Lies

The touch of his hand across my back makes me quiver but I don't stop him. I ignore the discomfort he causes me. He presses his lips against mine and compliments my supposedly beautiful eyes. 'What a cliché thing to say,' I wonder. I, once again, conceal this thought and pull him closer towards me resolute upon 'getting right to the point.' He doesn't seem to share my sentiments and insists upon holding me in his arms as he stares into my face. I can't help but feel awkward. He opens his mouth to speak and in order to avoid conversation I slide my head down to his pelvis and start blowing him.

I end up spending the night because he has an AC and a nice big bed and I'm too stoned to find a rikshaw to take me back to campus. In the morning he asks if I'll come visit him again and I nod my head.

When I get back to campus, I'm met with the expected inquiries of my friends 'Where have you been?'

I reply calmly 'I spent the night at a relatives.'

They believe me.

The Army of Insomniacs.

I can’t sleep again. My mind is racing from place to place, person to person, emotion to emotion, thought to thought.

A thought about how moving to Lahore was supposed to represent a change of my entire state of being is followed by a realization that it changes absolutely nothing. My physical location will have no impact on my brain and after all, it is my brain that invokes all thoughts. My mind is a wanderer and will continue to wander no matter where I go. I will continue to question. My ‘state’ will always be that of uncertainty because I really don’t have the faith to accept what I’ve been told.

But what is ‘faith?’ Belief based on illogic? And what is ‘belief?’ How can one accept principles without a shadow of a doubt? There is uncertainty everywhere. Be it the uncertainty principle of tiny particles that we were taught in physics class but never quite understood or the somewhat random, uncertain movements of the celestial bodies above. There are no certain laws governing, just theories. Theories which are widely accepted and then disproved. The constantly changing perceptions of what is ‘moral’ and what is ‘immoral.’ It’s all so random, temporary and pointless.

The thought of death scares me. I can’t fathom feeling nothing, lying in the soil, unconscious. What does ‘unconsciousness’ feel like? I’m told it feels like nothing but how can one not feel? Perhaps that’s something I cannot imagine and that frustrates me. I flip and flop in my bed cursing my lack of faith. Maybe if I believed, that by performing certain acts, I’d go to heaven once I died where everything would be perfect, I’d be able to sleep in peace. But how can forever ever be perfect? I wonder if a believer lying in another bed also flips and flops, cursing his faith. His frustrations stemming from the perceived immortality of his soul and mine from my perceived lack of one.

I eventually give up trying to sleep and pull the laptop from my side table onto my chest. The class valedictorian is online. She asks me for advice which isn’t surprising because many of my friends come to me for advice when they want to be told to ‘fuck it, fuck everything.’ That’s the role I play. I’ve learnt that in order for us to be happy we must free ourselves from the clutches of society’s judgment and I'm quick in passing this little piece of wisdom around. But if we ‘fuck everything,' if we ‘free ourselves’ and ‘let go,’as I say we should, what will we hold onto?

Nothing.

I wonder if this is the conclusion the valedictorian will reach after our discussion. She might. Despite being the daughter that every parent dreams of, the paragon of perfection in the eyes of so many of her teachers, she is just like me. And so is the believer who flips and flops in his bed. They, like me, are part of the army of insomniacs, of thinkers whose minds race from place to place, person to person, emotion to emotion, thought to thought. 

I'm Not Sorry.

You would show up at my doorstep in your small flimsy Suzuki Alto within an hour of me calling you. We'd meet at a time of my convenience, even if it meant you having to cancel other engagements. You would drive, trying to engage in a conversation, while I started out the window barely listening to what you had to say. I've never been good at small talk but with you, I'd given it up all together. I had accepted that you would not have anything interesting to say and you never did. You spoke about topics I couldn't care less about. You were contented with your meager life and were unable to question concepts that had been drilled into your brain.

We'd arrive at your house and head straight for your room, lock the door shut and our dance would begin. I'd lay on the bed with you on top of me. I'd stare deep into your light brown eyes as I rubbed the fair skin of your broad jaw with my fingers. You'd grab onto the back of my neck and press your lips against mine. Your tong would explore the corners of my body as I made soft cries of pleasure. No hint of our relationship could be known to the world outside but within the four walls of your room, our bodies tangled up around one another in unabashed lust and passion.

After having relieved ourselves sexually, we'd clean up and you'd drive me back home in silence with a satisfied grin across my face. I had accepted that the sole purpose of our meetings was the fulfillment of our carnal desires. I had no interest in you other than your sweltering hot body. I imagined you felt the same way but was shocked to learn otherwise.

When, after one of our regular sessions of passionate sex, you told me you loved me, I was in complete shock. 'How could you have fallen in love with me when we didn't even talk,' I wondered. I looked at your face and felt absolutely nothing. I told you so and went home in a rickshaw. We haven't talked since. For two years, I have felt like a terrible person for not being able to reciprocate your love. I felt heartless and insensitive for not being able to feel what you had felt.  Last month, my cell phone beeped to removed all of my guilt. On Shab-e-Barat, you sent me the typical 'forgive me, for I have sinned' text message and reminded me just why I couldn't love you.

You were typical. You were one of them. One of the members of society. There was no way you could understand the qualms of an outsider like me and no way I could abide by your concepts of propriety and decency. I needed my freedom whilst you'd learned to live without it.

I no longer feel sorry for not loving you. You just weren't right for me and I wasn't right for you. I'm glad I stormed out that day because if I hadn't, I would have stormed out the next day.

The Pathos of No Internet Connection.

I've always maintained that I find the hippie lifestyle to be a superior form of living. The hippies were free from the clutches of consumerism and hence, free from the tyranny of internet service providers. PTCL no longer controls just our phone lines, it controls our entire lives. PTCL can, by not providing us with internet access, halt our lives. I express everything I learn through Tweets and Blog posts so the days I am unable to do so, feel completely unproductive.

PTCL decided to attack my lack of hobbies by not providing me with internet access. Aggravated by this affront onto my lifestyle, I made daily phone calls to their office and shouted at random phone operators. No mater what I said or which operator I spoke to, their response was consistent: 'We are very apologetic and have forwarded your complaint, the problems you are facing will be resolved within 24 working hours.' If the lack of internet access was not enough to enrage me, the consistency of their reply definitely was. 72 hours passed since my first complaint and I resorted to making statements such as 'Do you think I'm crazy?' and 'How are you even an internet company if you can't provide internet?' only to receive the same reply: 'We are very apologetic and have forwarded your complaint, the problems you are facing will be resolved within 24 working hours.'

After four long internet-less days, I decided to go to the PTCL office myself and communicated my problems to the manager. You can imagine my anger when he responded with the very same statement: 'We are very apologetic and have forwarded your complaint, the problems you are facing will be resolved within 24 working hours.' I looked at the manager with disgust, I felt nothing but hatred for the man and shouted out 'How many days of my life will you eat away, you are like a leech.' This statement managed to capture the attention of everyone in the office and resulted in my internet connection being repaired that very evening.

I woke up the next morning feeling triumphant about yesterday's victory and decided to tweet about it. I opened my laptop, opened a browser and my jaw dropped when I read the line 'This page cannot be loaded.' PTCL had done it again.

I wish I were a hippie.

I Run in the Dark.

I jog, my path dimly lit by the luminous glow of the lamps on my right. I feel a cold breeze coming in from the ocean on my left. A haunting silence persists, disrupted only by the sound of my footsteps. I feel a euphoric sense of freedom seeing the track unusually empty and allow my mind to wander. I think about myself, analyzing my life, trying to figure out just where I'd end up. I wonder whether I would ever find lasting satisfaction or whether my life would continue to be marked by this complete lack of purpose. The thoughts in my head frustrate me because my worries aren't real. I know the source and solution of all of my problems lies within my own skull but I don't know how to be happy. My sense of euphoria quickly turns into a river of confusion. The thoughts in my head spin around in my brain and in my state of bewilderment; the only thing that makes sense is to jog faster. I run as fast as I can. I imagine myself running away from everything and everyone. I think 'If I jog fast enough, the thoughts in my head won't reach me,' but that's not how it works. My mind goes to this cold dark place whenever I give it the slightest opportunity to think.

I run till my lungs are on the verge of bursting and I can no longer feel my legs. I take a seat on a nearby bench, gasping for breath. I observe a child, crying at the top of his lungs, clinging onto his mother chest. The mother holds the child tightly and the child's loud cry fades into a light murmur. The mother makes everything better and I wanted nothing more than for someone to hold me and make everything better.

I rush home, craving the warmth of my mother's embrace and the touch of her soft fingers on my back. I am convinced that she can fix everything. I arrive home and run into her room only to be met by an accusatory 'Agae?' (You're back?) My heart drops in disappointment. I don't bother responding to her pointless queries and go straight to my room, slam the door shut and lay on my bed, haggard, frustrated and angry. I haven't slept in days due to my perpetual insomnia but my blood shot eyes instantly close when my head hits the bed and I fall asleep tangled in my emotions.

I've always had trouble sleeping for long periods of time and am surprised to wake up late the next morning. Although only a few drops of rain fell from the sky, the morning was as peaceful as the morning after a storm. I recall what had happened and can't help but chuckle at my own craziness. I dub the events of the night before as symbolic of my life. I'm quite literally running away from everything and everyone. In a month’s time, I'll be living in another city, beginning my first year of college and searching for the answers to the questions screwing with my head. I dream of red brick walls covered in a sheet of ivy. I'm finally excited.

If they saw who I really was, would they burn me alive?

They came towards him, carrying hearts heavy with hate. An army of two thousand men. Two thousand men who had long lost the innocent sparkle in their eye, given up their tears for weaponry and forgotten what it felt like to be held in the arms of their mothers. He was helpless as their blood thirsty hands pulled him out of his cell and set him ablaze. His screams of anguish were met by even louder screams of anger. They watched his body quiver in pain, fall to the ground and turn to dust. He had ripped the pages out of a book and they had ripped the life out of his chest. The madman, brought down by an army of madmen.

My maid wears a burqa every time she goes back home to visit her children in Orangi town. She says she wears it for safety concerns rather then religious beliefs. I understand that. I wear a burqa every time I step outside this blog. As long as I wear my burqa, I'm alright. As long as people are unable to connect a face or a name to this blog, no angry mob will chase after me. I still can't help but wonder: what if they knew? What if they knew about my views, my sexuality and my lack of religious belief? Would I be dubbed a madman and be roasted alive? Or is my burqa actually an oven of silence, where I slowly roast away till all that's left of me is a lifeless pile of flesh and bone?

I see the man in the picture and wonder if this is my ultimate fate.

Mob kills mentally ill man for blasphemy

Lover

We sat side by side on my single bed, with our legs stretched out and our backs leaning against the wall. We had been talking for quite some time. The coffee mugs that we held in our hands had long been emptied but neither of us dared to move for a refill. I felt this indescribable feeling of comfort accompanied with a tinge of excitement sitting next to him. We were out of things to talk about but that didn't bother us. Words were pointless. In a one hour meeting, we had reached a point where we knew exactly what the other would say so we decided to say nothing at all. We sat in complete silence just looking at one another.

I stared into his weary eyes wondering how lucky I was to stumble upon this marvelous man's profile on Manjam (The gay social network). He leaned in close and pushed his forehead against mine with eyes gazing down, examining my face. He then put his hand on my chin and pulled my lips towards his. I've been told that I'm a good kisser but he took total control of my lips and tongue and I was unable to practice any of my techniques. To my delight he knew what he was doing. He gently brushed his tongue against mine. I didn't realize how turned on I actually was until he put his hand down my pants and began stroking my already erect penis.

I had fallen back onto the bed and he now lay on top of me. He removed both our shirts and continued to kiss me. His lips then proceeded down onto my chin followed by my neck, followed by my chest, followed by my stomach and when he finally pulled my penis out of my pants, he looked at me, smiled and began jerking it. He then extended the tip of his tongue and began lightly licking the sides of my dick. With a sudden jerk, he took my entire penis in his mouth and I could feel the inside of his throat with the head of my dick. His head bobbed up and down and all I could do was moan away. I had to finally make him stop, worried that I might eject sperm into his mouth.

He then laid down next to me. He stared deep into my eyes as we both stroked our dicks. I was on the verge of cumming and the sight of his rugged face only accentuated my passion. It was too much. I closed my eyes and moaned in passion, fully aware of the incredibly sexy man laying next to me. I suddenly felt liquid being ejected from the tip my penis and landing on my stomach. I continued to stroke my dick with my eyes closed until every drop of sperm had oozed out.

I finally opened my eyes and saw the roof of my bathroom. I looked left and right in search of my lover but could only see shiny plastic walls on either sides of me and I realized that I lay in my tub alone, naked, covered in my own sperm. Why can't my fantasies ever turn out to be true?