Ever wonder why your best friend goes jelloid in the knees for broody dudes in yellow pants, no shirt, and night vision goggles? Don't blame Canada, blame Bollywood! Our friends over at the hilarious Big Pen Pakistan graciously allowed me to explain it all. What are you waiting for? Follow them now!
Friday, December 23, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
We’re Just Not That Into You
I kept going over the events of the last couple of weeks in my head, and I’d talked about them enough to Danyal and Miraal to actually have established a timeline.
Friday
7p.m.: Hammad calls and asks if I’d like to get some coffee tomorrow.
Saturday: I walk on air, and for this endorsement, can Sajid and Zeeshan please send me one of Zeeshan’s hats, autographed?
Saturday
9:00 p.m.: Hammad is late, but no matter.
9:15 p.m.: Hallelujah, Hammad and our friend Sara have arrived to pick me up.
9:45 p.m.: Hammad can’t decide whether to get a latte or whatever.
10:45 p.m.: Hammad drops me home. I never hear from Hammad again.
I…What? I still.
What
I’m trying to say is, I still don’t get it. I know Cosmo will have you
believe that the male mind is an enigma and the female mind operates in
accordance with what time of the month it is – yeah, so basically,
according to Cosmo, at your most fertile, you tend to like very manly
men, with square jaws and tufty ear hair. I read too much Cosmo for
anybody’s good, but I do know the simplest recipe for a Cosmo, thanks to
Cosmo. On the other hand, Cosmo doctors, I’d like to challenge your
claim with the fact that I like boys who look and sound like Michael
Cera all month round. Anyway, Hammad. He never called me back, which I
take as a sign of the ultimate truth that has changed all of our lives
so profoundly: He’s Just Not That Into Me.
On
that ninth day, I hung out with Miraal who took a nap while I stared up
into the ceiling of her sitting room. After all that timelining and
rehashing, when the answer you end up with is what two SATC writers came
up with, there’s nothing you can do but gawk into space and try not to
think about your own lack of appeal as a human being.
‘You
wanna go Butler’s?’ I ask Miraal. She nods. ‘Can we take your He’s Just
Not That Into You and read it there?’ She nods. I think she just wishes
I would do more than make her pick me up after work so I can stare at
her parents’ walls dejectedly instead of mine.
Outside,
it’s raining. I try to think of something apt to sing. Not Singin’ In
The Rain, because I clearly am not, even though I am. You know what I
mean. ‘I’m trying to sing Why Does It Always Rain On me but can’t
remember the tune!’ I text Danyal. ‘You and everyone else in the city,’
he texts back. I contemplate telling him about my coffee and literature
plans but decide against it. Danyal does too well with the ladies as is,
he doesn’t need to know what we do when we’re bummed.
‘Cheaters
never prosper, because they suck,’ I read out a few minutes later over
my apple pie and some kind of nutty tart. I’m eating for two: myself and
that giant ball of sadness now permanently alive in my throat. Miraal
raises an eyebrow at me. ‘That’s technically not true,’ she says in a
very logical tone of voice. ‘Yeah, look at Ali (which one you ask, too
much work to get into that just now),’ I say. Ali has prospered since
his cheating days straight into his own house at 29 with a wife and
three dogs. He’s doin’ ok, and I don’t mind, but this means that some of
the other stuff in this book is just a lot of shit too.
“If
a guy truly likes you, but for personal reasons he needs to take things
slow, he will let you know that immediately. He won't keep you
guessing, because he'll want to make sure you don't get frustrated and
go away,” - He’s Just Not That Into You.
This
was one of my favourites, because it meant that if someone was into me,
but had a debilitating life condition such as the runs, a first
cousin-wife, raging alcoholism or questions about his sexuality, he
would tell me to wait till he sorts it out and then we can take it from
there and find out we don’t have enough in common, like a penis or a
shared love for Hajmola candy or Call of Duty. Basically, how will you
know if you don’t give it a shot, and if you really want to give someone
a shot, you will ask them to hang on for a minute. And if they’re into
you they'll wait. Only, I’ve heard other people say that love hits you
like a truck, and if you get hit by a truck you don’t exactly lie
plastered into the road texting the object of your affection: ‘I’ll be
there, just let me peel myself off the highway.’ You don’t make people
you like wait. You’ll make them wait with you though, like when Miraal
comes over to hang out on weekends and I make her sit through our weekly
family lunch. But all of this is besides the point, right? The
bottomline is: he never called, and I’ll never know why.
The mean streets of Zamzama or
One of the biggest problems of being a burger, that most people don’t know, is that we are slaves to our servants. I can hardly go out anywhere without worrying fretfully about my driver’s meals or him missing jamat. I do worry especially because if I don’t I’ll come across as an atheist.
So here I am standing on Zamzama, Lane 3 with my hands full of shopping bags trying to find my phone to call my driver.
Found it!
And there it goes… phone dropped, battery out and SIM under some loser’s motorcycle. I say a silent prayer for this phone because it’s a reinforcement while my BB is in the shop. I decide to go back inside the store which is no bigger than my closet but at least the beggars won’t bug me. I mean, do I look like I need a comb or someone who uses a zaarbund or azaarbund or whatever you call that shalwar drawstring?
I stand by the entrance of the shop so the salespeople won’t hover around me like I’m a klepto. I jam the SIM and battery into the I’m-too-old-for-this-shit phone and my D. One bell and straight to “Ap ka matluba number say jawab mosool nahi horaha.” All this effort for jawab mossol nahi horaha?! And finally a missed call. You know, for the 15 grand my dad pays him my driver is super stingy. “Jee baji main namaz parhaha tha, ap ajain.”
Dammit I spot him all the way at the end of the lane where the one-way becomes a three-way. At least he meets me halfway to take my bags. I pass by Ciao just as two guys come out to hear one of them say, “
Anyway I’m late for my facial and blow dry.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Anatomy of the Ignorant
It’s difficult to be me in this day and age. By 'me' I do mean me; Yasmin. For every twenty guy's guy there is only one girlie girl. Me. Is it because I’ve had positive male influences in my life? I’m not sure but I’ve had my share of heartache from men. Just because I don’t watch documentaries about the Vagina Monologues or follow Fatima Bhutto on Twitter doesn’t mean I don’t respect the Feminist Movement. Did I miss the feminist initiation in college? Because who wouldn’t want to hang out with a bunch of angry females?
I wasn’t the politically aware one in college. I was the girl who was never without a boyfriend. I can’t even remember being single since my 7th birthday and then the boyfriend train never stopped. His name was Zeeshan and we would sit together during the school's midday break. That started in the spring when he sat down next to me and I never told him not to. Until that summer when we broke up with me, well it wasn’t actually much of a break up, he just decided to sit next to some other girl when school reconvened and I never got the hint... even all these years later. That’s why people who say, “I want to be alone for some time” don’t make much sense to me, I mean maybe I’m just not interesting enough to be by myself. I embraced every interest that any boyfriend has had. I’ve dated a vegan also means I’ve been a vegan for the duration of the relationship.
This is why women don’t like me very much at least not the new fangled women. Is it wrong to support a man’s interest? Plus you always have someone to do stuff for you. Though many may argue that this is against everything that women have worked so hard to achieve I just think while women were working hard men were becoming lazier. They don’t even have to try too hard to bed anyone because it's supposed to be liberating to let people see what you look like without your clothes. I didn't know liberating also meant embarrassing, may be it's just me. I'm still learning. Baby steps, Yasmin! Baby steps!
So how does a girl like me who's never been without a number of potential Mr.Rights judge sexual libertines? I have a system and it works for me. A lady never tells. Let's just say I like to give those lazy guys a bit of a challenge and reward subsequent efforts with woolen mittens. I'll hear you out, I mean I respect people's opinions and their ideas and where those ideas originate but in the end I just don't care.
I rather make my guy's dinner than have him take me to Flo. So I decided that I'd try something new. I had my 30th birthday recently and the time to start over is now! Burn bridges or in this case, bras!
GAME PLAN
Step 1: Break up with boyfriend
Step 2: Be Profound
Step 3: Repeat steps 1 & 2
Since my hopes of marriage have been dashed this can be a new hobby. Zainab will be so upset that I haven't discuss this with her first but this is the new feminist approach of grabbing the bull by its balls. I'm sure the first thing she'll ask me is if my new boyfriend is a feminist. Ha! That should be a Burger Tips tee-shirt (no affiliation btw)! Feminist men are oxymorons! It'll be in pink and the O will be that feminine stick figure symbol. Oh no laughing, I'm a feminist now, I must read up on foreign policy and the newest way to free women who are oppressed behind veils and stoves, to let them run free without bras from the tangles of their oppressor's beards.
I'd have to give up my passion for knitting and needle point embroidery because that would mean the terrorists have won. Oh, and no more TV dramas since they are the manifestation of our archaic patriarchal system that we (women crusaders) are fighting against. As a new outlet for my creativity it would have to be within the realms of social media like a Tumblr account with feminist quotes on images of Georgia O'Keefe's paintings of "flowers".
Yes, I can see it happening very clearly: rallies, sit-ins, protests, oh my!
Step 4: Stock up on kholapuris and Hashmi surma.
I wasn’t the politically aware one in college. I was the girl who was never without a boyfriend. I can’t even remember being single since my 7th birthday and then the boyfriend train never stopped. His name was Zeeshan and we would sit together during the school's midday break. That started in the spring when he sat down next to me and I never told him not to. Until that summer when we broke up with me, well it wasn’t actually much of a break up, he just decided to sit next to some other girl when school reconvened and I never got the hint... even all these years later. That’s why people who say, “I want to be alone for some time” don’t make much sense to me, I mean maybe I’m just not interesting enough to be by myself. I embraced every interest that any boyfriend has had. I’ve dated a vegan also means I’ve been a vegan for the duration of the relationship.
This is why women don’t like me very much at least not the new fangled women. Is it wrong to support a man’s interest? Plus you always have someone to do stuff for you. Though many may argue that this is against everything that women have worked so hard to achieve I just think while women were working hard men were becoming lazier. They don’t even have to try too hard to bed anyone because it's supposed to be liberating to let people see what you look like without your clothes. I didn't know liberating also meant embarrassing, may be it's just me. I'm still learning. Baby steps, Yasmin! Baby steps!
So how does a girl like me who's never been without a number of potential Mr.Rights judge sexual libertines? I have a system and it works for me. A lady never tells. Let's just say I like to give those lazy guys a bit of a challenge and reward subsequent efforts with woolen mittens. I'll hear you out, I mean I respect people's opinions and their ideas and where those ideas originate but in the end I just don't care.
I rather make my guy's dinner than have him take me to Flo. So I decided that I'd try something new. I had my 30th birthday recently and the time to start over is now! Burn bridges or in this case, bras!
GAME PLAN
Step 1: Break up with boyfriend
Step 2: Be Profound
Step 3: Repeat steps 1 & 2
Since my hopes of marriage have been dashed this can be a new hobby. Zainab will be so upset that I haven't discuss this with her first but this is the new feminist approach of grabbing the bull by its balls. I'm sure the first thing she'll ask me is if my new boyfriend is a feminist. Ha! That should be a Burger Tips tee-shirt (no affiliation btw)! Feminist men are oxymorons! It'll be in pink and the O will be that feminine stick figure symbol. Oh no laughing, I'm a feminist now, I must read up on foreign policy and the newest way to free women who are oppressed behind veils and stoves, to let them run free without bras from the tangles of their oppressor's beards.
I'd have to give up my passion for knitting and needle point embroidery because that would mean the terrorists have won. Oh, and no more TV dramas since they are the manifestation of our archaic patriarchal system that we (women crusaders) are fighting against. As a new outlet for my creativity it would have to be within the realms of social media like a Tumblr account with feminist quotes on images of Georgia O'Keefe's paintings of "flowers".
Yes, I can see it happening very clearly: rallies, sit-ins, protests, oh my!
Step 4: Stock up on kholapuris and Hashmi surma.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
When you are old...Don't go to Hot Spot
Miraal stretches her legs across the wooden bench comfortably, and I worry for her safety. Any minute now, the really mean guy at The Hot Spot counter is going to throw the cash register at her and ask her to sit properly. 'Uh, you wanna take your feet off the bench?' I ask her. She ignores me and twirls a hot pink strand of hair around her finger reflectively. 'These guys are really coordinated, it's cool,' she nods towards a young couple dressed in red for him n' her at a table across from us. I hope it wasn't intentional. I hope mean counter dude can't see her.
A group of tiny girls giggles at a table near us. They're actually really tiny and have to be 10 or something. 'How are parents letting their toddlers out on a weeknight?' I ask Miraal. God, I feel old. If you think your maturity is being taken for granted at home, I suggest you run to The Hot Spot right away and find yourself aging beyond your years. Either that, or a movie at the Atrium. You know how there are all these cranky old ladies at the movies telling you kids to shut the fuck up and sit the hell down? I'm those old ladies.
'O-levels?' she guesses. 'They probably have tuitions in the area.' Suddenly the tiny gigglers have a communal rapture. Someone has just made an entrance. I'm guessing zitty 15-year-old hunk from Math tuition. Nope, it's another chick. 'Amnaaaa!' they all squeal. Jeez girls, calm down. It's just...uh...it's someone very stylish.
Amna has on those huge glasses that make everyone look like my 9th grade Islamiat teacher and her bangs are all pouffed out. She has a pale pout, obviously, and an emerald green shawl draped around her shoulders casually.There's just too much stuff happening around the general area of her face, but points for trying, I guess. Her friends are all in the velour jacket genre right now. 'I got my new camera,' she says lazily. The tinys have another seizure of joy. Profile pictures all round, I'm guessing. Amna and the gang gets up to order.
'Where are they getting all this money from!' Miraal is totally scandalized. I'm mesmerized by the sight of a boy sitting alone in a corner, broodily staring at his table. He looks like a young Ali Hamza. I wonder if he will get up in a second and pull a gun out at all of us. Can't trust kids these days.
'Hiiii!' Yep, two boys have walked in to hang with the Tiny Velours. 'Hi Amna,' says the chubby one in a tone that suggests he will like, not eat his burger or something if she doesn't say hi back. It's cool though, the girls are already buying everyone food. Young Ali Hamza is looking over at the kids now, smiling sadly at the enthusiastic ways of youth. I think he hasn't read that sign that says seats are reserved for people who place orders, a warning which Miraal believes is part of all the other Hot Spot mock signs. I think not. I've been snapped at by Mr Counter Man too many times for ordering an unavailable shake flavour. The Hot Spot does not kid around about business.
'Bet he hates his hair,' Miraal says, looking at the other dude surrounded by velour and Amna. He's got curly hair. 'He shouldn't, it looks good, he's cute.' I catch myself. 'I mean, you know, I wouldn't date him, but you know,' Miraal is laughing. 'Shit, am I a cougar?'
Curls is just walking around now completely ignoring all the food that's been bought for him. I don't know about you, but I never say no to a free meal. Also, I'm not a cougar type. Just establishing.
I am so sleepy I wish my sundae had come in a flat bowl instead of a glass so I could just lay my head on the table and eat. Everybody tells you all the useless stuff about growing older, and none of the important things, like you'll find yourself being unable to function on less than 8 hours of sleep. It's always really irrelevant info. 'Your biological clock starts ticking, you should stop thinking you'll find love and just settle down. Okay, mobile Cosmo. Or, 'you should save about 30 percent of your paycheck every month,' or 'you think being married is easy? Babe, I'm telling you, it's not. Don't get married.' Uh, okay. Points one and three usually come from the same source.
The door opens and three guys walk in, the leader of the pack in a leather jacket and carefully arched eyebrows. The Tiny Velours give him a discreet once over. Miraal snorts. We're officially very unhip. Time to take our gray, full of sleep selves home.
A group of tiny girls giggles at a table near us. They're actually really tiny and have to be 10 or something. 'How are parents letting their toddlers out on a weeknight?' I ask Miraal. God, I feel old. If you think your maturity is being taken for granted at home, I suggest you run to The Hot Spot right away and find yourself aging beyond your years. Either that, or a movie at the Atrium. You know how there are all these cranky old ladies at the movies telling you kids to shut the fuck up and sit the hell down? I'm those old ladies.
'O-levels?' she guesses. 'They probably have tuitions in the area.' Suddenly the tiny gigglers have a communal rapture. Someone has just made an entrance. I'm guessing zitty 15-year-old hunk from Math tuition. Nope, it's another chick. 'Amnaaaa!' they all squeal. Jeez girls, calm down. It's just...uh...it's someone very stylish.
Amna has on those huge glasses that make everyone look like my 9th grade Islamiat teacher and her bangs are all pouffed out. She has a pale pout, obviously, and an emerald green shawl draped around her shoulders casually.There's just too much stuff happening around the general area of her face, but points for trying, I guess. Her friends are all in the velour jacket genre right now. 'I got my new camera,' she says lazily. The tinys have another seizure of joy. Profile pictures all round, I'm guessing. Amna and the gang gets up to order.
'Where are they getting all this money from!' Miraal is totally scandalized. I'm mesmerized by the sight of a boy sitting alone in a corner, broodily staring at his table. He looks like a young Ali Hamza. I wonder if he will get up in a second and pull a gun out at all of us. Can't trust kids these days.
'Hiiii!' Yep, two boys have walked in to hang with the Tiny Velours. 'Hi Amna,' says the chubby one in a tone that suggests he will like, not eat his burger or something if she doesn't say hi back. It's cool though, the girls are already buying everyone food. Young Ali Hamza is looking over at the kids now, smiling sadly at the enthusiastic ways of youth. I think he hasn't read that sign that says seats are reserved for people who place orders, a warning which Miraal believes is part of all the other Hot Spot mock signs. I think not. I've been snapped at by Mr Counter Man too many times for ordering an unavailable shake flavour. The Hot Spot does not kid around about business.
'Bet he hates his hair,' Miraal says, looking at the other dude surrounded by velour and Amna. He's got curly hair. 'He shouldn't, it looks good, he's cute.' I catch myself. 'I mean, you know, I wouldn't date him, but you know,' Miraal is laughing. 'Shit, am I a cougar?'
Curls is just walking around now completely ignoring all the food that's been bought for him. I don't know about you, but I never say no to a free meal. Also, I'm not a cougar type. Just establishing.
I am so sleepy I wish my sundae had come in a flat bowl instead of a glass so I could just lay my head on the table and eat. Everybody tells you all the useless stuff about growing older, and none of the important things, like you'll find yourself being unable to function on less than 8 hours of sleep. It's always really irrelevant info. 'Your biological clock starts ticking, you should stop thinking you'll find love and just settle down. Okay, mobile Cosmo. Or, 'you should save about 30 percent of your paycheck every month,' or 'you think being married is easy? Babe, I'm telling you, it's not. Don't get married.' Uh, okay. Points one and three usually come from the same source.
The door opens and three guys walk in, the leader of the pack in a leather jacket and carefully arched eyebrows. The Tiny Velours give him a discreet once over. Miraal snorts. We're officially very unhip. Time to take our gray, full of sleep selves home.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Truth bombs: A single person's nightlife in Karachi
At 14, Karachi seemed like an oyster I desperately wanted to make mine. I wanted to go to awesome parties and be where the cool kids were at, but they just wouldn't tell me. Damn you cool kids, let a geek catch a break. And also my parents were the kind that enforce curfews and all kinds of other law. There was no way I was ever going to an awesome house party or whatever else people did back then. Hang out at Evolution doing karaoke, I guess. So I spent my time making friends with a man's best friend, which incidentally in my house meant a book and not a dog. Let's just say I despise the Sisters Bronte with a passion that I have not felt since.
What I was allowed to do was hang with my friends and do homework. Back in the day before every other teenage girl was some kind of social media queen with duckface profile pictures, that's exactly what my friends and myself ever did; homework. We also made dance routines to Cream. True story.
At 18, a little older and now allowed to hang out with BOYS! I became some kind of pooper that refused to pay 300 rupees to see the same people I never spoke to at school, for on-campus parties. What would that achieve anyway, I would reason with my friends, each one more socially adept than I was, and most of them in serious long-term relationships with boys and girls they were totally gonna marry someday. That I was kind of skint was one reason, another was that since I was the most single person anyone knew at that point, my friends and their boys would fuss over me too much. 'Are you getting bored?' they would ask as we sat through a Ganda Banda set at the first ever Rockfest at the Hippodrome (remember the Hippodrome? It has gone to the horses! Ha ha). 'Yeah,' I would smile politely. Let me listen to this With or Without You cover, bitches, I would think.
Things got better, of course. As time went on, Karachi's number one answer to lack of a swinging social life emerged: Espresso. You know how all these I heart Karachi types call Karachi the city that never sleeps? It's all the coffee they're guzzling at Espresso (which has the best coffee, by the way. Espresso, please call me to endorse the rest of your menu). I spent more time drinking coffee in my 20s than anything else. Plus it seemed so grown up: just having one of your friends actually drive an actual car to a place 10 minutes from home. I was outta control people!
You may wonder, what does this have to do with the nightlife in Karachi? Shouldn't a single and gainfully employed person be doing more than people watching at Espresso? Yes, friends, she should. And she does. She comes home from work, slips into her PJs and watches Kaun Banga Crorepati with her parents over a late dinner at 8 p.m.; like all daughters of god-fearing, not-billionaire dads do. Then she reads a book like a well-trained paragon of obedience and goes to bed. Please don't feel sorry for me, I have some very cool friends who have dragged me to Fez in the last decade and I have punched out my fair share of people being drunk or obnoxious or both. Like I said before, it's a wonder I've lived a life unscathed.
Every week, we see pictures in GT of all these fabulous people usually dressed in black, laughing into cameras before they presumably set out to join a funeral procession. Or the next page, because that's where you'll see them in about five seconds. They are glittery and holding fancy cocktails, and identical pouts. I would like to know who these people are, where I can find them, and if they will hook me up with frozen blue Margaritas?
Suffice it to say, Karachi is a very misleading place to grow up in for a 14-year-old. They should just send kids to Islamabad in their teens, as practise for what our adult years would be like: Quiet, clean, asleep before midnight, with the Hathora Group camped out in the hills.*
*Islamabad kids, I know you have Kuch Khaas and Bumbu Sauce. Stop whining, you've already won.
What I was allowed to do was hang with my friends and do homework. Back in the day before every other teenage girl was some kind of social media queen with duckface profile pictures, that's exactly what my friends and myself ever did; homework. We also made dance routines to Cream. True story.
At 18, a little older and now allowed to hang out with BOYS! I became some kind of pooper that refused to pay 300 rupees to see the same people I never spoke to at school, for on-campus parties. What would that achieve anyway, I would reason with my friends, each one more socially adept than I was, and most of them in serious long-term relationships with boys and girls they were totally gonna marry someday. That I was kind of skint was one reason, another was that since I was the most single person anyone knew at that point, my friends and their boys would fuss over me too much. 'Are you getting bored?' they would ask as we sat through a Ganda Banda set at the first ever Rockfest at the Hippodrome (remember the Hippodrome? It has gone to the horses! Ha ha). 'Yeah,' I would smile politely. Let me listen to this With or Without You cover, bitches, I would think.
Things got better, of course. As time went on, Karachi's number one answer to lack of a swinging social life emerged: Espresso. You know how all these I heart Karachi types call Karachi the city that never sleeps? It's all the coffee they're guzzling at Espresso (which has the best coffee, by the way. Espresso, please call me to endorse the rest of your menu). I spent more time drinking coffee in my 20s than anything else. Plus it seemed so grown up: just having one of your friends actually drive an actual car to a place 10 minutes from home. I was outta control people!
You may wonder, what does this have to do with the nightlife in Karachi? Shouldn't a single and gainfully employed person be doing more than people watching at Espresso? Yes, friends, she should. And she does. She comes home from work, slips into her PJs and watches Kaun Banga Crorepati with her parents over a late dinner at 8 p.m.; like all daughters of god-fearing, not-billionaire dads do. Then she reads a book like a well-trained paragon of obedience and goes to bed. Please don't feel sorry for me, I have some very cool friends who have dragged me to Fez in the last decade and I have punched out my fair share of people being drunk or obnoxious or both. Like I said before, it's a wonder I've lived a life unscathed.
Every week, we see pictures in GT of all these fabulous people usually dressed in black, laughing into cameras before they presumably set out to join a funeral procession. Or the next page, because that's where you'll see them in about five seconds. They are glittery and holding fancy cocktails, and identical pouts. I would like to know who these people are, where I can find them, and if they will hook me up with frozen blue Margaritas?
Suffice it to say, Karachi is a very misleading place to grow up in for a 14-year-old. They should just send kids to Islamabad in their teens, as practise for what our adult years would be like: Quiet, clean, asleep before midnight, with the Hathora Group camped out in the hills.*
*Islamabad kids, I know you have Kuch Khaas and Bumbu Sauce. Stop whining, you've already won.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Notes From Not Underground
Although I am a smartass, smart people scare me. You know the sort? They read a lot and make astute, witty observations about the world at large. Politics and film, literature and Chaz Bono. They will quote poetry, or Star Wars, and make oblique references to Nietzsche. There have been times I have understood a conversation years after it took place. Sometimes it's a wonder I have managed to stay alive as long as I have without setting fire to my own hair or something equally macabre, but not without its comic value.
I'd like to point out here that when I was 10, I borrowed a Return of the Jedi tee from my cousin and never returned it because for whatever reason, I thought it was super cool. I wonder if he remembers. It was cobalt blue, which I believe is the colour the loos in Hell are tiled in. This has nothing to do with anything.
For someone who has such an awful little to say, it should come as no surprise that my life features very few conversations, and instead of a story, this is like that Notes From Underground book which made absolutely no sense to me but was my companion on failed escapades in romance and the bathroom. So basically, I live in a sewer and am writing in a journal to be discovered after my death. Fair enough. Karachi is a sewer in the making, though a beautiful one.
I do have one long conversation a week, which is usually with Miraal, the other half of a raging bromance. My other conversation is with Yasmin, who is the loveliest girl anyone will ever meet (she knits and knows Brazilian Jiu Jitsu - I don't know the correct verb for this, okay?) and my feelings for whom are torn between girl envy and girl crush. My third most frequent converser is Danyal, whom I can't pinpoint anything about except that he has dated everyone we know. And yet he complains that his life is devoid of any romance. Why is that, Danyal? You must tell me someday.
I'm that kid at the end of the day, telling her parents, 'of course I have friends! I'm not a complete leper!' And also me, telling you that I am not that Underground weirdo. My dad had almost had a happy seizure when he saw the book though. 'First time you've bought a good book. Here's money to buy more!' I'm going to be talking a lot about this book, because I have unresolved feelings towards it. It's like, why is all important literature such a drag? or Why don't I have the intellect and perseverance to read important books? Don't answer that, I think I need brain Viagra as is.
So I think, what we are talking about today, is the human intellect and its limitations. Why is it that some of us can watch Bee Movie with as much ease as A Clockwork Orange, as any of the Mission: Impossibe films, while the rest of us will forever put down My Best Friend's Wedding as a favourite film? It's because the guys that didn't watch Jules talk down to Kimberly for about 88 minutes were smart. No, really. That was one of the worst films I've ever seen. Who does shit like that? If you're in love with your best friend, stop making stupid pacts and just tell them you want their seven babies, or however many they can have, or give it a test run to see how things might work out. I watched it so there isn't much to be said for the choices I make except for this: I watched it while i was in my very first 'relationship' with a boy I adored but wasn't really into. When I watched My Best Friend's Wedding, I felt like I could end up like Jules at 28, alone, and in love with my best friend, who has found a very sweet 20-year-old to marry. 'I'm never breaking up with him,' I resolved, regret is a bitter pill. I did break up with him few months on, and was very happy when he eventually got married, and not once did I put one of my blind turtles up his wife's gharara.
In case you haven't noticed, we aren't talking about the human intellect, but getting a lesson in mine.
I'd like to point out here that when I was 10, I borrowed a Return of the Jedi tee from my cousin and never returned it because for whatever reason, I thought it was super cool. I wonder if he remembers. It was cobalt blue, which I believe is the colour the loos in Hell are tiled in. This has nothing to do with anything.
For someone who has such an awful little to say, it should come as no surprise that my life features very few conversations, and instead of a story, this is like that Notes From Underground book which made absolutely no sense to me but was my companion on failed escapades in romance and the bathroom. So basically, I live in a sewer and am writing in a journal to be discovered after my death. Fair enough. Karachi is a sewer in the making, though a beautiful one.
I do have one long conversation a week, which is usually with Miraal, the other half of a raging bromance. My other conversation is with Yasmin, who is the loveliest girl anyone will ever meet (she knits and knows Brazilian Jiu Jitsu - I don't know the correct verb for this, okay?) and my feelings for whom are torn between girl envy and girl crush. My third most frequent converser is Danyal, whom I can't pinpoint anything about except that he has dated everyone we know. And yet he complains that his life is devoid of any romance. Why is that, Danyal? You must tell me someday.
I'm that kid at the end of the day, telling her parents, 'of course I have friends! I'm not a complete leper!' And also me, telling you that I am not that Underground weirdo. My dad had almost had a happy seizure when he saw the book though. 'First time you've bought a good book. Here's money to buy more!' I'm going to be talking a lot about this book, because I have unresolved feelings towards it. It's like, why is all important literature such a drag? or Why don't I have the intellect and perseverance to read important books? Don't answer that, I think I need brain Viagra as is.
So I think, what we are talking about today, is the human intellect and its limitations. Why is it that some of us can watch Bee Movie with as much ease as A Clockwork Orange, as any of the Mission: Impossibe films, while the rest of us will forever put down My Best Friend's Wedding as a favourite film? It's because the guys that didn't watch Jules talk down to Kimberly for about 88 minutes were smart. No, really. That was one of the worst films I've ever seen. Who does shit like that? If you're in love with your best friend, stop making stupid pacts and just tell them you want their seven babies, or however many they can have, or give it a test run to see how things might work out. I watched it so there isn't much to be said for the choices I make except for this: I watched it while i was in my very first 'relationship' with a boy I adored but wasn't really into. When I watched My Best Friend's Wedding, I felt like I could end up like Jules at 28, alone, and in love with my best friend, who has found a very sweet 20-year-old to marry. 'I'm never breaking up with him,' I resolved, regret is a bitter pill. I did break up with him few months on, and was very happy when he eventually got married, and not once did I put one of my blind turtles up his wife's gharara.
In case you haven't noticed, we aren't talking about the human intellect, but getting a lesson in mine.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Detour: How to ace a blind date
Here are things I wish someone had told me about blind dates aka people creating situations where you have to make conversation with the guy in the suede jacket with elbow patches. Number one: I need to stay away from anything suede. Which is funny because all I wanted when I was 12 was a brown suede jacket and skirt combo. Number two: Leave your sense of humour at home.
It's funny, all your life you are told to have a sense of humour about everything from the mean girls in class boycotting you for an entire year to losing the love of your life to gaining 35 pounds. So that's what you do: you build a whole personality that laughs in the face of adversity and cellulite. People love it. Your friends love it, and your mom tells everyone what an epitome of strength and good humour their kid is. That is till you have to meet and greet with a boy you did not grow up with, who is not already madly infatuated with all your charms and fart jokes and thinks you're actually kind of an idiot. Suddenly you're standing on the side of the road, rain fallin' on your shoes, wondering how can this guy not love me already?
This entire year has been a race to meet my future husband before 30 comes calling. Okay, it was kinda like that, and it was kinda people that other people thought I'd really hit it off with, and frankly I was tired of saying no all the time and sounding like a bizarre cat-lady type telling everyone 'I'll meet him when it's time!' Just a heads up - this is a race that 30 won. I did meet some spectacular people though, who made great fashion choices and asked me inappropriate questions about my fitness routines. However, nothing prepares you for that first meeting, where you are trying to get conversation going because if you don't, you may have to stab yourself with a fork just to see if you're still alive. Here's a few observations you might find helpful.
The only thing I'd like to point out is, I tried. Work or love, I tried, and somehow, even though I'm not acing anything just yet, it just feels like I might. Eventually.
It's funny, all your life you are told to have a sense of humour about everything from the mean girls in class boycotting you for an entire year to losing the love of your life to gaining 35 pounds. So that's what you do: you build a whole personality that laughs in the face of adversity and cellulite. People love it. Your friends love it, and your mom tells everyone what an epitome of strength and good humour their kid is. That is till you have to meet and greet with a boy you did not grow up with, who is not already madly infatuated with all your charms and fart jokes and thinks you're actually kind of an idiot. Suddenly you're standing on the side of the road, rain fallin' on your shoes, wondering how can this guy not love me already?
This entire year has been a race to meet my future husband before 30 comes calling. Okay, it was kinda like that, and it was kinda people that other people thought I'd really hit it off with, and frankly I was tired of saying no all the time and sounding like a bizarre cat-lady type telling everyone 'I'll meet him when it's time!' Just a heads up - this is a race that 30 won. I did meet some spectacular people though, who made great fashion choices and asked me inappropriate questions about my fitness routines. However, nothing prepares you for that first meeting, where you are trying to get conversation going because if you don't, you may have to stab yourself with a fork just to see if you're still alive. Here's a few observations you might find helpful.
- Arrive early so you don't have to worry about making an entrance, and keep your car handy, if there was no Batmobile, how would Robin whisk Bruce Wayne away from painful dates? I know nothing about Batman beyond the cartoon series, and Val Kilmer telling Nicole Kidman, 'Chicks love the car.' The '90s, what a blast.
- Bring a friend. This doesn't count if your friend is also his friend, because he will also bring a friend and they'll all know each other and...
- Bring a book. All these people who know everyone except you on this 'date' will have conversations that exclude you, and tell you afterward you din't seem into their very eligible friend. You might as well take this opportunity to read one of those supremely difficult Russian dudes. I recommend Dostoevsky.
- Try not to laugh out loud when your friend texts asking you if the 'douchy side-friend' is there. You'll end up laughing in the middle of the douche's loving stories about your 'date' crashing his car.
- Five months on, try to hold the urge to put the word date in quotes and air quotes everytime you talk about it.
The only thing I'd like to point out is, I tried. Work or love, I tried, and somehow, even though I'm not acing anything just yet, it just feels like I might. Eventually.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Living theatrically: How to ace a job interview
My lungs feel like they're about to explode. These are the worst moments I've spent in a faux suede chair, ever. On the other hand, what did I expect? Faux suede isn't exactly made of win. Waiting in a room full of other job hopefuls isn't made of win either, it's made of courage. Yes brain, it's made of courage, this is Sparta, now shut it.
What? Did I just say job and hopeful? Am I actually overcoming the Stockholm Syndrome that binds Fareeda and myself? Why, I think I just did. It's good stuff. I may write a book about how brave I feel as I step into a world where companies feel five interviews for one position are reasonable. Right now though, my lungs are giving way. I can't breathe. This is worse than waiting for a boy to call you. Text you. Follow you on Twitter? I don't get it. I don't get the very modern rules of this modern world, and my etiquette on any given occasion has been falling short of desirable lately.
Maybe.
It's been about a year since I sat in on that meeting with BZ and the Metro crew, and it feels as though nothing has changed, but also everything. I've been out on three blind dates for one, with three blind mice. One of them had actually escaped Karl Lagerfeld's experimental fountain of eternal youth experiments. That is the only reason I believe he thought it was okay to ask me if I watch my weight because women tend to get 'too comfortable' once they settle down. The brutal lab tests. He wasn't a bad sort though, for a blind mouse. Ha ha! Oh this pain when I breathe in...no amount of laughter will make it go away.
A man rushes into the lounge, waving around a piece of paper. "Zai-nab?" he calls, "Is Zai-nab here?" I nod at him and get up. We have only known each other about two seconds and he already can't be bothered to pronounce the simplest name right. It's okay. Sparta.
"I see that you have applied for one of our writing positions," he says, frowning at my CV as if he cannot figure out why there's like, so much stuff on one piece of paper. "But you've studied photography, is that correct?"
If I've learnt one thing in the last few months, it is this: There is a time and place to be a smartass. This isn't one of them. I need to impress this man, with, if nothing, then my ability to hold a sane conversation with a functioning member of society. Another functioning member of society.
"Yes." Short and simple, like the little black dress. It's the best analogy I can come up with on the spot to convince myself of my answer's effectiveness.
"So...why do you want to write and edit, all this publishing-print stuff?" he looks very, very confused. I want to help him find a way out, it's the number one secret to all my successful human interactions. I like helping people. This is exactly why my third blind date, Hammad, found me so riveting he refused to call me after weeks of getting to know each other over our hatred of vampires. I try not to think about it. It was not my shining moment, to paraphrase musician and great mind of our times, Hash.
"I love to write," I tell him, "and I adore editing." My interviewer is all eyebrow of skepticism.
"Yes well. Well, do you have any questions?" he asks.
I want to throw my hands over my face and sob. No, I want to tell him. This is my five thousandth and first interview with you guys, I have no more questions. I want answers. Answers, for the love of Suri Cruise's gold stilettos!
I give up. I curl my mouth and shake my head. I can't speak anymore. He reads me my rights should I win this job. I smile and thank him and tell him it was great meeting him. I walk out, a cramp in my side, my lungs rattling against my ribs. Some people would throw up, I only do that when I'm excited. This was not exciting. I fish out my phone and text Yasmin.
What? Did I just say job and hopeful? Am I actually overcoming the Stockholm Syndrome that binds Fareeda and myself? Why, I think I just did. It's good stuff. I may write a book about how brave I feel as I step into a world where companies feel five interviews for one position are reasonable. Right now though, my lungs are giving way. I can't breathe. This is worse than waiting for a boy to call you. Text you. Follow you on Twitter? I don't get it. I don't get the very modern rules of this modern world, and my etiquette on any given occasion has been falling short of desirable lately.
Maybe.
It's been about a year since I sat in on that meeting with BZ and the Metro crew, and it feels as though nothing has changed, but also everything. I've been out on three blind dates for one, with three blind mice. One of them had actually escaped Karl Lagerfeld's experimental fountain of eternal youth experiments. That is the only reason I believe he thought it was okay to ask me if I watch my weight because women tend to get 'too comfortable' once they settle down. The brutal lab tests. He wasn't a bad sort though, for a blind mouse. Ha ha! Oh this pain when I breathe in...no amount of laughter will make it go away.
A man rushes into the lounge, waving around a piece of paper. "Zai-nab?" he calls, "Is Zai-nab here?" I nod at him and get up. We have only known each other about two seconds and he already can't be bothered to pronounce the simplest name right. It's okay. Sparta.
"I see that you have applied for one of our writing positions," he says, frowning at my CV as if he cannot figure out why there's like, so much stuff on one piece of paper. "But you've studied photography, is that correct?"
If I've learnt one thing in the last few months, it is this: There is a time and place to be a smartass. This isn't one of them. I need to impress this man, with, if nothing, then my ability to hold a sane conversation with a functioning member of society. Another functioning member of society.
"Yes." Short and simple, like the little black dress. It's the best analogy I can come up with on the spot to convince myself of my answer's effectiveness.
"So...why do you want to write and edit, all this publishing-print stuff?" he looks very, very confused. I want to help him find a way out, it's the number one secret to all my successful human interactions. I like helping people. This is exactly why my third blind date, Hammad, found me so riveting he refused to call me after weeks of getting to know each other over our hatred of vampires. I try not to think about it. It was not my shining moment, to paraphrase musician and great mind of our times, Hash.
"I love to write," I tell him, "and I adore editing." My interviewer is all eyebrow of skepticism.
"Yes well. Well, do you have any questions?" he asks.
I want to throw my hands over my face and sob. No, I want to tell him. This is my five thousandth and first interview with you guys, I have no more questions. I want answers. Answers, for the love of Suri Cruise's gold stilettos!
I give up. I curl my mouth and shake my head. I can't speak anymore. He reads me my rights should I win this job. I smile and thank him and tell him it was great meeting him. I walk out, a cramp in my side, my lungs rattling against my ribs. Some people would throw up, I only do that when I'm excited. This was not exciting. I fish out my phone and text Yasmin.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Get thee to the nunnery or whatever
It’s Monday! Or rather the end of Monday which I am welcoming with open arms, as usual. The end of Monday means the rest of the week can’t be any worse than the day that has gone by. Kind of like when you have cramps and you think ‘okay, so this hurts but at least I’m not pregnant with a two-headed baby.’ Which, if I was, would be pretty cool because it would be like that story in the Bible about when Baby Jesus was born. And it would be ironic, because a two headed baby is exactly what I have wished on my ex-boyfriends, Ali, Ali and Ali. Yes they were all called Ali. I’ve never met an Ali I didn’t like (at first). This is probably why amma always tells me not to wish ill on others, because it comes back to you. She also says I will be married within the year, and that my pictures never get picked up by National Geographic magazine because they are too broody. (P.S. How can a shot of lions at the zoo be broody? It’s just lions; I am just a wildlife photographer, isn’t my job to document animals and nature as is?)
Suffice it to say, I take everything my mother says to heart, with a pinch of salt. Which means whatever. Basically I end up high-fiving Yasmin every time Bosszilla can’t make it to work because she has ‘a strategy meeting with key players in the industry’, but then take my high fives back because it’s rude to be happy about someone else having to work really hard and as it will come back to me in the form of …my own intense concept development meetings which are actually just cocktails with my friends?
Yes, I hardly know what I’m talking about, most of the time. But I gesticulate a lot and use words like gesticulate a lot and people seem to think I know my shit. That’s how I got through studying photography at school for four years. I would take pictures I liked and then plug in a concept somewhere and get standing ovations. Sadly the SO’s were always for the concept and never for the pics, which were always “very emotive” but too “obscure”. But as I always say, at least I got my degree. Of course back then I was going to take on the world with my tremendous, artistic take on Pakistan’s natural resources and urban wildlife. Now I have a take on anything but. Mostly my take is on severely important people like Justin Bieber and how to get great hair like his. Sometimes it’s about what cut jeans are totally in vogue. Other times I like to stretch myself and ruminate on the finer points of being married to a Scientologist. Basically, it’s life at Metro.
In case you don’t know what Metro is, may I please rent out some space under your rock? Everybody knows Metropolitan, the magazine that feeds on fashion and creates pink cloud shaped, gold-dusted stories of grandeur about it. Bits of it dabble in music and performance arts, and a slummy little space is devoted to comment pieces on celebrity gossip. Which brings me to my new role in the world: gossip um, journalist. Occasional commentator on whatever. When it comes to where I stand in life, you will find me using the term a lot. It rolls right off the tongue and can stand for you know, whatever. Everything and nothing. Photographer and voracious sleazy tabloid reader. Dying to put on a skirt and go dancing but can’t miss reruns of How I Met Your Mother.
So I end up doing whatever. In work and in life: whatever.
I ended up at Metro as a way to make some money while I waited for Nat Geo to recognize my genius. Or for someone to commission me for a BBC documentary. Sadly neither has happened yet. On the plus side I get paid by the 5th of every month and am totally up and up on who is hooking up with whom and also what Ted Casablanca thinks about it. One of my secret desires is to be Ted Casablanca. When I was a kid, I always looked up into starry nights and prayed to god to let me be a gay gossip columnist when I grew up. So life is good. I could well be on my way to become the first Pakistani paparazzo. At least I’ll be able to break out my camera every once in a while then. Right now after a busy day of sulking at my desk as I sift through all the tabloids online and in person, all I want to do eventually is drown myself in a tub of chai and sorrow.
Today for instance, had been meticulously chalked out by Yasmin and myself. Meeting at 12, over at 1, back to work by 1:30. What happened ultimately was meeting at 12, Bosszilla shows up at a little after, and meeting goes to hell in a pretty little clutch. Okay so I can’t be all martyr like about this one. Yasmin did all the talking. Mehreen and I pretty much spaced out and played a mental game of chess. At least that’s what I think Mehreen was doing because she was intensely staring into a space just above her knee.
Anyway, Fareeda, or BZ as we very affectionately call her, managed to drag the girls into her lair of smoke and vagueness around 2 p.m. at which point I decided I needed to finish my piece on what I think the RPatz and Kristen Stewart relationship means for the relationships their fans are in. It’s a very serious piece written with a totally serious face and I got quotes and everything from a behavioral analyst. I might have been voted worst girlfriend ever and forever more by the three Alis, but I can wax eloquent about other people’s romances at length.
But life isn’t just about Metro and Fareeda, although those are the top two things I dream about at night. Mostly life is about regrabbing that plan in my head I had of who and where I want to be. This painful question was posed to me at a party recently. Where do you see yourself in five years? Instead of saying, whatever, fuck you for asking such an unimaginative question, I laughed and said I don’t know. Wherever life takes me. Like life is a big adventure and I’m Jim Corbett. Just out hunting man eating tigers in Indian jungles.
Truth is though, I don’t know. I don’t know about so many things that it scares me. At 29, I should have a better answer than I don’t know. I planned for every eventuality in life early on, except for this one. I chose an alternative career incase Nat Geo never comes calling and I was always aware that circumstances change plans. I just never knew that the last week of 2010 would throw me deep into the bowels of introspection and make me climb out all uncertain about what exactly it is that I want to be doing. I still want to be Pakistan’s Ted C, and I still want to be lying on my stomach trying to get one good shot of migratory birds that gather around puddles in Phase 8, but there is something more I need to be doing. I just wish I knew what it was.
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