Sunday, February 27, 2005
So much for Sunday
Is it just me, or does nobody else want to have conversations with beauty parlor technicians / hairdressers and anyone else doing a job that requires a great deal of concentration and focus to do well?
I had dreams of a lazy Sunday spent doing absolutely nothing, but apparently a trip to the beauty parlor was in the cards and someone else was dealing. Once there, I contemplate whether it would be rude to pop in the earphones and listen to loud music to discourage all forms of conversation with the lady wielding the wax. Another example of when I should throw politeness out the window and go with my first instincts. In the middle of the painful process, the woman asks me about my recently deceased aunt and wants to know how come I was not the one to tell her instead of my mum about the passing away of said aunt.
Isn't it fun when the next thing you know, you're surrounded by about twenty strangers just hearing the news and converging upon you in a vulture-like fashion to ask pointless questions like how, when, why and where? Next time, the earphones stay on.
Misha
at Sunday, February 27, 2005
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Thursday, February 24, 2005
Calculus Blues
The key to surviving a class where you don't know diddly squat and the teacher's insistent on class participation is to blend in. In fact, to disappear entirely would be an even better idea. To usher in the new generation of slackers, I pass on my wisdom from my many sessions of classes I don't know anything about, such as physics and maths.
Middle Ground. Sitting in the absolute rear of the class when you don't want to be called upon for anything is such a rookie mistake! Then there are the geniuses who try to fake out the teacher by sitting right up front. She will never call on me to solve a question on the board, they think, by sitting this close up, I have established that I am not trying to hide and hence have nothing to fear. Leave the reverse psychology to the masters, buddy. The simplest route is often the best one: the middle! If you're particularly lucky, you'll have someone taller than you sitting right in front of you, but not totally obscuring you from sight. That way, with only your shoulder visible, and maybe an ear, the teacher-alarm reserved for students trying to hide is not sounded while obscuring your face just enough to make you entirely unmemorable.
The old Duck and Frown. There comes a time in every class when a question comes up that is damn near impossible for you to even bother comprehending, much less know the answer to. It is the law of the universe that if such a question can ever come up, it will rear its ugly head when you are present in the class to start panicking about the teacher asking you to get up and answer it. In a regular class, say economics or multimedia systems, sixty percent of all answers are bull or flukes and an average student can field them off easily or at least stall and look pensive while he waits for the class know-it-all's head to explode because the teacher's ignoring his/her hand held high to the heavens since the question was first asked. These subjects, however, leave room for some fast thinking and improvisation. When it comes to mathematics, a fluke will get you absolutely nowhere, and make you look like an ass in front of all your friends in the bargain. This is why you want to, at all costs, steer well clear of being called upon when a question arises in math class. That's where a little maneuvre I like to call the old Duck and Frown comes in.
Picture this: the teacher's just fired off a question, probably wrote it on the board, and is now scanning the rows with those laser-concentration eyes of hers to find the student that looks like he/she has no idea what's going on. It is your job to survive this scenario while some other poor sap gets called on to come up to the board and make a royal ass of himself. The way to go about doing this is something I've been working on for a few semesters now and it goes a little something like this: look up at the question on the board. Pick up a pencil and chew gently on the end and frown slightly at the offending equation. A slight squinting session would not be amiss either. Do not flinch as the lasers come close to you, rest ever so slightly on you and then pass you over. You're not out of the woods yet, but you're close. The second time the evil eyes are coming around, frown a little more, but this time, look down at your notebook as you do it. At a deliberate pace, follow this up by ducking slightly over your notebook, just enough to give the impression of being hunched over the page in concentration. If you're feeling bold enough, look up a second and frown one more time at the board, then back down to duck position. Stay in the hunched position until someone else has been called upon and you're safe, and even then, resume your usual seating position slowly and fluidly.
Roll Call. And finally, the roll call and with it, the age old question: what attracts less attention, a simple 'here' or 'present'? Here's where it comes down to personal preference. Around here, the mass majority go for the 'present!' response, so by sheer numbers, you're indistinguishable from the pack if you decide to go with it. I will tell you, though, that the wrong response is "Yes, Sir!". Especially when the teacher's a woman.
Misha
at Thursday, February 24, 2005
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Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Almost 22
What I wouldn't give for just one peek into the future. One chance to choose an age and fast forward for a second and get a glimpse of what my life will be like in, say, ten years, or twenty, or thirty even, just to make sure it all turns out okay in the end. Heck, even if its not the real thing, it'll tide me over till I actually arrive at that age.
What brought this one? Birthday blues, I guess. It's the first time I've had the blues related to a birthday before the birthday's even arrived. Right up till the moment you turn 21, life is good. You're young, you're precocious and anything major you manage to do is remarkable because you're oh-so young and already accomplishing so much. After you turn 21, it's all downhill. Anything you do is no longer exciting, but expected. After the grand old milestone of 21, there's nothing major to look forward to. You're an adult, you get responsibilities that you're arguably responsible enough to handle. If you do manage to juggle them well enough, you're just an average adult and if you suck at juggling, you're a screw-up.
I don't want to talk money, I don't want to have to do anything I don't want to because a paycheck hangs in the balance and I don't want to have to deal with problems that have no solutions. In short, and at the risk of sounding like a brat, I don't want to grow up. Can you say barely-quarterlife crisis?
PS: I just realised this post makes it sound like it's my birthday, which isn't due for a few weeks yet.
Misha
at Wednesday, February 23, 2005
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Tuesday, February 22, 2005
whine away
We all know that annoying person who won't stop whining about various things that go wrong in their lives, small as they may be. We've all nodded silently while thinking "Compared to my problems, he's got nothing to whine about, ungrateful so-and-so". Hell, we've been that person at some point or another.
Let anyone who wants to whine about the little things whine. It won't do any good anyway. It's the things you can never talk about that'll eventually gnaw you from the inside out.
Misha
at Tuesday, February 22, 2005
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no rest for the wicked
I've heard I smile in my sleep.
I dreamt of videogame worlds where I'm the invincible main character. Of worlds where jumping out of windows is fun and nothing can ever hurt.
I dreamt of giving exams where I don't know the answers, but I always know its just a dream. My narcissism won't allow even mysubconscious to admit that I have no answers, really.
I dreamt of another death in the family. The body leaves and so does everyone else and I'm all alone by the window again, watching the fresh tyre tracks of the van.
Yeah, I've been told I smile a lot in my sleep.
Misha
at Tuesday, February 22, 2005
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Monday, February 21, 2005
SOS
Finally, a forwarded email worth sharing:
MOBILE USERS - NUMBER CAN BE DIALED WITHOUT SIM CARD DURING EMERGENCY. The Emergency Number worldwide for GSM Mobile is 112 and not 999.You can dial 112 even without a Sim Card. If you find yourself out of coverage area of your mobile network and there is an emergency, dial 112 and the mobile will search any existing network to establish the emergency number for you. Do share this important info with others too. Hope you'll never need to use it though! and interestingly... this number 112 can be dialed even while the keypad is locked.
Misha
at Monday, February 21, 2005
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silence
Words are like toy cars. You can make them zoom up and down your mom's new sofa and pretend the "vroooom!" sounds are coming from it instead of from your own mouth but in the end they mean nothing.
Some days, though, even a toy car can run you down.
Misha
at Monday, February 21, 2005
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The Birdcage
"Isnt it pretty sad, a cage that's all empty like that?"
"Nah, it just means there's a bird out there somewhere without a cage around it."
- A Wierd Conversation at Caffeine, Feb 2005
Misha
at Monday, February 21, 2005
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Sunday, February 20, 2005
V-Day Casualties
Left over from Valentine's Day
Misha
at Sunday, February 20, 2005
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Quagmire
If i were to send in my Campus Survival Skills post somewhere as an article and actually get published with my real name, would the powers that be in my university prefer to see me:
a) gently broiled to a golder crisp; or
b) flayed to death with a blunt instrument?
Alternatively, would not sending it in with a pseudonym defeat the purpose of seeing your name in print?
Misha
at Sunday, February 20, 2005
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Saturday, February 19, 2005
love is in the air
Sheru and Fluffy sittin' in a tree...
Misha
at Saturday, February 19, 2005
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Strictly for the Cat Lovers
Sheru and Tindoo - Twins?
Who would've thought a day would come when I would have better things to do than sit around and blog-whine all day? Miracles can happen, apparently. Having heard from a friend about her female cat being in heat, I suggested she could use a dose of 'Sheru' (my tomcat). Since Sheru is neutered and therefore, the dream date of every female cat's owner, my friend was very open to this idea. Sheru, apparently, is devoid of any 'mojo' whatsoever and got zero action from the lady in question, a very cute siamese named Fluffy. However, I did get a bunch of shots of Sheru's not-so-evil twin, oddly also with a very "unique" name, Tindoo, who also belongs to the same friend. Can you tell which is which?
Misha
at Saturday, February 19, 2005
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Metrobloggin!
A bunch of very talented Karachiites have gotten together to create a metroblog for Karachi. I was then asked to join for tax deduction reasons. Check it out
here.
Misha
at Saturday, February 19, 2005
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Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Campus Survival Skills Part 3
At last, after three (or possibly four under the new degree programs) years, you are finally about to be released into the world. This is a perilous time for all, because people have started flipping out for no reason. Sensible males will start talking about feelings and sentimental nonsense, merely all conversation in groups will turn to the imminent descent into the big, bad, world, and, although nobody will mention it, you're all going to miss each other.
A friend once remarked on how you could tell which year someone at a university cafeteria belongs to: If the people are excitedly chattering about movies, music, outings and other various things that require taking out time to have fun, they're newbies. If a bunch of students is sitting together earnestly discussing upcoming projects and assignments and how to go about them, they're in the middle of their degrees. If the bunch of students have red eyes and are wincing and frowning at every loud noise like they have a hangover, they're seniors. Forgive them, they haven't slept in a while. These are the lessons learnt the hard way by the latter category:
Teachers are idiots. You think you're good at talking through your hat about things you know nothing about (i.e. "topi pehnaana") and making it sound like you're an expert on said subject? Think again. This is what teachers do best. Most teachers have little to no idea about what's going on. All they know is that they have kids to feed and a thesis to write and homework of their own to complete so they don't want to put up with any of your idiotic antics. They have taught the same course contents to varying blank faces semester after semester and they know it by heart. By now, if you've identified the most gullible of the teachers and learnt how to exploit this gullibility, you'll do just fine.
Do not defy the brotherhood/sisterhood. Let's face it, its the final semester and you're pissed off. You cannot wait to get the hell out of this place, so you're in a perpetual bad mood. Additionally, when people do things guaranteed to piss you off further, like give lectures on what is morally "right" and "wrong" instead of teaching you the course matter, you cannot resist letting them have it. My advice: let it slide. Teachers in universities are all a part of an elite brotherhood, united by disgruntlement at their salaries. To go against one is to be put in the teacher blacklist. Your only form of retaliation: get chummy with one teacher and tactfully bring the subject around to their colleagues and watch the fur (and mild expletives) fly.
University Cafeterias: no food is good news. This one may apply universally. I kept wondering why is it that it took me three years to come to the conclusion that cafeteria food is best left to the cats (if they'll touch it, that is... a lesson I learned the hard way). The reason is that, as mentioned previously, seniors are a hungry bunch. They, and many juniors as well, are held hostage by merciless schedules and forced to attend classes from early morning to early evening. Brains numb, heads pounding and barely able to think straight, they head for nourishment and even if they were provided bat-dropping sandwiches, I assure you they would eat them. In contrast, when one such individual is taken out for a real dinner, he/she is confounded (and a little frightened) by what their tastebuds are experiencing. In addition to being cheap, easy to warm up multiple times and being able to last several days without any alarming changed to its exterior, cafeteria food serves the function of containing just enough nutrients to allow students to take notes in class, but not enough to encourage independent thought and hence revolt at the unappealing fare served on a daily basis. In fact, many days food shall arrive much later than scheduled, a clever ploy designed to leave students starving and ready to consume anything that is not moving placed in front of them.
The fine art of "topibaaz"-ing. In essence, my friend, when you graduate, if you have not learned how to bluff your way through murky intellectual territory, you have learned nothing and wasted a great deal of your time and money. Remember how the guy who had the quickest draw in the west would always win? In Pakistani universities, if you can pull off answering a question that you have no idea about or give a presentation about a topic with as much swagger as John Wayne, and make everyone else buy it, you're destined for the top!
Misha
at Wednesday, February 16, 2005
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Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Campus Survival Skills Part 2
Now that we've covered the basics, let's skip ahead to the interesting parts, namely when you're about halfway through your degree program. By now, you're no longer a meek little newcomer, cowering under seniors and running away from attention. In fact, if you've learned anything by now, it's that the more people you know, the less effort you have to put into studying.
It's all about compromise, baby. There was a time when you were a squeaky clean youngster with ideals and dreams of accomplishment and towering over others without college degrees. You burned like the very fires of hell themselves to do what the teacher told you to and that little extra, just to stand out and you beamed with pride when the teacher noticed your efforts and singled you out. Good little teacher's pet you were. Now, though, you're semi-disillusioned. You've spend a lot of terms watching others who barely apply themselves and copy off others' test papers get ahead of you. You've also stopped showing off how good you are at a cerain subject because you've had the dubious pleasure of watching your hard work circulated amongst "friends" so they can copy off it, many times not even changing small details so that your original work is dumped in the same category as the copies. You now realise that it's every man for himself and if you work hard, you must reap the benefits.
Learn from your mistakes. You made your mistakes and you chose some people who did nothing but watch you work. You could not say no to people asking you for favours and ended up paying for it. Now is the time to sit back and look towards the future with a critical eye. Your buddy B may do great impressions of teachers, but is he really the best choice for a group leader? There are many catfights, even more phaddas and many broken hearts, but in the end, you'll emerge with a new found knowledge of human beings.
Teachers don't really give a shit. You know it's true. Most teachers do not care about you as an individual. They don't give a flying rat's ass about your personal development, your personal crises or how much you slaved to submit work on time. Here's a little secret: if your teacher's on the permanent faculty, they're probably working on a master's degree, or even working on a thesis for their Pd.D. If you should get one of these teachers chances are you, the lucky students, are an unwitting research assistant and those reports you slaved over and submitted are being used in their thesises so they don't have to waste time doing the research themselves. If, however, you are being taught by adjunct faculty (the freelancers of the teaching world), chances are that they're cursing you inside for approaching them after class hours because all they can think of is how much traffic they'll have to face on their way to the next university.
Originality and hard work don't count for much. By now, if you're smart, you really apply yourself to the work that catches your fancy. Myself, for example, I quite enjoyed putting together my English Writing Skills portfolio at the expense of studying at all for my calculus final. The point being, by the time you're midway through your degree, you'll have a feel for the place you're studying and know how to go about coasting through uninteresting subjects while still getting a decent grade and leaving enough time for the things that matter in life, like sundaes.
Since trilogies seem to be in vogue these days, the concluding part will be up next, just as soon as I get about fifteen minutes to spare. Ranting is such fun. :)
Misha
at Tuesday, February 15, 2005
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Campus Survival Skills Part 1
Now that my class is about to graduate, a fact brought home by announcements for farewell parties all over campus, let us pretend that I am not going to rot to death in this hellhole and go over what I have learned from my almost three years here. (bitter, moi?)
Chronological order is pretty coherent, I hear. I could use some coherence in my posts, so let's start with the beginning, the initial few weeks of classes with fresh faces fellow students.
Ragging. This is Pakistan, of course you're going to get ragged! Can you avoid it? No. Just bring lots of cash to pay off your would-be tormenters. Remember, the fact that seniors are hungry is implicit. Just give them cash and they will leave you alone, for the most part.
Get connected! Get to know everyone and make a small clique of people with similar interests/personalities/hobbies/eating disorders and stick to them. The better your social skills and fake smiles, the faster you can go through the bunch and evaluate which ones are worth getting to know before they're grabbed by someone else.
Listen to everything, believe nothing. One a first day, the ratio of truth to BS is 1:100. Many will claim they know a lot more than they do, others will know a lot more than they claim. Case in question, a girl, let us call her A, claimed to be an expert in programming in C. Those that believed her and formed a group with her, ended up relying on her to bat her eyelashes at a senior to make them a suitable project for C.
Refuse to be a part of class politics. Inevitably, there will be the leaders and the followers. The leader will lead the followers on many a quest that makes no sense except to suit their own agendas. Refuse to follow, even at the expense of alienation. Accept a position of official leadership only if you don't mind putting your heart and energy into a thankless job that allows others to call upon you to wait on them hand and foot.
Do the work. There's a nasty epidemic going around where people refuse to do any work themselved. Beg, borrow, cheat or steal, it's all in a day's work when it comes to assignments/projects. If that's what gets you through, be smart enough to customize it a bit. I know a student who, despite being about to graduate, copied the enture FAQ off a website, including hyperlinks, onto a Microsoft Word document and mailed it as it is as an assignment.
Misha
at Tuesday, February 15, 2005
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Sunday, February 13, 2005
C&H
As if I don't post enough on sundays...
Misha
at Sunday, February 13, 2005
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Messing with the blog
Thanks entirely to
Aman, I managed to get the blog links on the side to show the latest post's subject as tooltips when the mouse pauses on each link. Feels good to waste time doing nothing when you have work to do.
Misha
at Sunday, February 13, 2005
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is it morning already?
Hate is too mild a word for sunday morning classes. Fine, if they want cavewoman misha [me on a regular day, but scruffier and with even less attention to appearance, if that's possible], they shall get cavewoman misha.
Math continues to ruin my life.
Misha
at Sunday, February 13, 2005
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Saturday, February 12, 2005
burn
I suppose I could be all noble and caring and say that I'm sitting here sighing because I'm worried about the earth/the people on the earth who are so dizzily gleeful after killing one of their own that it's one step short of cannibalistic. However, I know that the earth will have the last laugh as all of us gasp vainly for breathable oxygen. As for the people, the internal struggle I'm watching between narcissism and self-loathing rarely gives me time to give a rats ass about anyone else, to be honest. All sensible people are selfish, but not all selfish people are sensible.
If I did not detest those sympathy-faces, I would go on and on about life and death and what a tragedy and "why, God, why?!" and wax lyrical about the angelic nature of those that have passed, but insincerity is not my favorite personal fault.
The truth is I am sitting here sighing because the mixture of no sleep and depressing poetry makes me wonder if it would be so bad if we all just burned, or maybe just me.
Misha
at Saturday, February 12, 2005
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Friday, February 11, 2005
Pyaasa
jaane woh kaisay loag they jin ke pyaar ko pyaar milaThanks to a friend's recommendation, I saw an old black and white Indian movie called
Pyaasa and fell in love with its songs. Will put up favorites for download, provided
Brinkster cooperates.
Update:
Jaane Woh Kaisay [RealAudio]Yeh Mahloun [RealAudio]Misha
at Friday, February 11, 2005
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water, water, everywhere
Pet rocks have not outlived their usefulness. In fact, every girl in Pakistan should have a mobile rock to carry around to pelt upon the insolent hides of morons who think its funny to deliberately swerve towards the pavement in the rain and soak bystanders. Also, a rock can be very handy to fling at the next person who watches you walk past and bursts into song. Every female in Pakistan should have one. Longer range than pepper spray, costs less too.
Did I mention it rained incessantly today? Main seaview has a very interesting drainage solution for when it rains heavily. All that is required are three holes every quarter mile in the divider that separates the main road from the service lanes. When it rains, the muddy water accumulates on the main road, making it difficult to impossible to drive on said roads. What the three holes do is they allow the accumulating water to run into the service lanes and clog them up instead. Once all the water has accumulated in the side lanes (while leaving the main road clear for speeding accidents), it can be periodically splashed onto people on the sidewalk who were out for an evening jog or possibly relieving themselves (alarmingly, the latter have begun to outnumber the former), and until the sun manages to evaporate all of it, it's staying there. Say hello to to your new friends, the diseases caused by the ignored water and the insects that spread it to your homes. I wonder which genius thought up that system.
Misha
at Friday, February 11, 2005
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of thunderbolts and nightmares
When younger, I watched
the little mermaid, mixed up King Trident with various other gods in roman and Greek mythology and got the idea that thunderbolts were thrown down upon us by an angry Allah mian to remind us who's boss. Is it little wonder then, that last night, as it rained incessantly and thunder seemed to split open the sky, I had bad dreams about my room being the target of such wrath, simply because I was, in general, a pain in the ass. An odd game began in my dreams where, due to a lightening rod having been placed for some reason by a neighbour, my room would be the first to periodically get hit by these massive bolts of lightening and virtually explode. The idea was that every time, I would have someone I loved, my cat or something else I valued in the room and would have to run to get them and myself out before the bolts hit. Once out, the room would miraculously heal and some other fool would wander in that I had to get out. I need to stop playing video games.
Misha
at Friday, February 11, 2005
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Thursday, February 10, 2005
soap
7:30 a.m: Misha leaves for the non-class that is media production.
6:30 p.m: Misha walks in her front door. Mum's greeting: "tumhay pata hai aaj Tulsi ke case ka faisla honay wala hai?". It's positively diabolical the way these soap operas have a grip on everyone I seem to know.
Misha
at Thursday, February 10, 2005
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Rain! (Sort of)
It's a beautiful day, calculus class was let off halfway through, yummy lunch and light rain.
I am living proof that living in a deluded state of insistence at the world owing you good things no matter how little you do to earn them can pay off, but only if you cling to this delusion like there's no tomorrow and never, ever allow yourself to believe otherwise. Of course, the flip side of this is that when you do actually work hard for something, the rewards are never quite big enough to match what you got for nothing.
Disclaimer: Incoherence is what I do best.
Misha
at Thursday, February 10, 2005
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Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Khadda Market Cottage Industries
Today I have discovered the heart of Karachi's porn industry: the aptly, or perhaps ironically named, "Mega Productions", which specializes in "Entertainment. Modeling.". It was while staring at this euphimistic board that I noticed exactly how many types of beggars there are around today.
First up, an old woman. If anything gets em, it's an old lady who's a widow and starving, is apparently the first rule in begging school. If the target resists, bring on the next level of hearttuggers: the kids. Unwashed, emaciated and unvarying with large, brown eyes, if these kids don't win you over, you have no heart. Fortunately, my sympathies lie with animals rather than human beings. Seeing that the children are having no effect, the next level of cute is sent forward: the snake charmers and the monkey trainers. If the monkeys don't get your attention with their antics, the snaps of the reeds used to punish the poor creatures will. Resistant to animals as well? Its time to bring in the big (and annoying) guns: the eunuchs. With a bounce in their step and a song in their hearts, these poor wretches can and will be used to embarrass friends ("Dus rupay doonga if you sing a long song for ABC" and friends look on and hoot while ABC is embarrassed). Either out of pity or sheer annoyance, you will end up paying them to go away. The beggars always get their man.
Misha
at Wednesday, February 09, 2005
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the last ride.
Am I the only one here who doesn't want to see the dead body of someone who's died? On one hand we have people who are demanding to see the body and asking when they can come by and see the body and when, when, when will the body arrive at home and on the other hand, I subconsciously move two steps away for every one step the men carrying the rig with the body wrapped in a white sheet take forward. My mum insists I see the face. Don't want to, I mutter and go outside. Watching these people excitedly craning their necks to see the body is beyond my ability to digest.
This morning my dad was sleeping in my deceased aunt's bed, the top of his head poking out of the quilt, much the way hers used to. Scared the crap out of me, that did. Today is the soyem. More people bawling and excitedly roaming about the house, asking each other in hushed whispers at each room if this one is my aunts' room. Is it any wonder I don't like people?
Misha
at Wednesday, February 09, 2005
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Monday, February 07, 2005
...
My aunt passed away this afternoon. Please say a prayer for her if you can.
The worst thing about death is having to catch yourself and convert all the tenses to past. And the sinking feeling that what followed the last thought the person ever had was a deep, motionless silence. Nothing.
Edit: I stand corrected. The worst thing about a death in the family is having to talk about it. "Let it out... you'll feel better" and so on. Why is it people assume whenever anything happens, it must result in talk and the communal sharing of feelings and loud emoting? Leave me the hell alone.
Misha
at Monday, February 07, 2005
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Sunday, February 06, 2005
Deviants
Some great deviations by an artist who calls himself/herself dollseye. Check out Dinner for another great deviation by the same artist.
Misha
at Sunday, February 06, 2005
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Saturday, February 05, 2005
sociopathic tendencies
Can't get no satisfaction. I want to retire in the prime of my life to a hermit-like existence on a remote island somewhere where I could wave a shotgun around and shoot people who come to close to my property. Today, I realized I am on an island shooting people who get too close, metaphorically (which I can settle for just fine, cheaper than a literal island), but a zoo-like island where steamboats full of tourists keep coming by thrice a day to point at me and take photos.
Misha
at Saturday, February 05, 2005
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Iconic
Misha
at Saturday, February 05, 2005
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Basant
Why is it, at this time of year, everyone and their chacha wants to 'enlighten' me about the heathen road to hell aka celebration of basant?
A couple of days ago, a teacher went on and on in a two-hour session about what is 'right' and what is 'wrong' and how Basant is 'wrong' and concluded by asking for a show of hands as to who prays five times a day.
As if that wasn't enough to get the blood boiling, just ten minutes ago, I had a pamphlet shoved into my car window (I'm closing those next time, no matter if I suffocate). Normally, I'd toss pamphlets right back out but the subheading caught my eye: "Basant: An invite to the wrath of Allah (swt)!". Curious, I read it. It seems there was a man who blasphemed against the Holy Prophet (PBUH) andhis daughter Fatima and this man was executed for this act. On the day of his execution, a man named Kaloo Ram (I'm not making this up), apparently decided it would be a great time to launch a festival and call it basant. So basically, celebrating/being happy/having fun on the death anniversary of an evil man being executed is unIslamic now. What next?
Misha
at Saturday, February 05, 2005
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Prayer
If you were sick and needed prayers, would you go for strength or sincerity? Is it better to have a hundred or so people praying for you distractedly/disinterestedly or a dozen who actually care pray for your recovery? I would prefer the latter, personally, but then again, who listens to me around here?
Misha
at Saturday, February 05, 2005
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Friday, February 04, 2005
holi-holiday!
My university has their annual convocation night today, so more or less the entire staff from the management to the peons will be hard at work assuring a fun-filled night for all involved. Thanks to this, the rest of us get a day off. Add that to Kashmir Day tomorrow and Sunday the day after and you have a much-anticipated three-day weekend!
What I love about this place is that nobody does a holiday like we Pakistanis. Others just sleep the day away, or wake up late and read in a leisurely manner they could not afford on other days, but we have to, as a collective group, run around to the nearest hot holiday spot (free, of course) and party the whole day (and night) through. This evening, I have watched the slow accumulation of holiday makers coming to the beach with whole families in tow, just to make the most of tomorrow's public holiday. I can hardly wait for night time (post Maghrib) when the young men on motorbikes and no cares or silencers will tear up and down the main road. God did not bless motorcycles with stereo systems, so other young men, being of a compassionate nature, will help out their unfortunate brothers by filling up their own cars' tanks with CNG and blaring 'Papi Chulo' or the equivalent good time song as they cruise right along with the motorbike people. Up the main road, back to the beginning, then back up the main road. You'd think such an activity would get monotonous after a while, but the Pakistani youth is not so easily dissuaded from enjoying his public holiday. The monotony can be easily broken by:
a) two passengers on different bikes holding hands as they race up and down the road, in a harmonious balance as they glide over speedbreakers.
b) one biker swerving towards another, slower biker (most likely a not-so-young man with wife in town behind him) and veering away at high speed at the last minute.
c) stopping and taking turns demonstrating how to best go about doing a 'wheelie' (riding a motorcycle on one wheel) in the midst of crowded roadsides.
d) slowing down near anything female on two legs and giving her appraising stares all the way from her toes to her head. Should subject be younger than thirty, make dignified sounds guaranteed to turn them on, such as 'chhh-ch!', *smacking lips* and 'oye hoye'. If a particular female happens to be minus burly male companions, turn the bike around once you pass her and repeat the entire procedure.
Misha
at Friday, February 04, 2005
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a mild dose of sappy
Somebody out there is, at this very moment, thinking about what it would take to get you to notice them. All you have to do is find them.
Misha
at Friday, February 04, 2005
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Thursday, February 03, 2005
Rawr!
Misha
at Thursday, February 03, 2005
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Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Lackluster ambition
Many, including my own family, think I lack ambition. Quit the opposite, actually.
When I was five, I wanted to be a pilot who would fly one of those old fashioned Amelia Earheart sort of planes with the double wings and little propeller on its nose. If my friends were really good, they could get to sit on the double wings as I flew.
When I was eight, I wanted to be a doctor in Africa who would ride an elephant to the rescue of dozens of sick people everyday. My elephant would be, originally enough, called Ellie Pant and be my good friend (this was shortly after I watched 'Haathi mere Saathi').
When I was ten, I wanted to be a farmer who would feed cows milk just to see how they liked it. Added bonus: tipping sleeping cows whenever I liked.
When I was twelve, I wanted to be a teacher who would teach children to love books assigned for literature (except 'A town like Alice').
When I was fifteen, I wanted to be a poet and write about love being rubbish made for selling feel-good romances. I would lead the revolution of young people who had never been in love and were sensible enough to be thankful for it.
When I was sixteen I decided I was rubbish at poetry anyway, so I'd stick to prose.
When I was seventeen, I figured out I was no good at prose either so it was time for a career change. Again.
When I was eighteen, I wanted to be a salesman like Willy Loman.
When I was nineteen, I wanted to be a lawyer working pro bono, and make money on the side as a freelance photographer.
When I was twenty, I resigned myself to being a computer programmer and started looking for nerdy glasses to help me 'dress for success'.
Now that I'm twenty-one, I want to buy one of the
Fantasy Islands in Dubai and live there alone, just me and my gadgets.
Misha
at Wednesday, February 02, 2005
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Fin!
Oddly, the aforementioned presentation for which I had zero material went pretty well. I was even asked to wait for the BBA kids taking the same elective and give the same presentation to them, although whether that was a compliment or just because the teacher was too lazy to teach them the topic himself, I'm not sure. The second time, it went even better. From now onwards, its back to the procrastination that is me.
Misha
at Wednesday, February 02, 2005
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Tuesday, February 01, 2005
The Bus Ride Chronicles
The oddest things happen on buses in Karachi. Today, when I got on, there was a little girl sitting across from me who was obviously not from this side of town. Her hair was matted and in clumps. There were obvious signs of not having been brushed for a while, maybe never when you keep her young age in mind. What was odd about this kid was that she was openly staring at me throughout the trip. At first, I assumed (as I normally would in such a situation) that I had chewed on the end of one pen too many and had blue ink on my face. A quick glance in the window's reflection ruled that possibility out. It was then that I realized the kid was staring at me the same way I stare at every passing
Mazda RX7 on the road. That stare that you can't tear your eyes away from, where envy, spite and hate all collide and are balanced out by this sense of awe.
It struck as me as both mildly amusing and sad. I was someone's sports car. This kid didn't care about anything about me except that I looked comfortable, well-fed and clean, and this could have been her just as easily, but it wasn't. She looked away for a minute, eyes meeting her mother's. Something passed between them that I was obviously not a part of. The mother adjusted the sleeping baby against her left shoulder. The girl's eyes strayed to the baby and then returned to me. I pretended not to have noticed. Soon, the bus was at Abdullah Shah Ghazi's mazaar and the mother ushered the girl out the door and I rode on.
Misha
at Tuesday, February 01, 2005
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gah!
Procrastination, when it's from my own end, is fine. It can even serve a useful purpose by allowing me to relax and then start work at a time when I have to buckle down and get something done. However, when others are holding up my work with their procrastinations and excuses upon infernal excuses, it begins to make the blood boil. I have a presentation tomorrow morning and I have little to no material and can't seem to find any more on the all-knowing Internet. Too much to do and too little appreciation makes misha mighty pissed.
Misha
at Tuesday, February 01, 2005
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