“You’re ugly,” The rose wrinkled her pretty petals in disdain and glared at the wistful thorn but a few centimeters away,” Your ugliness dulls my beauty; your forlornness my carnation and even after a lifetime of rebuke and abuse, you still persist in your  attentions towards me?”

The thorn made to protest, but under the annoyed gaze of the regal flower, merely stammered and fell silent; the rose seizing the chance, went on with her tirade.

“It is an insult to my beauty that such scum as you should linger around me; but I  bear, I tolerate your odious presence in my space; alas! was it not for my generosity I would have long ago gotten rid of you – yet, your boldness surprises me; your sneaking, jealousy-borne habits of drawing blood from the fingers of my admirers … makes me so angry that I wish I could have been as cruel as the leaf that flicks away the caressing dewdrop once the sun rises to its full majesty!” The rose continued to gesticulate fiercely; alternatively clutching her petals in a tight huddle and letting go in an angry flourish.

The thorn listened. And listened.

He knew the reproaches would soon come to an end.

“Why can you not stay away!?” The rose finally shouted  and huffing loudly, turned her back to the thorn; as if his very countenance was offensive to her highness.

And, at the very moment, when she turned her back, he whispered in a voice that even the most flamboyant critic would not have considered devoid of utmost devotion:

“For the sake of protecting you from those that ever yearn to ruin you.”

Image courtesy of: http://www.dreamstime.com

1) To finally upload my beyblade fan-fiction at ff.net.

2) To somehow go through my sister’s wedding scheduled to take place in the end of December.

The former sounds a lot easier than it actually is. The fan-fiction that I arduously wrote over the course of three years in a community at Orkut spans over some 43 chapters and one epilogue. In my laziness, I never troubled to put it up at ff.net – however, as I went through it again today; I was amazed. I had put together some epic shit and it truly deserves to be read by more people!

So, I hope to start working on streamlining the first few chapters and start uploading it on ff.net as soon as possible!

As for the latter task, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m actually scared. You know, the weird, desperate hollow feeling you get in the very pit of your stomach  once you realize that the person you are really attached to is about to leave, to tread on a path that is different from yours.

It isn’t as if I never knew this day would come soon. I’m not naive.

Just a loving brother, whose heart aches at the parting; yet at the same time, admonishes himself over his selfishness.

13 days are left to the wedding and I hope to make them the best my sister has ever had!

Wish me luck.

Get Enlightened? Seriously?

Absurd as it is, it still gleams with the pitiful shards of the grandiose dreams of fame that I had lovingly contrived in my foolish head when I had started blogging. Dreams, that made me buff my chest in pride whenever I mentioned to someone that I “blogged”; dreams, that made me certain of the fact that my words had the power to “enlighten” people; dreams, that slowly churned and distorted me into something that I was not.

And, now as I prepare myself to finally shake off this unseemly farce, I realize what I stumbled upon while fighting against the grip of the writer’s block.

Self-discovery.

Yes. The tagline that once represented my desire to enlighten now depicts nothing but a flimsy canvas of a degenerated desire.

I posed. I assumed. I waited.

There was no fame coming. Never was there any fame coming.

I had forgotten, in the frenzy of checking out the views that my blog garnered and the comments it received, why I actually had started blogging.

I had started blogging so that I could WRITE.

Write, and bask in the pleasure of doing so.

It is sad that somewhere, at the very start, I forgot this very crucial thing.

However, as clichéd as this may sound, but isn’t there a saying better late than never?

Yes, in a few days the cringe-inducing tagline would be kicked out and with it, the dark trappings that encase Lambros – change is coming, folks!

Image courtesy of: http://opportunityselling.org

Even with my extremely weak English skills and IQ level, I have managed to grasp the gist of what Awais Kaleem writes in his article and this gist is equivalent to nothing but three words: doctors are monsters. As much as my erratic mind would like to point out that the author must have some deep grudge against the doctor community to write such a disgustingly, biased article, I would desist. However, I would be quite happy to reply to some of the meretricious statements that author has so cleverly made about the doctor community – so let us begin with the dissection.

Firstly, the naiveté of the author surprises me. Does he think that the doctors would have been successful to get the much-needed pay rise if they would have not resorted to closing the OPD for some 35 days? Also, closing down the OPD, pretty much seems to me as a last resort, that is, after all peaceful measures had been attempted and declared futile. Does that mean doctors aren’t even eligible for a benefit of doubt?

Secondly, when the author so merrily denies the right to protest to doctors, I can not see who gave him the divine right to question somebody else’s choice of profession. He needs to correct his impressions about doctors claiming divinity, because, sadly (much to the author’s dismay) they never laid any claim to it – if they are revered as gods by the patient, that is something they can not do much about. The author also needs to know that the doctors are well-aware of their duties and they wonder what made the author think that doctors beg for respect or drool for fame – because they do neither; if they garner any fame or respect, then it is purely upon the basis of the fact that they can actually save a person’s life.

Thirdly, it is sad that the author is leaguing the doctor community with the politicians. I literally snorted when I read this line:

“From the way you and rest of the government and politicians are behaving these days, believe you me that we sure as hell are going to die anyway.”

Seriously? I really hope that the doctor who usually treats the author’s ailments does not see this statement. Ahem.

Fourthly, the following author’s words left me gaping at the screen:

As far as your problems are concerned; long late hours duties, low salary, hospitals under staffed. For these my dear fellows, didn’t you know this all when you were enrolling yourself in a medical degree institute? If not then what were you thinking back then? Seriously! This was clearly an obvious disaster for you. Either you know the answer to this question or we really are doomed to have such stupid and hypocrite doctors in our society. I would assure the author that doctors know all before they venture into this profession.

Just because these doctors attempted to change the fact that, after drudging for years on medical minutiae and trying to save as many as lives as they could, all they got was a paltry salary of Rs 22,000 – they become stupid and hypocrite?

Fifthly, about the bus strike example – ‘a big financial hole in transport department’s budget’ part is enough to disillusion the readers. Thank you.

Sixthly, it is strange that after rambling on for so long, the author failed to provide us with a better way in which the strike could have been staged. (Some would say that he must not be having any, but I would desist and remain silent.)

I would conclude by pointing out what the author has done clearly shows the plague that is slowly gripping our nation in its clutches. Blaming and criticizing has become something of a second nature for Pakistanis; we never troubling once to perceive the other side of the coin. Our vision has become so frightfully myopic that whatever comes on the idiot box is what we take for the truth: which happens to be nothing but a twisted version of it. So, people, please give a moment of thought to both sides of the coin and then build your perceptions on the choice you make!

P.S. The author should know that although as per him, doctors are stupid, deceiving and attention-seeking – no doctor is that stupid to actually hurt a patient because of his article. Thank you.

Sorry, it is a bit askew!

A barren, tree-stripped landscape, void of any color, charm and beauty and filled to the brim with hatred, filth and moral disease always greets our imagination whence our thoughts wander off to the time when the world would have added another hundred years to its not-altogether modest age. However, terrible the vision of the inevitable future, my imagination conjures up in my mind – I refuse to believe in it. For how I wish the world to be in 100 years, is just concentrated around four letters, making up a terse, beautiful word, that is; h-o-p-e.

Yes, that is how I wish the world to be in 100 years: to be encapsulated in  a hope, that is unfettered and far removed from any fickleness or foolishness; a hope that does not deceive but elevate; a hope that breathes in vitality into every soul which it happens to touch. For hope is that incredible virtue, which even transcends above the human populace and is immersed in nature as much as in humans: like the winter’s gloom which declines with the hope that spring’s gaiety would take its place, like the autumn’s leaf which sheds with the hope that the summer’s foliage would take its place, like the ebbing sea’s wave which retreats with the hope that it would strike the shore again.

This hope would come in the times of war, and lighten suffering hearts and compel them to look forward to times of peace and prosperity. This hope would arise in the blood of all races and attempt to weave a strong bond of similarities out of the frayed threads of differences. This hope would awaken in the bosoms of the followers of all religions and gush forth to quail fanaticism and intolerance into altruism and compassion. This hope would dispel all the blinding negativity that silently oozes to divide the world and rush in to strictly bind the entire globe together.

However, when this hope would be attempting to block the collective avalanches of mistrust and antipathy, meanwhile it would also take care to not miss the individual crevices of hopelessness that appear on the glacial surface and seek only to crack it.

And so, for instance,  it would come to the cancer patient and assure him that one day the complete cure to his disease would be discovered; then to the scientist and buoy him to work harder on discovering a complete cure for cancer; and then to the family of the cancer patient and calm their fears of losing their beloved; and then to those who tend to the cancer patient and wish to alleviate his suffering. Yes, it would come to close all the sneaking crevices of anguish into a sleek surface devoid of any suffering and pain.

Thus, this is how I wish the world to be in 100 years; when it would be purely centered around hope and faith, beauty and peace would stem from it.

And Eowyn answered: “All your words are but to say: you are a woman, your part is in the house. But when the man have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”

“What do you fear, lady?” he asked.

“A cage,” she said. “To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”

Excerpt from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King   – J.R.R Tolkien

Stoic, hopeless, she looked at her reflection ornamented in red, stare back at her with questioning eyes.

The eyes accentuated with kohl, glistening with golden, bedecked with fake eyelashes that fluttered most sensuously had an almost inexplicable inquiring sadness to them – as if they cried shame over the cowardice of their owner, as if they mourned at the betrayal staged by the one who wielded them, as if they entreated the shattered soul to pull together and escape the guillotine that swayed ever so readily above their freedom.

Glittering in the gold that hung from her neck, basking in the ambiance of the gems that clustered her frail frame, bathing in refulgence of the red that was draped around her; she was although a bride, but in truth, happened to be just another caged bird: a bird that had been sheared off its dignity and independence,  shamelessly decorated and about to be handed over to a gaoler.

The heavy bangles weighed upon her hands seemed more like wrist irons, the gleaming necklace wrapped about her neck resembled more a noose in the process of being tightened, the red of her dress signified the sacrifice she was making to appease her family – yes, she was sacrificing. Sacrificing that exultant feeling of being free to take flight whenever she wanted to, that adrenaline-gushing sense of having no fetters bound to impede her flight, that moment of exaltation whenever she chose for herself and no choice was made on her behalf.

Moments fled and she, yet gazed, at her reflection most unerringly: apparently under the impression that mere staring could somehow warp her destiny into what she cherished from what she was being forced into.

The sadness in her eyes slowly gave away to revolt; that had remained once recumbent under folds of duty and obedience, surfaced – bringing with it something more desperate then dismay, something more plummeting then despair. It was a rage: a rage distinguished by the helplessness and vulnerability of her unfortunate position.

The upwelling of rage that gushed forth through her senses, was followed by the sickly rise of bile in her throat: her image as a red-garnished bride being nothing but a source of revulsion.

Despairingly, she clutched at the necklace she wore around her neck and tried to wrench it off – such frenzy embraced her that instead of simply unclasping the necklace, she sought to tear it apart: as if it was a rope that threatened to end her life as she had known it.

Glistening tears left dark smudges of kohl as they ran down her face; spluttering, she let go of the necklace and breathing heavily looked at her reflection, from which momentarily her attention had wavered.

Vicious it looked to her, with her hair messed up, her make-up ruined and her eyes wide in distress: but amid all the bestial shades that had crept up her face, an illusion transpired and for a moment she imagined herself in an open glade lined with lush trees; with her hair unfettered, flouncing in the wind and her frame gowned in simplicity – she, with freedom to take root wherever her heart strayed or to sever roots whenever her heart desired.

Enthralled by the illusion, she engrossed farther into it: she felt the soft touch of grass over her sole, the fleeing caress of the autumn leaf over her raised cheek, the sweeping embrace of the wind over her outstretched fingers, the basking warmth of sunbeams over her profound forehead – and she, danced in the wake of joy that possessed her in that moment of illusion.

Even when the illusion began to fade, she kept on dancing.

This was her true identity – one that she had masked behind the stoic facade of a traditional bride.

Although the illusion, had been but an illusion – it gave rise to a euphoria that came only when one encroached upon their true identity; an identity unhampered, untarnished.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

She stayed her dance abruptly as the strident knocks shook her from the last vestiges of the illusion.

“Time has come for you to come downstairs now!” a voice echoed from the other side.

All that she had rebelled against in that moment of illusion, once again ran awash her; the much dreaded-words resonating in her ears: duty, obedience, honor, tradition, appeasement trampled on all the feelings that had been raised in that brief tempest of emotion and now, nothing remained but a void of emptiness, drained of all euphoria.

The flames that had been stoked by rage and fueled by revulsion; that had danced in the darting moments when it was eminent in joy; now lay quenched into smoldering ashes.

The illusion was over and reality reared its head again: and so, she settled before the gilt-edged mirror again and began to piece together the shards of the facade that she had dared to break in that fleeting moment of euphoria.

It is not always easy to take the first step (which  I did), but it is sad, when even upon taking a step in the positive direction you find yourself still in the clutches of an effing writer’s block. Floundering, fumbling through the confines of a irksome block, heralding my hesitating fingers over the dusty keys and unraveling the general confusion prevalent in my mind at the moment – I am finally attempting the second step.

With the first step, I had attempted to break the resistance my mind offered to against writing; but the time I have taken with the second step, clearly exhibits that resistance yet lingers and that it would take more than a random post to escape the fetid grasp of the block. So the second step is all about stretching my kinked thoughts into smooth perfection.

To write something, a writer needs clear and transparent thoughts; thoughts that are free of turbulence of all kinds (something that I have been really struggling with), because when the writer does not know what to write about, it is quite obvious that he wouldn’t be writing anything at all. I believe my thoughts are experiencing a similar upheaval – scattered, divergent, my thoughts seem to be in a constant Brownian motion; colliding with one another, playfully zig-zagging around but failing to hit the “inspiration center” of my brain (if there exists any).

This chaos of mind has some other subtle side effects as well, other than aiding a pilfering writer’s block.

a) Simple solutions never occur to you; whatever you come up with is convoluted and complex.

Problem: To escort an elderly lady to her car, amid the rain.

Situation: Her car is in the porch. The car you’ve to go in is at the end of street, a huge quivering stream of accumulated rainwater separates the porch and the area where your car waits. Both cars are headed towards the same place.

Solution 1 (This is what I proposed) : Escort the lady to her car in porch, then pick a painstaking path across the rainwater, jumping from one erratic stone to another and finally reach my car.

Solution 2: Just get your car into porch as well.

No wonder, the latter was put into action.

(Yes, this actually happened to me)

b) You tend to stray away from a course of thought, which in the prevailing circumstances, you need to follow.

Situation: A scene from university library, two days before a major test.

A friend (nudging): Are you even studying?

Me (drooling over the pencil): No.

(Ahem.)

c) You end posts abruptly.

(Hahahaha.)

Image courtesy of: perspectivesonfear-group1-08.wikispaces.com

This is what I've been going through lately!

Getting over a writer’s block is somewhat strenuous: words are hard to come by and each thought has to be squeezed out with difficulty. And, for someone who loves to write, a writer’s block is enough to deaden the spirit – you feel jaded, exhausted all the time. You stumble with words; your articulacy is lost. You keep typing words – but the moment you’ve typed them, your hands hits backspace and bham! the empty white screen again flashes into your eyes.

But, I’m tired now. Tired of sitting before a blank screen, wondering what to write. This has to end. I cannot let myself debilitate and fall apart in such a manner. I cannot let myself rust in the wait for some inspiration and surrender my spirit to a verdigris most intent upon damaging it.

So, yeah … I’m writing again.

No fancy thoughts are occurring to me at the moment, so I guess writing about random stuff is enough to overcome the hold that this repulsive block exerts over me.

This month has been pretty much eventful for me. What with my birthday, Ramadhan, different online projects and university – these all kind of snowballed and resulted in what little inspiration that has incited me to write this post.

Birthdays are meant to be special; and mine was special too. My birthday started off at midnight with a horde of calls and loads of text messages from my close friends and of course, delightful family wishes but what followed it was the most awesome birthday beginning I have ever had: my sisters had staged a “birthday present hunt” and soon I was running through the entire house, searching for clues and then subsequently, gifts. The entire thing was very much unexpected and the birthday present chase was an amazing, novel experience!

These were the gifts (with their clues) that I found:

The first gift and clue

The second book and clue

The third book and last clue

The Gifts

But the surprises didn’t end here. One of my sisters had also written a beautiful note for me at Facebook – I’d add some excerpts from it here -

As you know very well ami was hospitalized prior your birth which for me meant regular burgers from Mr burger, daily shopping from toys and books shop and the joy of having a “LEETEL BROTHER” soon. I remember the day very well when the most awaited baby of the family was born, when you were born. On the morning of 18th of august 1992 (though I don’t remember the time), ami gave birth to a tiny, pink and soft thing. I was there when the nurse handed you over to ami jaan and ami jaan showed you to me. I was happy and somewhat astonished to see that my little brother was really little. I remember touching your tiny hands, your tiny feet and kissing your forehead. They broke a coconut behind my back because I was the proud (and lucky) sister after whom you were born.

Your hugs are source of comfort for me (sometimes a bit annoying too), your jokes bring a laughter on my face no matter how lousy my mood is, your best of luck messages before exams made me feel that I know it all, your last minute exam preparations always amuse me, your achievements  always make me proud, your loving and caring nature soften those around you, your generosity made us all rich, your leadership qualities impress those around you, your anger frightens us all, your cleanliness pleases ami and your love for us makes us love u more.

The day at university was awesome as well – my friends had made a “board post” for me, which though was quite simple, was special in its rendering!

The "Board Post"

It surely was one hell of a day!

Anyway, I would end this “taking-a-first-step-towards -recovery-from-writer’s-block” with some pictures that I captured of the rainy weather yesterday

And, Eid Mubarak to all Have a blessed Eid everybody!

Adios, people!

Image courtesy of: royalprincerpineda.wordpress.com

I wrote the following essay for an essay competition held at my university. My essay secured the first place YAY!

And, of course loads and loads of thanks to my best friend, Hira Khalid who helped me ALOT in gathering the information. Thank you very much ^_^

From the enthusiastic bhangra to the traditional dragon dance, from the spiciness of Pakistani cuisine to the delicious eccentricities of Chinese cuisine – apparently, it all seems overwhelmingly different. But once, we step closer and peer at this fabric of differences, we could distinctly observe the silken threads of similarities neatly interwoven throughout this apparent façade that seems to separate China and Pakistan. In truth, there exists nothing but the ice-shrouded pinnacles of Karakorum that separate Pakistan from China – but now even this obstacle has been bridged. Henceforth, we embark on a journey into the subtle similarities between Sino-Pak art and culture.

Respect of family values and observance of deep-rooted traditions is the first similarity that exists between the nations. A typical Chinese family follows Confucian thought that emphasizes on family values, filial piety and familial relationships – whereupon a child has certain filial duties towards his parents and elders while the elders bear greater concern for their offspring. Likewise, a Pakistani family is firmly perched on Islamic principles of family values. This particular similarity enlightens us to the heretofore unknown fact that how close Chinese and Pakistanis are in their family life.

China like Pakistan boasts diverse folk art: from exotic paper art to scintillating Chinese kites to entertaining puppetry – this is all inherently similar to Pakistani folk art where our obsession for kites as seen during days of Basant and the amusing puppet shows erected in villages is common knowledge.  

One could clearly see that people of both nations share love for folk art and its liveliness.

Music has been an integral part of the cultures of both Pakistan and China – and here too similarities exist in abundance: from usage of unique traditional music instruments like erhu, dizi, pipa and zheng in China and tambooro, dafli, dholak and tabla of Pakistan to the composition of hundreds of patriotic songs that forms a huge chunk of the music of both nations.  But where there is music, there is dance too. And similarities can be found here as well – the bhangra, ho jamalo, khattak dance, luddi  of Pakistan and the dragon dance, lion dance, dunhuang dance, yangge of China are equal in this respect that dances of both nations are capable of arousing light-heartedness and warmth in a person’s heart, the rhythm of the dance making the beholder dance as well.

Pakistanis and Chinese also relish poetry; and this affection for poetry has resulted in hundreds of beautiful works of a never-fading nature. The mesmerizing words of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai, Sachal Sarmast, Allama Iqbal, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Ahmed Faraz and the spell-bounding lines of Shu Ting, Bei Dao, Hai Zi, and Xu Zhimo always succeed in creating a mystifying trance upon the readers whenever their words are read: such is the beauty of what they have written.

Pottery and calligraphy are also two regions where similarities occur: the early Islamic pottery had a touch of Chinese influence and vice versa. Relics of amazing pottery have been recovered from Sino-Pak areas. Moreover, yishi or Chinese calligraphy though does not resemble Islamic calligraphy in form or aesthetics yet the immense brilliance of the art is awe-inspiring.

Festivals also generate an atmosphere of great excitement in both regions; with the Chinese Spring Day Festival, the Lantern Festival, Pure Brightness Day, the Dragon Boat Festival, the Mid-Autumn Festival and the Double Ninth Festival whose basis rests on coming and going of season and Pakistani’s Eid-ul-Fitr, Eid-ul-Azha, Eid-Milad-un-Nabi whose roots are derived from religion may have a lot of differences: what unites them is the joy and ardor with which the Chinese and Pakistanis celebrate their respective festivals.

And, this cascade of similarities does not end here: rather it is akin to a constantly-flowing stream, the more we delve into the depths of this supposed cultural chasm in the basin of this stream – the more similarities we could unearth from the disparities. These very similarities, in the end, are what unite Pakistan with China in an exceptional bond: a bond that may have been established by the external ties, but in truth is a testimony to the numerous similarities both countries share with one another.

“Aseen aaya aahyun gulari main, chambri le lo gul …”

My interest was instantly aroused. I asked Ami the meaning of what she sang with so much delight; although what she sang was in Sindhi, I could not grasp most of the words.

“We’ve  come in the garden, to pick your rose,” Ami softly translated for my benefit, a far-away look of nostalgia etched upon her face.

“When we were in Diplo, during school recess, we used to play this game in which we sang these lines. Four or five girls would cluster together and then walk some distance to another group of girls, chanting these lines. Then both groups would face one another; the one that had arrived chanting would select from the other group the girl they found best; who would subsequently join them. Once the chosen girl had come over, the other group which had lost a girl would repeat the process – chanting the same lines and picking the girl from the other team. And so this game would go on until the break got over …”

It is sad that I couldn't find a better image; but then, I couldn't really put up an image of blonde-haired girls playing.

I was fascinated.

“I remember I used to get so happy whenever I was picked by the other group,” Ami beamed fondly at the joyous, carefree memories that she narrated to me.

I, with my chin cupped in my hands, leaned forward to learn more about the times my mother spent in my village … that goes by the curious name of Diplo.

——-#———-#——-

Shimmery moonlight slanted across the two figures settled on the terrace; now thoroughly indulged into tales of the bygone days.