Itch

It hurts to think that we can never go back to the way we were last year. I never thought I'd get the 'itch' with you but I have it and it won't go away! Come to think of it, I have the 'itch' with almost everyone I know now. I just can't appreciate people the way I used to; I just can't love the way I used to. There's always something holding me back. Judgement? Maybe... I think I see more and understand more. I see what you're doing, I get it but I can't reconcile myself with it. Wait... Isn't that exactly how you feel? But I don't want to rationalize this, I'm sure someone gets what I'm saying so I don't have to try to understand. That sounds terrible! Maybe I'm terrible... but I'm just trying to become!

Un-Cliché?

You smell like a broken calculator and taste like a toothpick
You look mathematical but sound metaphorical
Your hair is like a rainbow of shoes
Your fingers, an assortment of oranges
Your eyes, coal burning in a computer

My toe thinks like a goat
My hair eats water and drinks aeroplanes
My underwear is a cold cold cabbage
My glasses are light bulbs
I am an imaginary lollipop

Inspired by Karishma Ka Karishma
Bloomed like pineapple cake
Baked in toiletries
Combed by cold blankets
Eaten like Mortein Spray

Fatherly Advice

So there I was once again. Trying to explain to my father some bullshit version of post modernism that made the not-having-a-plan the plan of the 21st century. I enjoy talking in literary terms with my father. It's the only way I can at least pretend to know something he doesn't. It didn't work.

The previous night my father had proudly declared that there was no generation gap between him and his children while my brother and I attempted to conceal our laughter. He's convinced that he knows exactly how 'youngsters' think, not realizing that using the term 'youngsters' already disqualifies him from the claim. I sat there wide eyed, almost in disbelief as to how deluded people could be. 'No generation gap between me and him,' I thought, 'that's like saying men have vaginas or something.'

My father keeps pushing on the what-will-you-do-with-your-life discussion and is unwilling to accept my I-don't-know-will-you-please-pass-the-chicken. He says that his job is to advise people on what careers they should choose and that qualifies him to be some sort of a career advisor to me not realizing that I'm his son and I know he's a banker.

I have no idea how to be honest with the man. I've always tactically chosen what to say in front of him but this was one of those moments where I was completely lost for words. I started thinking of occupations in my head: 'um, economic forecaster... no, he'll tell you to read the newspaper, umm, Engineer... no, it's too late for that, ummm, pornstar... what's wrong with you?' I eventually tell him that I want to go into academia (I really don't think I do) and that's enough to conclude tonight's discussion but I have no idea what I'll say tomorrow. Actually, I'll probably just tell him that I love writing papers (I hate writing papers).

I keep telling myself: 'Two more months till you're back in college, lets not say anything we'll regret.'

Voyage

I haven't written anything for months now. I don't have the patience to read for fun and I've fallen into the habit of watching movies that don't require a whole lot of thinking. I couldn't stand the sight of Dorian Gray watching me watch Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham so I locked him up, along with all the other books on the shelf.

My insomnia's back. I flip and flop in my bed all night and I know that talking about how I feel or writing something down will make me feel better but what's the point of feeling 'better' when I'll still feel nothing at all. It was better when I was unable to accept it. Unable to accept that this was all there was, desperately searching for more. When I felt so much anguish that my mouth would refuse to pause for breath. They say that we Pakistanis have been desensitized but so many of my friends still cry while my eyes refuse to shed a single tear.

I wish to be able to describe this period of my life as a short interlude in my search for the profound. An island in my voyage to nowhere in particular because I know that I should keep voyaging. 

Face

I keep going back to it. That one episode where she goes crazy and slits her wrist. I can't seem to get that one image out of my mind. Of her sitting on the bathroom floor with her back against the wall. Her mascara smudged across her almost perfect porcelain cheeks and her hand resting lifelessly on the tiles with blood oozing out of her wrist.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. There's no mascara smudged across my face. No blood oozing out of my wrist. Just a regular face. Rough dark skin dotted with a couple of pimples. Glasses that don't really stand out and hair that seems to fall in place without actually being combed. I don't consider myself ugly. It's just that this face doesn't seem to represent the fucked up I feel in my head. It doesn't act out the crazy it's supposed to. Not the way the girl's in the TV show does. My face is slightly square shaped. Stable. Simple. Normal. But I feel anything but normal.

An old friend.

He calls every now and then. Not on a daily basis like he used to but he calls. Whenever he finds out something interesting about an old common friend or receives another pathetic CIE result sheet, my number is the first he dials. I haven’t seen him in two years but I doubt he looks any different. He certainly doesn't sound any different and the topics that interest him haven’t changed in the slightest. I remember him being my best friend growing up. I recall discussing whether or not it was haram to lick a woman’s breasts, passing judgement on the couple who would make out in the school’s back shed and calling the teacher with a big bottom a whore. I remember ridiculing this boy who was slightly taller and thinner than us and giving him the nickname ‘Ostrich.’

I understood that I was being offensive but it seemed a small price to pay in order to be a member of his clique. I always feared not having friends. I worried that if I didn't have any friends, people would feel free to point out my idiosyncrasies and I would become the ridiculed ‘Ostrich.’ I feared everyone noticing exactly how terrible a cricket player I was, the way my arm gestures resembled those of a woman and more than anything, I feared people being able to somehow figure out that I was sexually attracted to men and not women. So I clung onto this clique of boys that I secretly hated because as long as I was one of them, I was safe.

Although I had the support of these supposed friends, I never quite enjoyed their company and felt as though they only saw the image I tried so very hard to portray. I wasn't able to talk as openly as I wished and I would behave in a manner that was different from my usual demeanour  I eventually drew the courage to venture out to make new friends and once I had, I saw no need of remaining part of this clique. He was, undoubtedly, the kindest of this group of boys. He participated in their ridiculous conundrums but one could always notice his reluctance in doing so. I remained in close contact with him and avoided every other member of the clique for this very reason.

Every time I talk to him, I'm reminded of just how far I've come. From the boy who acted like his friends did in order to avoid being ridiculed to the boy who feels completely comfortable in his own skin and quotes Mean Girls where appropriate. He’s still part of that group of friends. He still discusses whether or not it is haram to lick a woman’s breasts, he still judges the couple that makes out in his university’s back shed and still calls the teacher with the larger bottom a whore.

He called the other day and told me ‘People at my university are so stupid; this one kid said that Khyber Pakhsomething was a province.’ He wouldn't believe me when I told him that Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa was, in fact, a province and I didn't bother convincing him. I know I can never really connect with him but as long as he keeps calling, I will continue answering because it’s good to know that all those years ago, in the midst of great uncertainties, I made one good decision; the decision to run as far away from such frustrating stupidity. Maybe I can make another one now.

i.

He looked repulsive and I'd only agreed to sleep with him because he had promised weed. He sat by me, recounting his previous sexual encounters, commending the physical characteristics of the people he had slept with, as if they were his trophies. He lacked all discretion, he revealed, with pride, their names and even their roles in bed. Homosexuals in Pakistan usually abide by a strict code of discretion but today was all about breaking rules so I ignored his crudeness. I kept silent, nodding away, pretending to be interested in what he was saying but hoping he would just take out his stash of weed.

After around twenty anxious minutes he pulled out a plastic bag from his shoe containing what looked like crushed brown autumn leaves. I watched intently as he yanked the filter out of a cigarette and rolled the crushed brown leaves into a piece of paper. He continued speaking but my eyes were fixated on the joint in his hand. He lit it up, sat back in his seat and began to smoke it. After a couple of huffs he handed it to me.

I held it to my lips and inhaled. It felt like any other cigarette and I was almost disappointed by it's lack of effect. I continued smoking, until only the filter remained between my fingers. I slouched back on the sofa and waited for the weed to kick in. I started feeling heavy. I could feel the blood rush through my veins. The furniture in the room began dancing and his voice became this inaudible echoing sound. He offered me chalia saying something about my sugar level. I took it from his hand and dropped it to the ground.

'Where is the wash-room?' I demanded.

'Over there,' he said pointing somewhere, I wasn't quite sure where. I got up and, with immense confusion, found the bathroom. I'd imagined that I'd simply drop my face into the commode and start vomiting but the commode was the Indian kind (a hole in the ground) and my entire body fell to the ground as I tried to release the contents of my stomach. I suddenly realized how empty my stomach was. I hadn't eaten since last night and only managed to make loud puking noises; no puke. He walked into the bathroom and told me to go lie down in his room and in my state of mind I was capable of doing nothing but complying with his suggestions.

I noticed him coming into the room and closing the door behind him. He laid down on top of me pressing his lips against mine. I wasn't aroused but I instinctively pretended to be. I realized how distant I was from him and from everyone else I've slept with. I couldn't even remember his name; I just knew that I didn't really like him. I was in no mood of doing anything sexual and my honest weed induced self felt no shame in telling him this. I knew that we'd agreed to have sex and that the honourable thing to do would be to simply go through with it but my brain capacity had diminished and I felt like a little child. Little children don't pretend to enjoy things they don't enjoy.

He insisted that I'd enjoy myself once he shoves his penis up my ass. He'd told me earlier that he had a condom in his apartment but ignored me now when I told him to put it on. I pushed him away from me and assured him that he wouldn't get to fuck me today. He compromised and a hand-job later, he offered to drop me to a rikshaw.

I knew that I was in no state to go out in public but wanted to be as far away from this man as possible. I sat up and regained some of my sanity. The furniture still danced but I forced myself to focus solely on the task at hand; I had to get away from here.