The Heebeejeebies

I want to write.
I want to write.
I want to write.

Write what? The pangs of survivor's guilt that sink into my gut every time I catch sight of the naked druggie under jinnah bridge? He's been naked for four days now. No one bothers to give him a cover. Least of all me.

Or write about that fantastic idea for a short story tucked away into a corner of my mind? The story of hormonal love a 14 year old girl and a 16 year old boy who smooch on Facebook and go to HotSpot and have the satisfaction of having a "relationship"?

Maybe even pen a poem-- a pathetic love poem tinged with sorrow under a pretense of happiness. Then have the world assume I cry heartbroken over an ex who doesn't even exist. Was it he who spends hours laughing with her in the SuperStore windows? I swear I saw them last night in the parking lot. Or was it the famed man whore from A levels who's name she's been associated with on every Lucas post? I swear I knew they had never called it quits.

Or maybe write about what we think is the meaning of life? Where do we go from here? Do we even know what here is? Then again what exactly is here? If we get here how will we get there? Is there just an illusion of here?

So much to write on.

Lack of willpower you say?

Maybe just maybe write on all four.

Touche. 

Therapy

When  you want to write, you want to write beautifully. When you want to think, you want to think aloud with a whole gush of blood to your brain. When you want to give, you want to give with wide hands and a careless heart to hold nothing back. When you want to laugh, you want the sound to fill every room till your gut echoes the guffaw that escapes from your lips in mad, throbbing pulses that finally disseminate into soft waves of nothingness.

So when you want to feel, you want to feel with every nerve in your aching body. A dull ache that spreads from somewhere in the middle of your neck and moves down to the tips of your fingers, the nails on your toes. Your ankles seem to twist during the transmission of pain and your wrists writhe on their own accord—an intermission of the lazy jolts of pain that nest within you.

 Try to fight—push your limits, crack your neck, snap your fingers and blink hard. Nothing works. Try to distract—watch glimmering lights, tug at unwanted hairs and stare blankly at a shut screen.

Nothing works.

Try to write it down.

Hands hurt.

Head hurts.

Heart hurts.

Give up. Walk away. 

Waxing Lyrical

Turn up for work in the hazy hassle of a bumpy rickshaw ride combined with the insistent buzz of the twenty missed calls on your cheap Nokia cellphone. Know without even looking at the blue screen that all calls are from the same person. Absently press the red button on the soft plastic keys as you haggle with the fat rickshaw wala over a fare that you know he has already underpriced for you—his regular. The continued buzz of the Nokia cuts into your conversation and you thrust some rupee notes into his hand with a muttered cuss.

Harami.

The rickshaw wala puckers his lips in an air-smooch, makes a thrusting movement with his right leg and splutters the engine back into life. Ignore his insolent flirting and waddle away obstinately, hoisting your obese black leather satchel on to your shoulder.

Sweep through the street of Defense Phase Five, too clean for your taste, with the subtly expensive houses boasting of merry green lawns competing with each other over extravagant wastage of space. Somehow you are reminded of the cramped alleys where you come from. A row of crooked, building block-like houses placed together in an uncomfortable huddle of unfinished brick and cheap cement could easily fit into any one of these lawns. 

Stop in front of the house that you remember not by house number but by the bronze gate that is too low to hide the expensive glass doors and too flimsy to hold back intruders. But why should that a problem? The iron barriers that flank each entrance to the streets of Defense are barricaded by security guards who yawn lazily while asking you for ID and then let you in without even looking at your face.

Debate whether to hop over the gate and test the feeble security. Picture yourself waltzing through the glass doors in victorious mirth without having to wait for someone to answer the doorbell. Deny yourself a glorious moment. You remember they have a harami kutta loose in the grounds.

****

Be greeted unceremoniously by the shriveled up old husk of the khansama. Nazir Baba grunts you into waiting in the hallway for Bibi Ji. As usual the house isn’t ready for your waxing appointment--the phone calls were just a ruse by the Bibi Ji to rub your tardiness in your face.

****

Refuse the glass of Rooh Afza that is offered to you by the patronizing, wrinkled Nazir baba as you wait for Mrs. Javed’s call in the hallway. He ignores your feeble protests and crashes the glass on the marble top side table and exits muttering a constant stream of abuses. Stare for a moment at the artificially bright red drink crowned with large chunks of ice—the drink itself occupies less space than the cubes. Shake your head in disgust.

I can afford this cheap drink myself you old fool.

Reluctantly give into the call of your throat, parched with the dust from the rickshaw and reach for the sweating glass tumbler to take a long cooling sip. Feel your fingers graze letters on the bottom of the glass. Take a closer look and wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Marhaba Pure Honey from the Swat Valley says the peeling sticker at the bottom. The back of your skull heats up as you realize your significance in this house being thrust in your face. An old honey bottle. That’s what you get to drink from.

I bet the bhenchod kutta in the house has its own special plate too.

Scratch the glass furiously with your cinnamon colored fingernails until the wet sticker comes apart in the palm of your hand. Place it back on the table nonchalantly. Second thoughts— you are too thirsty. Take the glass back and drain it noisily until you hear her shrill and rude-- ‘Nasreen foran andar ao!’

Decide what to do with the glass. You don’t want to be served in it ever again. Look around to see if anybody is watching. Deftly toss the tumbler on to the floor and hear the satisfying crack of substandard glass, muffled by the thick maroon velvet rug on the floor.

There you go.

Pull up your plump leather satchel more firmly on to your shoulders, yell back, “Agayi Madam” and walk through the teak doors into the master bedroom, your head held jauntily high.

******

Miniature Mrs. Javed is still in the bathroom. You used to wax Mrs. Javed too once. Ever since she decided she was menopausal you only do her jawan daughter—the miniature Mrs. Javed. You don’t mind losing a regular customer though. You find it ridiculously amusing that Mrs. Javed is menopausal at 48. You used to wonder why the feminine Mrs. Javed was so content at having lost her prized ‘womanhood’.  Then you figured it was just so that she would have an excuse to not sleep with the 200 pound over weight Mr. Javed anymore. Snicker.

Rich people and their problems.

****

Lay down your arsenal of waxing paraphernalia onto an old newspaper spread wide over the marble floor. The Malee pineapple tin that constitutes for the pot of wax goes on the left, the fraying strips of denim to the right and the unusually large butter knife on a ceramic plate to the side of the tin.

Survey your handiwork. It looks like a setting for a solitary dinner party. Reach into your deflated black, leather satchel, pull out a bottle of Johnson’s baby powder and place it smack in the middle of the newspaper—the centerpiece.

Much better.

You can hear the bathroom door being unlocked. In she walks, the miniature Mrs. Javed wearing black men’s boxers, a pink camisole and a sparkly ring.   

That’s new.

As she ties up her hair into a floppy knot atop her heart-shaped face, she tells you she’s getting married.

Bahut bara aadmi hai. Citibank ka head hai. Nahi Nahi, Lahore mein nahi. NewYork mein. Haan mein bhi waha shift ho rahi hon. Shaadi ke baad. Visa lag jaye buss. Visa aaj kal kisi ko nahin milta.Tumhein kya pata. 

She stops to give you a sharp glance.

Achi si waxing karna aaj. Dinner party pe jana hai meinay.

Nod your head. After all, you know that rich men don’t sleep with hairy women. Imagine miniature Mrs. Javed being rejected in bed by her fiancée for having un-waxed armpits. Hold back a peal of laughter but then immediately sober up.

Congratulations to you. You lose another regular.

Debate whether to tell her that she will need to take off her ring to get waxed. Decide not to. After all you might just enjoy accidently spilling hot wax all over her ring finger. Maybe even destroy those insolent sparkles in the process.

*******

Grimacing, miniature Mrs. Javed lowers herself on to your level. Gingerly she holds out one leg, covered with soft, dark fuzz. You know what to do.

Dip the butter knife into the pot of wax. Blow on the golden syrup to cool it. Feel the tension in her muscles as you lather the honey gel on to the slim calf in a well-rehearsed rhythm.

Slather. Slather. Swipe. Swipe.

Lay a denim strip on to the hair suspended in the hardening wax. Feel her boring gaze on the top of your head as you squat over, pressing the tips of your fingers into the rough denim to make it stick to skin. Pause. This is your favorite part.

Look at her in the eye for a split second.

Tear away the strip of cloth in one fluid move.

Hear a yelp of pain in the distance but ignore it.

Slather. Slather. Swipe. Swipe. Ripppp. Slather. Swipe. Rippp. 

The ritual has begun.   

*****

Drop the last denim rag on to the newspaper and breathe heavily. Miniature Mrs. Javed staggers to her feet. Her legs curving into the black cotton boxers, now hair free, are rosy pink—a testimony to the pain. Busy yourself with packing up your satchel but watch her out of the corner of your eye. She wobbles dizzily to her mahogany dresser, her footsteps making a sticky crunch as remnants of wax stick to the marble floor.   

Get used to pain. You’ll get plenty of it on your wedding night when your Citibank husband fucks your skinny ass to get his money’s worth.

She seems too tired to haggle and hands you what you ask. Tuck the money she offers you securely into the strap of your second-hand brasserie, satisfied. Wipe your hands on a spare denim strip instead of asking for permission to use the bathroom. Pack your leather bag in a hurry, ignoring the spill of wax on the side of the tin. You want to leave. The expensive beige walls are suffocating you now by boasting of the money spent on them.

****

Take the bus home instead of signaling a rickshaw. Stagger into the stench of sweaty bodies cramped into blue carpeted seats emblazoned with graffiti left by lustful hands. You are in your territory now. Clench your feet, pressing the tips of your toenails into the hard plastic of your chappal.  The floor seems to loll away from beneath your feet. Look for your favorite spot but it’s gone; invaded by a woman with massive thighs that jiggle merrily as she hands out Country juice-boxes to impossibly tiny hands that try to clutch at every inch of the faded, rumpled lawn print spread over the mounds of shapeless, drooping breasts. Make a disappointed clucking sound that seems to escape from your dry throat on its own accord. The juice-box woman doesn’t notice. Just like she doesn’t notice the streak of an artificial yellow that has made its way onto her shalwar, snaking down a river of thin cotton, marking rivulets between individual rolls of fat and turning a nonchalant white into a naked brown as liquid touches skin. Compare that to the image of miniature Mrs. Javed’s pale brown thighs turning pink and then finally milk-white after shedding a layer of skin and hair.

Debate whether to tell her or not and even rehearse a quick patronizing conversation in your head, (Maa ji, andhi ho kya?! bachay ne shalwar pe juice gira ke nanga kar diya hai!) but then decide against it. After all, she did take your seat.

The bus gives a tremendous lurch as if it’s going to vomit it’s passengers out. The juice-box woman’s thighs wobble dangerously. There are no seats left for you and you have no choice but to grab a side pole where you will stand in clear view of every passenger.

Turn and see an uncomfortably, flabby man in the opposite aisle, staring at the juice-box woman a hungry look on his face—blank eyes and slightly parted lips. First you think that he’s just thirsty, like you after spending hours grunting, squatting poring over every inch of skin looking for unsightly hair. Another look and you realize that instead of reflecting the lurid, mango-yellow plastic of the juice box, his pupils are following the movement of juice as it stealthily creates splotches of dark on a white shalwar. Note how the blink of his eyes is attuned to the jiggle of the juice-box woman’s thighs in a rhythm that you can mimic in your head:

Jiggle. Blink. Jiggle. Blink. Jiggle. Jiggle. Blink. Blink

Suppress a reluctant giggle and wrap your hands firmly around the pole. The pole is rusty and chipped just like the cheap, cinnamon nail polish on your toes. The ride is only twenty minutes now. You’ll make it home to drunken Pa and mousy Ma in time before the evening news.

This is your place. You belong here.

Tighten your grip as the bus grunts noisily to a particularly difficult turn. Your hands still feel uncomfortably sticky with wax. Invisible scraps of shabby paint graze the palm of your clammy hand and obstinately lodge themselves beneath your fingernails. You hardly notice. In the awkward space where thirty five seats are carrying forty passengers-- two sets of hips squeezed into the space of one, you can only feel an unwanted presence creeping up your spine. Pretend that the tight bun fixed atop your head needs fixing and sneak a look from the corner of your eye. See a man at the back undressing you in his eyes, your naked shape clearly visible in his dark irises. Clench your hips trying to make them look smaller and look again. You snicker--he’s got your measurements wrong. Instead of the 32 A that you are, in his eyes you can see the 36 C of the woman sitting on the seat opposite your pole pasted on top of your 24 inch waist.

Maa Behan in chutiyon ki. They don’t need boxer shorts and pink camisoles to get a fucking erection.

Debate whether to turn around and disappoint him with your actual chest. Rehearse a dramatic movement (slip off your duppatta the next time the bus coughs violently, bend down nonchalantly to pick it up and see his eyes frantically search for non-existent cleavage around the V-neck of your kameez) but decide against it. After all, you had always wanted to be a 36 C.

Suck in air until your breasts strain against the buttons of your kameez. Drop your leather satchel to floor. Place it strategically between your slightly parted legs. Stealthily hitch up your shalwar to reveal more than just a slim ankle. Rub your wrists together in a heat of friction that gives off a warm, faintly dry smell of the fake Nike perfume you got from the Sunday bazaar. Forget that you remove hair from people’s bodies to make a living. In the musty air of the bus comprising of hundreds of breaths squeezed out from behind dirty, yellowing teeth--you feel beautiful.

Candles but no Cake

HBTY 6243. Early present.

I paint a picture of you, you from my dreams

So brightly, 

while you shied away

Only to see, Fleeting smoke 

that fades across blue skies

I have wrenched out those kisses, those I stole

So hurriedly,

while the world slumbered

Only to see, a Sliver of breath 

That fogs up cold glass

I have traced down the words, the ones you spoke

So gently,

on only some nights

Only to see, Bitter flames 

That ravage sweet memories

I think of you.

“Loving is so short,

Forgetting is so long”

and All that was?

Not but seemed

A part of what is our reality 

The Fantastic Four

Prologue: In my nineteen years, I have come across various testosterone-fuelled individuals many of whom have left their mark and scarred my once flattering perception of the opposite sex. The world tends to group together all men as a single identical unit with homogenous emotional capacities and an identical ‘world-view’ (read ‘female-view’). In the course of my first-hand experiences I have realized that this in fact is a monstrous lie; men are ever-changing and inconsistent with varying tendencies to handle emotional stress. I like to believe that there are certain ‘shades’ to the opposite sex that can be grouped together under a few broad categories. Henceforth, I take my pen and bring forth in first-hand accounts, the colorful chaps that have shattered my hopes of ever finding a Prince Charming who will sweep me off my feet and take me off into the sunset to a land where the unromantic traumas of in-laws and bawling off-springs do not exist. But before I do so, I believe brief introductions are in order:

1.      The Sappy Flirts: After watching a series of gyrating Munnis and Sheilas on the telly, they have foolishly been lead to believe by Bollywood that women are epitomes of perfection underneath their Gul Ahmed and Generation outfits. They pine for true love and believe that a perfect relationship or happy marriage is the key to a blissful life. Did I say ‘relationship’? Oops. Sorry I meant ‘relationships’-plural please.

2.      The Chauvinistic Bastards: A female looks good on their CV. To enter the choosy executive world is their hearts desire. However they realize that they cannot do this alone. After all you do need a female who will clean up after your mess, provide you your daily nutrition and then dress up to look good on your arm at executive dinners where your Boss’s wife requires company. Girlfriends are too much of an inconvenience so they jump straight to marriage. Enough said.

3.      The Self-Injured Neurotics: They did believe in love. Once. Unfortunately their world shattered soon after their lady love ‘gracefully’ declined their advances. Unable to accept reality or give other more sensitive females a chance, they spend the rest of their life chasing and then discarding random ‘chicks’.

4.      The  Enticing Untouchables: Living examples of ‘life isn’t fair’, these men have looks the likes of Richard Geere, mental acuity comparable to that of  Steve Jobs and the sincerity that can only be likened to Prince Charming. These sadistic individuals are almost ALWAYS ‘taken’ and are happily committed to females that have been blessed with the beauty comparable to the legendary Greek Goddesses.

                                                     **********************************

1.        The Sappy Flirt:

Well aren’t you the ego-booster? We met only a few hours ago and already I have a FaceBook friend request from you, ten text-messages in my cell phone and more than just one random ‘bump-in-to-each-other’ on campus.  Dare I venture into the content of your messages? You have lauded the texture of my hair, commented on the ‘mystery’ of my eyes and quite wrongly remembered and then complimented the color clothes that I wore when we first met. Well, well you’re quite the ardent admirer aren’t you?

What a coincidence that I too remember the first time we met. Standing there, dressed in a too-tight T-shirt to emphasize what nature has endowed you with, wildly patterned shorts to show off tanned, hairy legs and with hair mussed to perfection, you made quite the pretty picture. As a common friend (‘incidentally’ female as well) introduced us, the drifting odor of your SetWet ‘Sexy for Men’ hair gel and the engulfing scent of your generously applied ‘Eternity for Men’ by Calvin Klein seemed to thickly saturate the air between us into an invisible wall that reeked a message that I can now decipher as: ‘Keep Away-Danger’.  Well, I suppose you’ll be happy to know that there and then you did catch the eye of every female in our vicinity and attracted quite a few ‘comments’ on your prominent attire. 

Our next conversation, barely two days after our formal introductions went something like this:

You: Hi Sanniah! Kaisi ho?   

Me: I’m okay! How was your day?

You: Buss yaar. Tum nahin mili aaj. Din kaisay acha guzarta?

Me (quite flattered but not willing to admit): Aisi bhi koi baat nahin hai.

You: Kyu nahin ho sakti? Buss tum mujhay kisi din milo aur mera din poor ka poora badal jaye.

Me: Umm. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.

Him: Chalo I’ll see you tomorrow (insert random nickname). Tum ne meray liye time nikalna hai buss. We’ll write poetry together under the trees!

I admire you. I really do. Your inconsistency to adhere to social norms and proper decorum is fascinating and inspiring. Rather than follow the unspoken code that applies to modern-day relationships, you quite obstinately follow your heart’s desire to say what you want and whenever you want and to whomever you want:

(Two months after our introduction)

You: You’re pretty.*wink*

Me: Haha, that’s kind of you. Thanks J                   

You: You’re nice too. You know something? We should get married.

Me: -----------------------------------

You: Nahin tum meri baat ghalat samjhi. We owe it to the world! With your

personality and my good looks, the world will thank us for producing the perfect kids!

Yes, bold, daring and insanely reckless is how I would describe you. Bravo you deserve a hearty applause. For a second there, you almost had me reeled in; a man who proposes marriage in the first two months that I have known him is a rare find and a man who talks about his ‘good looks’ while proposing to the object of his affections? Let’s just say we’ve hit the jackpot, haven’t we?

If only not too long ago you hadn’t used the exact same lines on my best friend, then on her friend and then again on her friend of a friend and then again on her friend of another friend. Tsk tsk. You’re quite the player aren’t you? Surprised I know? Let me share a well-known fact; most women don’t keep quiet when someone uses the words ‘you’, ‘marry’ and ‘me’ in the same sentence. Time to buy a thesaurus you say? But, of course.

2.        The Chauvinistic Bastard:

Well hello there. We met yesterday to discuss our ‘prospective’ marriage as you may remember. Our eyes met for a second over the translucent cloudy steams, teetering in graceful convulsions above rim of your delicate china teacup.  As our fingertips brushed you probably thought that you felt my heart flutter as the tip of your manly, calloused fingertip lingered over my not-so-feminine stubby fingers. You graced me with a hello, your deep voice resonating in the room that had gone momentarily still because our mothers were watching our every move. You looked at me deep in the eyes and watched me demurely lower mine and ask you whether you take sugar with your Earl Grey. You seized this moment to graze the ends of my hair with your broad palm to whisper: ‘You look beautiful-head to toe, lips to fingernails, feet to eyebrows.’

 It might just have worked. I might have fallen for the faint scent of Hugo Boss drifting from the inside of the collar of your primly pressed Ralph Lauren button-down, your platinum cuff-links and your BlackBerry blinking with the thousands of emails you had to put off just for me. Why thank you, I forgot to tell you I was touched.  What a coincidence that my phone was blinking upstairs with a hundred text messages inquiring details about you from your hair color to your shoe size and other indelicate physical features.

But here’s the thing, if you say that you believe in love at first sight, I know that you’re lying. I know about your previous hooker girlfriends, tanned and blonde back at the university in California who you proclaimed undying love for just to get them into bed. Surprised I know? You should have cleared out the lusty comments left by Rachel, Jennifer and Naomi on your FaceBook page before sending me a friend request.

Now I’ve probably made you uncomfortable by knowing too much. Your mother won’t like that will she? Shhh. Don’t worry. My uncanny observational skills can be our little secret. After all, in our life together, there will be plenty of secrets I will be privy to including your little drinking habit. Surprised I noticed? Your mother doesn’t probably know this, does she? Yesterday when she taking me in, everything from the color of my hair to the quality shoes I was wearing she mentioned that the apple of her eye prays five times a day and condemns sharab in society. Taubahtaubah. How can people even think of indulging in such sin?   Yesterday, when I lowered my eyes and asked you if you wanted sugar, I saw your BlackBerry screen wink up at me with a wallpaper of you and your college pals toasting your ego with Black Label Vodka raised to your lips. Don’t worry. Our secret. But you probably should change that wallpaper. As a good future biwi I seek to protect your untainted social image.

Today I got a haircut in preparation for our next meeting.  Tomorrow you just might notice the change and then will rack your brain as to what exactly is different in my face. When you won’t figure it out you will say, ‘You look beautiful-head to toe, lips to fingernails, feet to eyebrows’. You will forget that you used the same line yesterday.

Then what is it that makes our ‘contract’ agreeable to me? Is it the red Deepak Perwani jora that your mother promised me because ‘red is my color’? No it’s not. Is it the huge Damas diamond ring that you plan to get me so you can show off my hands to your executive friends and get them back for laughing at your bald head in high school? No it’s not. It’s the designer clothes that hang in your closet. No seriously. You know that I’m from a middle class family that couldn’t afford designer clothes. I relish in the fact that I shall get to wear your Ralph Lauren’s, Calvin Klein’s and Gucci shirts and model them for you at night before bed in an attempt to look ‘appealing’ and ‘alluring’. I’ve heard that men like to see their girlfriends- sorry, wives I mean- in their clothes. There’s something incredibly appealing in it for them that a woman is attempting to get to the top in their shoes. I’ve always wanted to know what designer men’s clothes feel like and you provide the perfect opportunity.  If you don’t have a problem with that then we are in short- made for each other.

3.        The Self-Injured Neurotic:

There is something horribly wrong in the balance of the universe when men who are not in their right state of mind and are only on the lookout for a little bit of ‘playboy’ fun become insanely attractive.

Last month, we met in a boardroom full of stiff people whose every breath resonated with proof of an impressive IQ and an intelligence surpassing that of ‘normal’ people like me. As I squirmed restlessly on a faded green, once-plush chair worn down to threads, afraid that any suggestion I was to give to this ‘productive’ meeting would give rise to a collective snicker that would vibrate through expensively beige-painted walls, you took the stage with your hands in your distressed, faded denim jeans and a hint of a smile. With a few words you managed to maneuver the conversation and dispel the tensed up atmosphere with carefully placed jokes. I felt my heart beat pick up, my palms become moist and an uncontrollable quiver of feminine pleasure made its course through my body as you turned to address me directly in front of a difficult-to-please audience.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes merged with hours and hours churned out days and ‘somehow’ we were talking every day for hours into the night as professional topics of conversation melted into more personal ones. Your text messages to me were tinted with obvious attraction and mine to you were gushy and full of adoration. As our paths unwittingly crossed in University, I could not hold back the red hue that colored my cheeks every time you so much as glanced at me. Invisible birds were chirping musically and the world seemed to coo as we playfully continued our little escapade on electrically transmitted signals.

Yes a nice little story we had going on there. Sadly all good things come to an end and you turned out to be, in a word- crazy. Let me recall the text-message conversation that shattered my little fantasy:

You: Can I ask you something?

Me (fantasies of a proclamation of undying affection and running off into the wilderness already playing in my mind): Yes, of course?

You: Why do we talk so much?

Me (utterly bewildered): I don’t know. Does that bother you? =/

You: Yeah it does. Just don’t fall for me =P I’m only going to break your heart.

Me: O.o. I think I can manage?

You: I didn’t want to tell you this but I’m in love with somebody else. She is the most amazing person I have ever met in my life and I can never stop thinking about her. But I can never be with her. She says she’s getting committed to someone else…family pressure....I want to be just friends with you.

So there we have you; the heartbroken, unstable male that I like to call the Self-Injured Neurotic. Rumor has it, that you have ‘broken’ the hearts of many other tender-hearted, un-suspecting females by first ‘falling’ for them and then pulling back with a ‘guilt’ of insulting the untainted, ‘pure’ love that you entertain for your unreachable beloved. Wow. You’re full of drama aren’t you? You certainly would give Bollywood serials a run for their money.

Am I heartbroken because of you? Certainly. Are you worth the trouble? Probably not. Am I insanely jealous of your lady-love? Maybe. Are you a lost cause? I like to believe not. See, I may be a hopeless dreamer yet at the same time I am sensible enough to safely predict that someday you will wake up to the stench of heartbreak as your beloved spends her life happily in the arms of her betrothed. A word of advice: it’s time to purchase the much needed dose of pure caffeine at Life’s very own Coffee-House before it hurls itself at you in a swirling, murky mass of steamy despair and unbearable, hot disappointment.

4.        The Enticing Untouchables:

I’ve known you since the day my mother handed me my first Lady-Bird reader labeled ‘Fairy-tales for Children’. You are Prince Charming; you are the knight in shining armor that saves the day when all hope is lost and you are the inspiration behind the lead male role in every Hollywood romance. You are also very much unavailable to the likes of me; a healthy, mentally-stable, purely heterosexual and very much single female because your heart has been ensnared by a ravishing creature whose very mention sends a spear of jealousy through my possessive heart.

What is it that makes you so special? Is it the fact that your deep bass voice resonates with the frequency of my heart when you speak? Is it how even the brief minutes of our conversations leave me light-hearted and relaxed? Is it how every time, you step back and open the door for me when we step into class? Or is it because I believe that if I googled ‘perfect’ I’d end up with a picture of you? Combine the above and we have you- the reason why my faith in men still persists.

Your affair with She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named bounces off in gossip and seeps through the cracks of our University walls. But instead of bashing your relationship as ‘fling’ or a ‘time-pass’, gossipmongers’ take your name with a reverence and feed stories of your adoration for your lady-love as fodder to love-starved and highly imaginative individuals, filling them with hope that their ‘perfect’ romance is just around the corner. We are told that after a friendship of two years, you declared undying affection for the object of your desire and proposed marriage to her all-too-willing parents. Now her hand is weighed down by a ring that you saved up to buy after slaving at teaching tuitions around the city, just because you wanted her to have physical proof of your devotion to her. That Damas diamond ring shimmers and sparkles every time she raises her delicately small, white hand to show it off her female minions, not only blinding them temporarily but also cutting through their hopes of ever landing you and shattering my all-too-similar dreams into a thousand little glimmering pieces.

Since your amore for She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does not allow you to spend more than five minutes talking to any other attractive female, I do not have any snippets of conversation to allow me to delve more fully into your character. However the portrait of you in my mind, allows me to escape into self-constructed fantasies where my Self-Injured Neurotic miraculously adapts your persona and adores me with the same ardor that you honor your inamorata. Till then, I continue to ramble on a personal grudge, lament on shattered dreams, muse about a disappointing reality and carry around the hefty guilt of a low self-esteem. 

LUMS 101

Let me share a little-known embarrassing tale. Once upon a time that is mathematically one year ago yet emotionally and spiritually seems decades ago there was once a freshman(no prizes for guessing who) was an hour early for her first class on her first day. Determined to show extreme efficiency and responsibility in accordance with the fact that she was now entering the almost-adult world (we’re talking 7 in the morning people) and equally determined not to look overdressed but still looking it anyway, she locates her designated auditorium at 7:05 and waits for the rest of the class to show up. She proudly takes out her new notebooks embossed with the LUMS insignia and eloquently traces out her name, roll number and write LUMS Bsc. Honors inside the cover of each to while away the time. By 8:05 when people start trickling in, she realizes she has a problem. Instead of Principles of Economics the instructor is talking something about Advanced Statistical Analysis and harried looking people are listening attentively. Oh crap. What the hell is she doing here? She rushes out of the auditorium as unobtrusively as she can, the metal bangles that she had put on oh-so-casually that morning (after spending half an hour trying to decide if they were too over the top), creating a racket that causes the serious looking seniors to glare at her unforgivably. Yes Advanced Statistics is apparently no joke. Apparently the RO had sent an email out half an hour earlier changing the auditorium so by the time she got to the right class, the instructor was done with the introductory presentation and class was dismissed. Poor little freshman-since that day she always enters class ten minutes late just to be sure and got a new cellphone that supports Wi-Fi for emails.
So here’s a little something to ensure that most of you who just made it to LUMS avoid embarrassing situations-
1. O week is no way representative of life at LUMS- So you enjoyed your O week. Good for you. You’re in a highly ranked university that caters to ethnicities from all around Pakistan AND it takes you to Joyland?! Wow good you didn’t get into Princeton. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that- O week is just a gimmick before you are thrown headfirst into tumbles of assignments and fatty food. Just a LUMS way of saying welcome to the over-worked family.
2. Invest in a car sticker: The security guards at the front gate are not your friends- The only reason they seem so nice in the first week is because they are told to let everyone in. After that, even if you shove your smartcard in their face, they’ll still have a problem if you don’t have a car sticker. Oh and don’t say HUM DEHSHATGARD NAHIN HAIN! It’ll just make it worse.
3. It’s good to have friends who are in higher batches even if you have to suck up to them : Seriously it helps- they’ll get you into clubs and get you director positions at LUMUN. Bribing doesn’t work but the whole brother from another mother act does (Seniors are softies cuz they’re in their last year and they don’t want to leave LUMS to enter the harsh working world that doesn’t give student discounts-awww)
4. Be prepared for your first day at LUMS- this goes without speaking. Ragging generally doesn’t happen unless you really deserve it but please don’t carry crisp blue notes in your pocket or wave them around at the khokha. It really isn’t healthy. Oh and dress casually; it becomes so much easier to tell if you’re a freshie when your hair is straightened, your arms are weighed down by jingling accessories and your hair is mussed up a little too perfectly.
5. Keep the guide map handy throughout your first week- here I speak to all the newbies who have been to LUMS a gazillion times for events that cater to ‘delegates from all around Pakistan’. So you’ve been to LUMS a few times- you know where the sports complex is and where the PDC is. Big deal. Here’s a task for you- Go find A-15 and A-14 and no they’re not hidden in some secret area next to A-13. Where’s A-13? Hint-nobody calls it A-13. Oh and while you’re at it. Also find A-10. Its right next to A-11-which isn’t next to A-9. Oh and btw A-8 is on a completely different floor.
6. Take it easy when you volunteer for events: So your campusmail is brimming with emails dripping with juicy details of LUMUN, Yles, CARMA and Psifi and what not. It says very attractively- apply for director of blah blah NOW!!!!!!!! Here you need to make a choice. You see all these event managing people don’t really choose brains- they go for people who are willing to slave away their social life and the few precious holidays that are sprinkled throughout the academic year and though it’s fun to volunteer and hang out at the free concerts-it’s advisable to do just one event or at most two, because trust me, holidays with no mention of LUMS are much more fun.
7. Check your email every five minutes. The above mentioned will happen to you sooner or later if you don’t.
8. Learn the art of spending smart- Yes LUMS has a HotSpot. Yes now you have ultimate access to Glora Jeans and OMG Yessss now you can eat barbeque anytime but keep eating at the ‘cooler’ eateries every day and you may not be able to afford a meal after the first week of the month. Things may seem cheap but they really are not- it’s good to budget out and then plan accordingly. The PDC and superstore are good options for everyday eating and the rest are good for eating with a bunch of friends. A tip- no coffee tastes as heavenly as the cappuccinos from PDC so don’t go craving caffeine from Gloria all the time.
9. If you don’t like a course the first day, DO NOT I REPEAT DO NOT EVEN THINK about keeping it for another second. You will die. Nuff said.
10. When teachers tell you that your GPA isn’t important- they lie. In your freshman year EVERYONE will ask you your GPA from Khala and chachi to the guy you sat next to in just one class.
11. Crying in front of a teacher for a grade only works for girls with male instructors ONLY- on guys it’s just sissy.
12. Impressed by the number of clubs? Only a handful of them actually function (no offence to any society) so again, choose wisely.
13. You met somebody you really liked during O week and don’t know how to meet up? Don’t take the same course they’re taking- it’s just wrong and will not get you a good grade.
14. If a guy and girl are sitting together in the windows next to the superstore or PDC- it does not mean they are going out. And no the sports complex isn’t just a hangout for the spawn of the devil who just can’t keep their hormones in check. So please don’t point or get excited- you’ll be doing the same give or take a month.
15. Economics major is not the only major that has esteem. Anthropology is actually a fun major which isn’t only there for people who were on probation so stop turning up your noses at the word ‘anthro’ and realize that Economics isn’t the answer to all your questions.
16. Don’t take courses full of SSE students: they will increase the mean mysteriously and that means your downfall.
17. The REC is only fun for a few days until all the sofas are stained and everybody doesn’t stop looking you up and down as you enter. The DR’s make much cooler hangouts as long as you’re not alone.
18. No it’s not the end of the world if you get a less than 3 in your first semester. If you get a 4 in your first semester, it’s just creepy.
19. CP makes a difference and so do attendance marks. In the end when you lose your grade by 0.0000000001 percent, they’re not going to change it so try and score in every possible way by showing up to class.
20. Don’t hang out in auditoriums alone after dark. People will assume the worst. And the janitorial staff that keeps bursting in? Yeah that’s doesn’t happen ‘accidently’. Doesn’t matter if you’re with a guy or a girl- it’s just safer to hang out in groups of threes.

Stalkerazzi

What do I do when it’s Saturday night and I realize I’m never going to fit into even a size four or have perfect teeth? This is the time, when I open my Facebook junk inbox. No I’m not a neat freak cleaning up my inbox clutter but instead I resort to a rather hideous occupation.

Meet my ‘Stalkers’. Good old chaps who employ a completely new dimension of the character ‘knight in shining armor’ and keep me from falling into a self-involved, self-conscious oblivion. And no I’m not alone – no female has been spared from a display of her ‘charm’. They will praise you, they will bully you and they will try and convince you that they have been in love with you since the 6th century and that ‘we are meant to be’ since ‘every match is written in heaven and you just fell from the stars into my arms’. The first time I fell victim to this whole charade, I was rather flattered. I had just said good-bye to Enid Blyton and was immersed in stolen steamy romance novels hidden inside O level Biology textbooks. So when Hot Boii sent me a Facebook message saying that he had come across my picture and found my eyes to be ‘twinkling stars in a mantle of oblivion’ I was sent to the ninth heaven of joy. Later, I found out my best friend had been told by Waqas Boii that her ‘hair was silk to his otherwise callous hands’ I was rather disappointed. Geez, Hot Boii, way to go for studying English Literature.

Things would be different for my stalkers if only it was not in my knowledge that the same exact messages that litter my inbox are also in the possession of some other big-eyed, long-haired girls with rather good display pictures on Facebook. So now I just compare them to a germ infestation really, sprawled all over cyber world with a virus of extreme boredom or just generally a very sick idea of fun.

Lets view some specimens from my facebook inbox shall we?

Specimen 1: they keep it short and stick to the point. Not very flattering but still they let you know they’re interested.

a) “kn0ck kn0ck . EyLo0o0″ (EyLo00ooo to you too)

b) “hi. Can I add you?” (at least you asked)

Specimen 2: They will convince you that you are better looking than Katrina Kaif and will spill out their hearts to you

(extract from a 600 word letter)

c) “There is certainly no doubt about this that you are going to consider it another flippin * Fraandship * request, but then I am such a brill lad, that I always believe in giving it a try by considering myself to be jammy enough to capture your attention.

If you ask me, than the only reason why I am dropping you a text is that I have lost the plot and gone nutter since I have seen your picture, and even though it was one hell of a next task for me to spill it out but yes you made me say that *you truly are a beauty* unlike other mingers I normally come across.

Why am i having a lip with you? Why am I saying all this crap?

The land, the city where I was born and bred was the same as yours and I certainly have no doubt how guys pretend to be so sick in front of girls and fancy every single girl who catches their eye. Then no matter whether it’s a Bus stop, a signal, a café, a hospital, the moment they see a girl they go barmy as if she is the only girl in the world (Rihana)* lolx..

(and it went on for a few pages until…)

Stay Blessed!! Xxxx”

And so when I didn’t reply;

“WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY ????what do you want? what am i suppose to think, what am i suppose to say?wrote one hell of a message for you, and you ain bringing yourself down from the top of the mountain…WHAT IS YOUR STORY?”

(gee I didn’t know I was on a mountain and that you were having a ‘lip’ with me ‘brill lad’)

d) “heyy hiii

ummmm dunt hv anythng else to say
ok…. “wanna frandshap wid me?”
seroiusly dude every hawt girl has gota bf nd every girl dat i cm to know as my gf is nat hawt….. seriously em fed up… u r the one whum i dunno so dats y em sharing… blah blah i dunno wat em sayin’”

***********HELP MEE**************

(I didn’t know that ‘hawt’ looks were all to you)

Is it just me or are these specimens really misinformed about how to ‘get a bachhi’? Hasn’t anybody told them that they should just read ‘Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus to get a better picture of ‘chicks’? I guess not.

Ask me why I read these on bad days? They give me laughs and leave me actually feeling better. Take a look at this one that my male friend translated into what he calls ‘guy lingo’

e) ‘Hi,u have a nice style (i found u attractive).Very smart dressing u have (probably sexy). I like the way u dressed(attractive sexy). U should be a brand embassadar of CHEN ONE….!!!(because chen one one of the only is the only brand i know of)”

Flattering isn’t it? The next pink Floyd or should I say Coke Studio song should be “Hey Stalkers leave us ‘chicks’ alone”

I could go on and on about my stalkers but why bore you? Or rather why flatter these particular ‘men’ with the knowledge that I actually read their messages in my junk box? The moral of the story is:

“Ladies and Gentlemen that most of us need a life.”