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.

Waiting.

I no longer have passion, ambition or goals. I was skeptical about my college education before enrolling but part of me still hoped that I would find some meaning, some purpose in the bound stacks of paper we call course packs, some direction from the teachers who hold promise in the eyes of the other freshman or some divine sense of spirituality in the various forms of drugs college students experiment with. 

This is not to say that I've been completely disinterested in everything college has to offer. In fact, I've spent the last four months forcing a smile onto my face and speaking in an excited tone, two octaves above normal.  I've attended lectures from supposedly influential speakers and have pretended to have been profoundly impacted by what they've had to say. 

Everyone says that I should be grateful for what I've been given and I've pretended to be, hoping that this fake façade of gratitude turns into reality. I've surrounded myself with friends who have adopted a particular façade in order to please whoever they hope to please to the extent that they can't differentiate themselves from the image they put up for the world. 

I desperately wish to be one of them but I've accepted that that isn't possible for me. I really don't know why I keep trying. Waiting for something I know will never come. 

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?

The Sea

My parents laughed at me when I told them that I was going to sea-view McDonalds to celebrate a friend's birthday. They associate a McDonalds birthday party with Happy Meals and a manikin of Mr. McDonald and they claim that no one decent goes to Sea-View anymore (I wonder if by decent they meant rich). To be perfectly honest I wasn't too excited about Sea-View McDonalds myself, Sea View is infamous for smelling like the inside of a garbage can and if it were up to me, we wouldn't go anywhere near it, but I'm glad it wasn't up to me.

After having cut the cake, made a myriad of prank calls on behalf of College Board apologizing for incorrect SAT score distribution, bid most of the guests farewell and been sufficiently gawked at by the aunty sitting on  the table next to us, two friends of mine and I sat on a bench outside talking. We talked about all our frustrations as the wind caressed our backs and the waves kissed the shore behind us. I looked to my left and my right and I realized that I sat with two people whom I didn't have to hide anything from. They went through just as many emotional hurdles as I did, they could empathize with what I felt.

I turned around to see the glorious image of the infamous beach that I have tried to avoid as much as possible. The sand was dark and covered with patches of camel shit and the water a murky gray but that didn't bother me. It didn't bother anyone. Not the naked kid who ran through the water, not the pretentious aunty sitting on the table next to us, not the young couple sitting in the sand in front of us nor the group of burqa clad women who were riding a camel. Everyday in Pakistan, we hear about our intolerant attitude. Of how difficult it is for the different sets of religious beliefs, cultural norms, income brackets and racial backgrounds to co-exist in this country but by the sea, all those differences fade away. The murkiness of the water or the smell of the feces, the color of everyone's skin, the price tag of the clothes everyone wore was all irrelevant.

We were all there. Astonished. Everything is better by the sea. At that moment I understood what Stephen Chbosky meant in his book when he wrote: 'And in that moment, I swear we were infinite,' because in that moment, I swear, we were infinite.

I wonder.

I've realized that I'm obsessed with suicide. I'm not suicidal or depressed (currently) but I spend hours on end just thinking about what will happen if I were to commit suicide. I imagine that I'd write a note to the world pointing out the many reasons that lead to my suicide. I'd reveal my sexuality, my religious views (or lack of rather) and maybe even attach a link to this blog. I wonder which of my friends would show up for my funeral. I wonder who would cry and who would just show up for the free biryani. I wonder what would become of my family. I wounder if my suicide would make national headlines. I wonder if my suicide would be discussed on Capital Talk. I wonder if my suicide would mark the birth of the gay rights movement in Pakistan. Then I remember that even if I were to commit suicide, I wouldn't know or care about what happens on Earth. I'd be dead. Then I wonder if it's normal to be thinking about this stuff and I realize that it isn't and once again I realize that I should really see a therapist. I don't think I have a mental illness, just a load of unresolved emotional issues. I'm frustrated. I'm a free thinker but I'm sick and tired of thinking. I just want to be happy. I'm not happy or unhappy or maybe I'm happy and unhappy. I really don't know. I don't know much at all.

I met this old friend a few days ago. He said I'd become mature, I think he's wrong. I used to think that being mature meant having your 'shit' figured out. I definitely don't have my 'shit' figured out, I don't think anyone does. Maybe the step from immaturity to maturity is to just give up trying to figure everything out. I'm not mature or immature or maybe I'm mature and immature. I really don't know. I don't know much at all.

I should really stop this pointless wondering and just be happy.

Exercise, Daddy and Other Musings.

Another, otherwise, peaceful dinner conversation disrupted by my disregard towards my health. I just don't see the point of going to the gym. I don't see why that's so unusual for my family to understand. I don't mind the flabs forming on the sides of my stomach. My father dubbed my likes and dislikes as 'ghair fitri' (unnatural). I don't see how wanting to get tired can be considered natural and wanting to rest be considered unnatural.

My father says he wants me to talk openly with him. He wants me to tell him my vision for my future, where I see myself in ten years time and what the purpose of my life is. He maintains that he's always allowed for us to openly express ourselves. I sit across the table from him and think to myself: 'What lies!' We don't speak about anything in this house. We don't talk about the time he beat my mother, we don't talk about the time he threw a slipper at my brother when he was 3 years old or the time he beat the butler for not bringing him and his friends tea.

I feel uncomfortable speaking about myself with him. In fact, I feel uncomfortable speaking about anything with him. I don't know when he's going to snap. I've learned to deal with him by keeping my mouth shut and just nodding at everything he says but he seems to have a problem with that too now. He has a problem with everything. He said that I should go see a therapist and all I could think about was how he needed a therapist more than I did.

That being said, I have a myriad of issues and I feel as though I do need a therapist. I sit on this blog, typing away, just trying to figure out my life but it isn't enough. There's so much uncertainty. So much I don't know. So much I'm not satisfied with. My father doesn't really understand my 'likes and dislikes' but to be quite honest, I don't know what they are. I feel uncomfortable when my father asks me these questions because not only am I uncomfortable with my father, but I also do not know the answers to the questions he asks.

I think my father and I have finally agreed on something: a therapist may be good for me. I desperately need someone to piece together the broken fragments of my life.. I can't do it on my own. I just need someone to make everything less confusing, to make some sense of things. I think my mother sums up my life more accurately than anyone else, she asks: 'Tum zindagi se bezaar kiyun ho?' (Why are you sick of life?), and I don't know what to say. I know she's right and I want to change, I just don't know how.

...

I look deep into your eyes, searching for your soul but I know that all that lays behind the lenses of your eyes is a retina that leads to an optic nerve. So I put my hand on your chest and try to feel your heart, but your heart is just a piece of flesh beating away, pumping blood through your veins. So I take a step back and I look at you and I search for the person I love but I know you are just bone covered with meat covered with skin and suddenly I feel more lonely than I ever did before.

You're saying something, I can hear you but I can't quite comprehend what you're saying. I know what the words coming out of your mouth mean as described in a dictionary but I don't know what you mean because you aren't really there. You're shouting now, I know you are, but your voice is fading away into the background just like the whisper of the ceiling fan above my head. I look around and see where I stand and although this room looks familiar, it doesn't quite feel the same and I realize that you're still there and I'm fading away.

I'm going to a place where I feel nothing but I already feel nothing because I'm not where I think I am. It's all in my head, everything. I don't see the world, I see my perception of it. There is no way that I can truly feel anything I can only feel my perception of 'feeling.' I'm all alone.

Hold me tight and remind me to come back. Remind me that I lay in your arms. Kiss me so I can feel your lips on mine. Touch every corner of my body so that I feel your hands sliding over my skin. Hold me tight and tell me you are real and I haven't just made you up. Write me a poem and read it to me to show me that you think the way I think and feel the way I feel. Please, just feel me and make me feel.

Shaadi season

Yes, It's that time of the year again. The time when the drawer is full of wedding invitations of relatives whose names you've never heard of. The time when you get the opportunity to witness the level of intellect and double standards present within our society. The time when you return home at 2 am, eager to take a seat on the commode only to pass out burning liquids. It's 'Shaadi' time.

This festive season kicked of with my cousins engagement where I heard a song whose lyrics roughly translated to:

'The groom is wondering how the bride will be' (because he hasn't actually ever seen the bride).
'Tell him the bride is like a piece of gold' (because women are shiny material objects, gifts of sorts).
'Whichever house she goes to, she'll make that house a piece of heaven' (God forbid she ever wishes to step outside that piece of heaven without the company of a male relative).

I think about how I sat quietly through the song and I'm impressed at my display of patience and maturity. My usual self would have either kicked the speakers till they became unable to play this damned song ever again or burst out laughing finding such ridiculous lyrics hard to believe in. But I realize that I must stay calm and maintain a certain level of discipline and continue to wear the fake smile on my face as I shake hands with relatives, whose faces I remember only vaguely, as though it's a great pleasure to meet them again. 

Despite the ghastly Parathas that have resulted in me spending a great number of hours each day in the washroom passing out God knows what, I've made it through the bulk of the season. I had an interesting discussion with my family the other night on our way to a 'Baraat.' The groom was a son of a close friend of my fathers and we were following the grooms car to a wedding hall. I'm not quite familiar with the customs of each function and I don't really care but in order to remove the awkward silence that persisted in the car, I decided to question my mother on the topic. She told me that during a 'Baraat' the 'lerkay wale' (friends and family members of the groom) go to pick up the bride and bring her home. I question 'Why can't the bride take the groom home,' and the car bursts into laughter and I sit there, puzzled, unable to understand the humor in my last statement. My mother jokingly asks if that's what I want for my wedding. I reply with a 'Why not?' and the whole car is perplexed by what I'm saying and alas, awkward silence continues till we arrive at the wedding.

I don't understand desi weddings. They seem so sexist, defining the roles of man and wife before they even meet. I'm not going to say they are very hetero-normative (even though they are; I can only imagine the confusion a gay couple would go through if they were have a desi wedding) because I understand that our society simply isn't there yet but to learn that our society isn't even willing to treat husband and wife equally is disheartening, if not infuriating.

My older brother doesn't want to get married anytime in the near future and although I understand, my mother seems almost unwilling to accept this reality. She tries time and time again to convince him to get married and after he refuses she jokes and says that one day, she'll pretend like she's taking him to a relatives wedding, but it'll actually be his wedding. For his sake, and for our societies sake, I hope she is in fact joking.