everything I have done in my life was worth it. Everything was going to work out, we'd live happily ever after, and I'd never get to hear a harsh word from him ever again.
So I prepared. Not well, but I did what I could. Amidst family crises, educational hyperactivities and the day-to-day crazinesses, I began studying for what could be the most defining point of my life.
My last paper ended 3 days before my engagement, the house was a mess due to renovations and I was literally sleeping and drooling off my books which were always lying around me, next to me or flapped over my eyes. I was always thinking of some theory or some fact or some fill in the blank or some grammar rule that my fiance had relentlessly tried to make me remember and continued to say, "I TOLD you this is what comes after this!"
Six months and some days passed. I would only remember the fact that I had given exams only when someone asked me about it. I had taken Political Science, Psychology and Urdu. Urdu didn't go exceptionally well, but I did great in all others.
I knew it didn't matter to most people what result I would get - but I knew it heavily mattered to some. My dad. He was one of those people who said he KNEW it in his bones, from day one, that I'd get a position in it. He just KNEW it. Hah, I thought. ALL parents KNOW it. Even of those who fail miserably.
One night the result arrived. And I found out I hadn't gotten in. I hadn't made it in the written exam. I couldn't believe it - because deep down inside, I knew it myself. I knew it in my bones too (after all Dad and I are the same flesh and blood) that I would pass. I knew it.
I had to accept it. I had to accept that I was not going to be a CSS officer - that long, childhood idyll that my father had for me hadh cracked. I had let him down, I could not do the things he'd expected me to do as his brilliant, exceptional daughter, and it was that and that alone what made me sniffle.
A week or so later the marksheet arrived. And that's when my gestalt shifted.
That's when I found out that the Civil Service of Pakistan is nothing but a sham. Lot of people say that I say that because I have the 'misfortune' of having a Karachi Domicile.
Whatever the reason is.
It still doesn't explain why they failed me - in English GRAMMAR.
A subject I had been teaching to students since I was in O levels myself.
Something that I'm so particular about that when I'm checking Psychology and Sociology papers, still gives me the heebie jeebies when someone misspells or mispunctuates.
I got great marks in Political Science and Psychology. Even passed respectably in Urdu. Did well in all compulsory papers.
And failed. FAILED english GRAMMAR.
And then I started to laugh.
And then I thanked Allah.
This wasn't a result. It was a revelation. It was telling me that I hadn't failed the system. The system had failed me.
Just the way it has failed the entire Pakistani infrastructure.
Whoever it is, responsible for this weird theory of failing people so that there is a saving of quota or keeping Karachiites out on purpose or whatever the hell it is that you people are doing back there ...
Get over yourself.
Because what you're doing to this country is nothing but disaster. And trust me - it is my curse and of all the others whom you have not given that due credit - you will reap what you have sown. I do not know if 'our time shall come' but when it does - whether it's the Day of Judgment or any time before that - you people will get what's coming to you, what's been long overdue and has been biding its time since the day you failed the first deserving candidate.
How's THAT for grammar.
You filthy, green-plated, bureaucratic, biased, incompetent, white-collared jackasses.
Mar 11, 2008
One of life's great mysteries.
Latest feedback from the university.
They will be mimicking me in the awards ceremony. lol. That should be fun.
The head of the department has also informed me that some students absolutely hate me and some absolutely love me.
According to him, that is always a good sign. This means you're doing your job right. I don't quite know what that means but the interesting tidbit is that female students don't like me. They find me too 'intimidating'.
I'm looking forward to seeing the bachas perform. I am a near-Hitler to most kids. Especially to those who think university is more of a dating point than a learning institution.
That's why one boy confessed to the H.O.D. that he hates me so much that if he ever saw my car anywhere on the streets he'd break the windsheild and bang out the headlights.
Lovely being a teacher isn't it.
A colleague, who's currently teaching the kids I've failed in the previous semester has given me another quasi-compliment. She says you've scared the kids about failing. Now they really want to pass my course!
Sometimes I don't know whether to kill all of my students or totally let them go nuts because their really isn't any point anyway.
Education. You confuse me.
They will be mimicking me in the awards ceremony. lol. That should be fun.
The head of the department has also informed me that some students absolutely hate me and some absolutely love me.
According to him, that is always a good sign. This means you're doing your job right. I don't quite know what that means but the interesting tidbit is that female students don't like me. They find me too 'intimidating'.
I'm looking forward to seeing the bachas perform. I am a near-Hitler to most kids. Especially to those who think university is more of a dating point than a learning institution.
That's why one boy confessed to the H.O.D. that he hates me so much that if he ever saw my car anywhere on the streets he'd break the windsheild and bang out the headlights.
Lovely being a teacher isn't it.
A colleague, who's currently teaching the kids I've failed in the previous semester has given me another quasi-compliment. She says you've scared the kids about failing. Now they really want to pass my course!
Sometimes I don't know whether to kill all of my students or totally let them go nuts because their really isn't any point anyway.
Education. You confuse me.
Mar 7, 2008
See The World - Gomez.
Day to day
Where do you want to be?
'Cos now you're trying to pick a fight
With everyone you need
You seem like a soldier
Who's lost his composure
You're wounded and playing a waiting game
In no-man's land no-one's to blame
See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you earned
Empty handed, surrounded by a senseless scene
With nothing of significance
Besides a shadow of a dream
You sound like an old joke
You're worn out, a bit broken
Asking me time and time again
And the answer's still the same
See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you earned
You've got a chance to put things right
So how's it going to be?
Lay down your arms now
And put us beyond doubt
So reach out it's not too far away
Don't mess around now, don't delay
See the world...
Where do you want to be?
'Cos now you're trying to pick a fight
With everyone you need
You seem like a soldier
Who's lost his composure
You're wounded and playing a waiting game
In no-man's land no-one's to blame
See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you earned
Empty handed, surrounded by a senseless scene
With nothing of significance
Besides a shadow of a dream
You sound like an old joke
You're worn out, a bit broken
Asking me time and time again
And the answer's still the same
See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you earned
You've got a chance to put things right
So how's it going to be?
Lay down your arms now
And put us beyond doubt
So reach out it's not too far away
Don't mess around now, don't delay
See the world...
Somewhat conclusive. Maybe.
Life is split between halves.
The haves and the have nots. The give and take. The happy and sad. The misery and the ecstasy. The truth and turmoil. The faith and logic.
I guess it kind of comes down to what you choose when you ultimately decide to defy concentric circles of logic and criticisms. When you shut your eyes real tight and say, "I know and I don't care!" and just keep on maintaining that course. Regardless.
It is only then when you can embrace the dichotomies and accept the unacceptable, believe the unbelievable and find truth in what appears to be non-existent.
For me - that's faith. That's the portion of life where you set aside the whats and whos and whereofs and say, "I don't care. I just don't care."
And then again. It takes a tremendous amount of courage - and that extra dash of foolhardiness to make that happen. But we are foolhardy every so often anyway, aren't we? We can only separate courage from stupidity within a hairline - and call it what we want - believe in what we want. Truth - isn't necessarily objective. And accepting it for that virtue alone - is what unfolds that schism in humanity.
I don't know what I'm saying now. There's more antibiotics in my veins than blood and phlegm - so I'll stay silent.
I like being that way now.
The haves and the have nots. The give and take. The happy and sad. The misery and the ecstasy. The truth and turmoil. The faith and logic.
I guess it kind of comes down to what you choose when you ultimately decide to defy concentric circles of logic and criticisms. When you shut your eyes real tight and say, "I know and I don't care!" and just keep on maintaining that course. Regardless.
It is only then when you can embrace the dichotomies and accept the unacceptable, believe the unbelievable and find truth in what appears to be non-existent.
For me - that's faith. That's the portion of life where you set aside the whats and whos and whereofs and say, "I don't care. I just don't care."
And then again. It takes a tremendous amount of courage - and that extra dash of foolhardiness to make that happen. But we are foolhardy every so often anyway, aren't we? We can only separate courage from stupidity within a hairline - and call it what we want - believe in what we want. Truth - isn't necessarily objective. And accepting it for that virtue alone - is what unfolds that schism in humanity.
I don't know what I'm saying now. There's more antibiotics in my veins than blood and phlegm - so I'll stay silent.
I like being that way now.
Mar 4, 2008
"Micheal Clayton".
THIS is why I cannot enjoy Bollywood as crazily as I did when I was a kid.
Great movie, watch it, watch it, watch it.
Mar 2, 2008
"Jodhaa Akbar"
The good news is, Hrithik Roshan has managed to salvage some dignity in a skirt. And dancing in it, sufi-style. The bad news is, Aishwerya Rai hits yet another case of 'fine feathers', fails to impress with her acting skills yet again and only manages to make a slightly indelible impression because of the awesomeness of her tawdry finery.
Ashutosh Gowariker's direction is the only uncontested winner in the movie, Jodhaa Akbar, the whole set up is as dramatic as Indian movies go. However, the increased quality of performance and production design, that was very paramount to a movie with a storyline such as this (imagine Akbar's court and fights taking place in a studio!), has helped the movie be appreciated. One begins to understand that there exist further talented beings than the likes of Malika Sharawat and Himesh Reshammiya in Bollywood.
Since I am neither a historian nor an expert on Mughal rule, it is impossible for me to critically evaluate the accuracy of the director's description of the 'epic love story'; nevertheless, I shall give it benefit of the doubt of being a fictitious creation/interpretation for the sake of cinema - where people like to be told what they want to hear, see what they like to imagine and experience what they can only wish for.
So, if you're a fan of semi-epic movies in general, like to spend some 3.21 hours indulging in eye candy that is Hrithik Roshan and Ashwerya Rai, you'll probably enjoy it. Don't place your faith in the movie itself, though. That's almost never a good idea when it comes to Bollywood. Dream merchants is what they are.
Ashutosh Gowariker's direction is the only uncontested winner in the movie, Jodhaa Akbar, the whole set up is as dramatic as Indian movies go. However, the increased quality of performance and production design, that was very paramount to a movie with a storyline such as this (imagine Akbar's court and fights taking place in a studio!), has helped the movie be appreciated. One begins to understand that there exist further talented beings than the likes of Malika Sharawat and Himesh Reshammiya in Bollywood.
Since I am neither a historian nor an expert on Mughal rule, it is impossible for me to critically evaluate the accuracy of the director's description of the 'epic love story'; nevertheless, I shall give it benefit of the doubt of being a fictitious creation/interpretation for the sake of cinema - where people like to be told what they want to hear, see what they like to imagine and experience what they can only wish for.
So, if you're a fan of semi-epic movies in general, like to spend some 3.21 hours indulging in eye candy that is Hrithik Roshan and Ashwerya Rai, you'll probably enjoy it. Don't place your faith in the movie itself, though. That's almost never a good idea when it comes to Bollywood. Dream merchants is what they are.
Mar 1, 2008
Best Friend no. 6
I have five human best friends.
And then this creation of God.
It comes at least thrice a year and stays for around 1 month at least.
So after my friends and family, it is this wonderful pathogen that gets to spend so much time with me.
*disgruntled cough, snort, sniff*
*retch*
See. It agrees.
And then this creation of God.
It comes at least thrice a year and stays for around 1 month at least.
So after my friends and family, it is this wonderful pathogen that gets to spend so much time with me.
*disgruntled cough, snort, sniff*
*retch*
See. It agrees.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)