good answer, boyo!

‘Do they miss me?’ she cried ecstatically.
‘The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there’s a persistent wail all night along the North Shore.’ - F. Scott Fitzgerard, The Great Gatsby.

soccer diaries

Zahoor: I have to memorize 50 Iqbal verses for my Pak Studies exam in a couple of weeks.
Noon: *singing along to the scientist* nobody said it was easy…
Zahoor: I can’t understand why memorizing poems is part of the curriculum.
Noon: His poems were imperative to the development of the youth at that time. Do you know any of his poems?
Zahoor: *dead silence*
Noon: Not even one?!
Zahoor: Lab peh aati hai dua ban ke tamana meri… *more dead silence*
Noon: finish the misra.
Zahoor: er…
Noon: Zindagi shama ki soorat ho khudaya meri…
Zahoor: yeah yeah yeah...
Noon: What about that Ali Azmat song?! Khudi ko kar buland itna ke har taqdeer se pehlay… *together* khuda banday se khud poochay bataaaaaaaa, teri raza kya hai.
Noon: and especially for the youth ‘mera tareek ameeri nahi faqeeri hai, khudi na bech ghareebi mein naam paida kar’.
Zahoor: you want to know about iqbal?
Noon: I’m all ears.
Zahoor: An alcoholic drunk. After his Allahabad Address he became addicted to alcohol and it eventually claimed him in ’38.
Noon: An alcoholic drunk?! He had an occasional drink!
Zahoor: Ha! You know he killed a man?
Noon: What?!
Zahoor: As a student he was at this mushaira and the love of his life was reciting her poetry. Some guy applauded her work a little too enthusiastically at which ‘the poet of the east’ rose from his gao taqia and stabbed him.
Noon: What?!
Zahoor: Sir! Sir! And he only got out of it because his warden, distant family, marked his attendance in the register becoming his alibi and later stating he never left the dorm.
Noon: Woah. There goes my belief system. I’m going to have to read up on this.
Zahoor: Most of his work was inspired by the bottle.
Noon: Like Ghalib.
Zahoor: Now that was a poet. He’s no hypocrite. You know about him?
Noon: Two sons he didn’t want. A wife that wasn’t the love of his life. Alcoholic. Chronically depressed. You know, the usual.
Zahoor: That’s him.
Noon: My favorite is ‘Kaabay kis moon se jao ge, ghalib, sharam tum ko magar nahi aati’
Zahoor: I don’t see the spark in that.
Noon: Then there is ‘na tha kuch tau khuda tha, kuch na hota tau khuda hota, doboya mujh ko honay ne. na hota mein tau kya hota. I think there is double meaning in there somewhere.
Zahoor: one that makes him the most significant being on earth or the most irrelevant.
Noon: This has been quite a learning experience.
Zahoor: Feel free to take from this treasure trove. Draw from my well whenever you feel
like. *pause* Whenever you ask me for a penny, I will give you a pound.
Together: Hahahaha!
Noon: Are we doing the crazy 8’s today?

tiger tiger burning bright...

You see if a Private Limited Company doesn’t have a secretary then each page of the memorandum of association needs to be stamped and signed by the CEO, which explained my presence at Lahore’s illustrious Bank Square at SMI Pvt. Ltd. I was waiting for the CEO to arrive and sign the godforsaken memorandum of association, which Mr. Zeeshan-ul-Hassan, the company yes man informed me would take another two hours at least. Clearly, I had some time to kill.
Yes, I know that studying for the GMAT would have been the right thing to do, in a manner of speaking but somehow the stars just weren’t aligned that way so I decided instead to go to the zoo. Why? Well, some time ago I was called a soulless banker and I hadn’t taken any measures to refute this. For all I knew, the statement was probably spot on. So there I was, trying to rationalize with myself. ‘surely, someone who likes animals must have a soul.’ Right?
Suited booted I paid the fifteen rupee ticket and stood at the square reading the bold text on the broad arrows indicating which animal was where. I definitely wanted to see the ‘rahino’ and was sorely tempted to see the latest attraction, ‘sea ottar’ but in all honesty I was most eager to see the ‘jungle cat’.
The Bengali tiger. Beautiful. Majestic. Pacing. Waiting. An intimate setting. Just me and him on this lazy Monday morning. I was playing the staring game. He was playing too. ‘Let me out of my cage and I’ll slash you to ribbons’ he peered me in the eyes. Our gazes locked with me trying to force a connection, some reaction. That’s when he roared. Loud and low pitched with widened eyes and muscles tense. I flinched. With only a few feet between us and a shoddy wire mesh to keep him from devouring me, I think anyone would.
I stayed a while, then set off. Back to work, back to the real world… or was I already in the real world and was going back to the jungle, I wondered?
I went back to the branch. Sent the account opening forms to Karachi. The branch manager said I had done well. A ten million deposit in a current account wasn’t easy to come by. I fake smiled. She fake smiled too. So did the team. The room was full of fake smiles. I felt so lousy.
At night I got home later than usual, the electricity was out again. Ami, Khala and Ami Jan were having candle lit tea and pastries. I was offered some. I politely declined. Went upstairs, put on my track pants and my sweat shirt.
I had seen my tiger that day, I wanted to run.
Music blares on wall mounted tv screens showing scantily clad Indians dancing to ‘shanu shanu’. I have my head down. What I wear in my neck bobs up and down with each stride. I kiss it and tuck it in the round collar, knowing that contentment is just two nafals away.

er...

So there i was at the traffic light, minding my own business when all of a sudden a bus came and bashed my car from the back. A bus... not a car or a donkey cart or a jeep. a bus. take a minute to let that sink in.
So I spent the next few hours coordinating with Aslam trying to get my car to the workshop taking estimates and delegating. now I am at work. Bang up day so far... but you gotta remember...
'Roll with the punches, tomorrow is another day'

I sometimes wonder...

Past polished stone,
walk past your spire.
Brick sandy patch
with hook strung wire.
In the brush, angels awaken
and will hustle to and fro,
You stir life into the living,
I sometimes wonder if you know?

Ravens squawk my drear arrival,
I gesture a rapid shoo.
They say you’ve slain an angel,
I say I’ve only slain a few.
‘Did you wash with tears their halos?’
were the words the ravens spew.
We’re past the point, reprieve is showered…
I sometimes wonder if you knew?

I threw my head on leaden pillows,
And saw me floating in some hall.
I saw me standing on a diving board,
with bricks and thorns to break my fall,
And in all this madness across the abysmal black,
I saw a beam one shining through
And truth be told such light be you…
I sometimes wonder if you knew?