This is the first story I ever wrote, must be circa 1994. My daughter thinks it paints me as a hallucinating, freaky, weird, schizophrenic with tinnitus. I think I want to agree.

My imaginary friend and I.

---starts---

 The great structure of stony walls stood derelict in the wilderness. There was no other building for miles around. It seemed as if the lonely mansion was standing there in the scorching sun to make up for the fallacy of all those who left the place in some apprehension. Proving to them without calling out loudly that it survived. Reassuring them that they would also survive if only they had as much faith. Yearning silently that its emptiness may soon be filled with its loved ones.

We pushed the large wooden gate open. It creaked slightly as if it was announcing our entry to all the other parts of the structure in secret code – their own cryptic way of communication. The gate hit the stone wall with what sounded like an explosion in the age old silence, and sent a few sparrows flying from the large tree that overshadowed a part of the courtyard within.

Very soon, the frightened chirping of the birds, the harried flutter of their wings and the resonance of the great smash died out and all of a sudden, it was dead quiet again. Dead… I should not use this word in this description. Death was the last thing that could come to anybody’s mind there. No, it was not a dead silence. It exuded vitality, survival, stoicism, concealment, but there was nothing morbid about it. Even of the sparks of life escaped the eye as if according to some old plan that had been adopted after some painful experience, that silence was throbbing and absolute.

We stepped cautiously inside the great door and waited. Nothing happened. We reached forward to the courtyard and stood watchfully. We could see big entrances to huge halls built all around the courtyard. And I could feel eyes resting on us. I could hear low whispers going around amidst the walls, telling of our presence; spreading the warning to stay awake, reminding visitors of yore.

I stood there in awe at the immensity and powerfulness of the structure. The stony walls wore a russet tint. It seemed as if the hues of autumn had long engulfed all other seasons; past; and present. Everything there stood still in an absolute but a thriving, breathing silence. I looked at my watch unconsciously, just to make sure that time had not stopped there.

I felt a wave of murmurs building up behind me. I wished to dismiss the idea but a sudden violent urge to find out and quieten the noise makers overwhelmed me. Gradually the murmurs grew so loud that I could not take it any more. Surprisingly, I found myself gritting my teeth and then I turned around with a violent jerk that astonished myself.

A hush fell on the surroundings again. And the hall that I suspected to be the centre of the activity stood strangely empty, unmoved, revealing nothing.

Then I did something that I had no control over. The empty hall pulled me like a magnet and I ran towards it with a mind to lose myself in its vastness.

My partner stood unaware still inspecting the building and he looked strangely distant from where I was watching. All of a sudden I was filled with a strange omniscience as if I knew every shred of the cryptic truth that was pulsating within these walls. As if I had become a part of the secret plan… or conspiracy? But the walls still felt stony and cold and a quiet estrangement lurked in the air. I hid myself behind the wall beside the hall entrance and tried to peep out from between the hinges to see how my partner fared.

He stood there with his back towards me and his head lifted up to examine the upper portion of the building. Then he turned around to where he expected me to be standing. I saw him getting surprised at my sudden disappearance and a deep inside, something clutched at my heart begging me to return.

I hid myself even more properly from his eyes and calmly disregarded the faint pledge from within.

My partner looked around to guess my whereabouts and seeing the hall right in the front as the most probable of all, he turned his feet boldly towards my hideout. I started a slow retreat from my hiding place and whispered loudly, “he’s coming.” My whisper hit the walls around and echoed in the room as I hastened my retreating steps to enter the next room trough the door in the middle, before he could spot me.

I hid behind the door and tried to look thorough the narrow space between the hinges. He entered the room and looked around for me. There was some strangeness about him. He not only looked extraneous but also very lofty and imposing. The great, vast hall that had made me just another of its countless atoms, suddenly seemed dwarfed in front of him.

He looked around and called for me,” Asfiya, where are you?” He first stepped towards the door opposite then turned towards my hideout. He walked briskly enough to alarm me. I whispered in panic to my unseen impersonal counterparts, “he’s here, he’s here.”

First, I was moving quickly backwards, then I turned around and started running in fright as he approached. He caught sight of me just disappearing into the next room and called out in surprise, “Asfiya, where are you going? Wait, wait for me.” I ran as fast as I could, trying my best not to let him catch me. And in sheer panic, I kept turning my head to see how far behind was he.

My partner was astonished as he had sensed my being scared of him and he was running after me now. I ran madly through door after door into room after room, calling to nobody, slightly louder than a whisper – as if I were warning myself, “There he comes now, he’s coming, he’s coming.” And I ran as if for my life. And the huge conspiring walls echoed my words from all sides.

He was catching up with me owing to his bold strides. In sheer fright I decided to change my track and this time I ran out of the first door on my left instead of the one straight ahead leading to yet another of the seemingly interminable series of identical halls.

Suddenly I found myself under the open sky. I felt that I had no reason to run. It was almost simultaneously that my partner caught up with me and grabbed me by shoulders to stop me, “Stop Asfiya. What’s wrong?” I stopped.

Why were you running away from me,” he asked. I looked behind him at the overwhelming structure, glanced at all the rooms that I had run through and then looked down. “I don’t know,” I confessed without lifting my head. “I felt as if you were scared of me in there.” He spoke as if complaining. I looked up at him – honest, sure footed, straightforward. Suddenly the building behind him lost its awe inspiring quality. Snap. As if a spell had broken. Now it was nothing but a dull, deserted, old stony structure without any signs of life.

“I really don’t know what happened,” I said to him honestly. “It’s a weird place though. Let’s get out of here.” I shuddered. “Yes, an ugly piece of architecture.” He remarked fearlessly looking around at the building. “Only you wanted to see the old place otherwise we would have been in town by now.” He glanced casually at his watch.

I felt a stupid apprehension of the harshness and honesty of his words arousing a reaction from somewhere. I looked around instinctively, fearing someone must have heard and would be mad about it. But the building stood without a reaction – lifeless, shameless.

“Let’s go. I can see the way to go now.” I said with a smile. “Well, couldn’t you before?” He asked laughing. I kept my eyes low as I moved my head in denial. We walked out of there at a comfortable pace.

-------ends----- 

 

Traditions of Insult

By Asfiya Aziz

Word count: 655

The incident of an FC personnel slapping a needlessly aggressive female reporter has again bitterly divided opinions. While everyone agrees that the reporter was acting unprofessionally and disgracefully on her own, several voices have actually approved of the guards’ action of physically assaulting her.  

Some people’s opinions on this incident have exposed their embedded acceptance of violence against women as a means of restraining and controlling their behavior. It also highlights the lack of proper support and training given to women who are forced to go in the field and learn things on the job which should have been a part of their orientation exercise when they enter the field of journalism, specially reporting.

Ultimately, it exposes a colossal lack of respect from all parties towards each other. Respect comes from recognizing each other as equal human beings. The lady in question appears to be indignant at not being allowed inside the government premises by the guard--notably a low ranking official, and she seems to be high on her own perception of unlimited media privilege and entitlement, among other things. The guard’s privilege and entitlement comes not just from his uniform but from the gift of male superiority he was born with.

While some may insist on keeping this issue away from gender politics, it is impossible to examine the minds of the two involved parties and discard gender as a factor. A woman in Pakistan steps out of her sanctuary with more than a ticking clock on her mind. She is carrying the load of her physical vulnerability, decades of negative endorsements from the society, concerns for her own safety and security, awareness of the consequences of a mistake or accident, a keen eye on the environment around her, trying not to attract the wrong kind of attention, and constantly watching out for her personal space to be respected, all of which have the potential to quickly escalate. This thought process is in addition to the universal concern of safety against street crimes that men and women share when they exit their houses.

When I see that video clip, I see a woman revolting, reacting against the shackles her gender has placed on her. Overreacting is a proper description in this case but you need to give her the benefit of being on unfamiliar territory. In trying to break free from the fetters in her own mind, she does not know how much force she needs to apply and when to stop pushing at all. As she struggles, the world around her also struggles to handle someone who is breaking away from the prescribed traditions half the population of the world has almost quietly internalized.

The woman has accepted these traditions in order to keep safe from the men who cannot control themselves from harming her. The woman restrains herself not out of some inborn necessity, but because she wishes to be safe from men who think disrespectfully. Consequently, out on the streets, women do not act and react from a position of strength. They are constantly fighting the specter of disrespect that shadows their existence. The street is the biggest playground of the disrespectful.

Coming to the point of mutual respect, I see this incident as one of lack of respect on everyone’s part. Respect for fellow human beings, respect for women, respect for a government personnel, respect for a low ranking official, respect for another human being’s personal space, respect for the institution of media, all are glaringly absent. For whatever reasons, this lack of respect is all around us and the current incident is likely to help it grow even more.

All of us need to drop the distracting images of the microphone, the uniform, the pull, the push, and the slap for a second, and examine whether we need to resurrect the traditions of mutual respect or let the society descend further into the chaos it already is in.

------ENDS-------

The writer is a journalist with a special interest in Bioethics.

The Sun

There is something majestic and eerie about the quiet and dark reaches of space. The astronaut videos of the view from the ISS show a certain serenity, introducing a gush of love and feeling of responsibility for the pale blue dot. The silent and slow moving planets, the rare view of pluto fly by as the probe hurtles past the icy rock are sights inspiring awe, inviting introspection and a turnaround in life and thought, bringing massive opportunities of exploring within and outside, a wealth of knowledge and a host of reactions within the body and mind.

It opens one’s mind to a never ending space, a lack of limits to a mind that is trapped in time and space. The mind is unable to grasp the idea of there being nothing outside this nothingness. What is this nothingness standing on top of? What is beyond the farthest reach of space, what is outside this space? Inability to apply the laws of the physical world on this idea is both titillating and frustrating. What was before and what will be after? A better question would be what is ‘before and after’, after all? The idea of time as we perceive it, seems meaningless in the outer space. 

Time is useful, but only in comparison. What do these distant planets use time for? As they combust, explode and scatter around and reconstitute new heavenly bodies, does time matter to them or do they follow another set of dimensions we cannot fathom being trapped in our four? Is the perception of time equal to a comparison of data? Do we compare data when perceiving time because we are small and limited? Yet it is a seemingly limitless amount of data being compared in every beat around the globe, in every human mind that lives today and then consider the amounts generated by those who ever lived on this planet.

The most staggering things remain the distances in space and the amount of unknown staring back at us. One making the other possible.

Yet the video of the sun in its fury fails to evoke wonder or majesty. It seems like a quiet show of excesses, in self-absorbed arrogance. Rising flares betray an erratic, angry warlord wanting to be left alone. It doesn’t pull or attract the heart, it doesn’t make sense why. The sun is the center of gravity, why shouldn’t it pull something so tiny as a heart to itself, just like any expanse of cooling, mothering water pulls one to its fold. Why does it not have an effect like the bare rocky stretches of land on Mars or Pluto, icy or sandy?

Missing a hook, dropping a line, losing a sinker

Sinking a loser would’ve been such a welcome event. As would’ve hooking a rich miss be. 

All that empty space should help you get your head around the yakety-yak I just threw at you. Life is getting weirder by the day. I have told you I have tried to kill myself on facebook and have failed so far. I am, like, in a coma, on artificial support there.

This brings me to T squarely. Because T’s is the first name that comes to mind as soon as I think about facebook. Her image is like hovering in the background as the facebook blue appears on my mind’s stage. Who is T, you ask? In a nutshell, she is an old friend and someone I seem to have unwavering faith in.  This faith is not because of any fault of hers however. Outside the nutshell, she is the most ill-tempered woman I have ever come across. Some of us friends often wonder if she was secretly brought up by wolves in order to have a temper like that. To be fair, it is me every time who plays with fire. And this happens because each time she loses temper on me, I vow to dissociate with her totally and do just that. In a few months or even years, I completely forget about what happened the last time and we meet somehow. And these bouts of selective amnesia make me forget why I distanced myself from her the last time, every blinking time. This has been happening on a loop for several years now, almost with a sense of cosmic purposefulness about it. I will tell you a story to illustrate this point.

Once upon a time, I had inactivated my facebook account to detox from social media. Soon I realized I do not have any other contact of this cousin in Australia who has just had a child. So in order to dispense with that important social responsibility of congratulating her on her fourth success, I reactivated my account to retrieve her phone number from her profile. The day I chose to do this inauspicious task, was the day that three of my friends who have migrated to North America, chose to open a group chat. They added me as soon as they spotted my name as addable. I suspect there was a split second in which the two probabilities became a possibility. May be I will reactivate my account, may be my friends will add me in the group. It took some simultaneous clicking in two continents and the gravitational waves generated by the subsequent coming together of two black holes: T’s foul tongue and my patience; are still travelling through my universe.

First of all, T had migrated to Canada during the six weeks that my account had been inactive. Secondly, she claimed that she had sent me a message on facebook to which, she emphasised, I didn’t bother replying. Now my mind exclaimed that she couldn’t have sent me a message as my name couldn’t have appeared in the drop down list. But I decided to forgive that little white lie and proceed. Also because the phone wasn’t accepting all my taps owing to the index finger being wrapped in a band-aid. Tapping with the middle finger would have suited each party perfectly: me, T, and the phone; but I found it impolite to do it in the company of my mum in law, we were supposed to be watching TV together.

Fatefully ignoring the hint of this white lie, I told T she could’ve attempted to call me on phone. That is when the first black hole spotted the other and put on the moves. “We weren’t meeting frequently when you were in town, but I suddenly feel like crying at this news,” I was courting disaster, not courting T, I should’ve known. “But there is such a thing as a cell phone you know. We still use it in Pakistan.” I pressed. The other black hole was slithering closer but I hardly knew and so the dance continued, as courtships often begin. “Amazing, even Roofi didn’t mention it even though I had met him only last week,” Unbeknownst to me, my musings were frightfully upping the attraction between the two darklings.

“Yes, that is the point. (It begins, the black holes have made eye contact!) We were not meeting even though we were living in the same area just a few minutes away from each other. You have been to my house a couple of times and also to my daughters’ birthday celebration at a nearby hall. BUT… (This ‘But’ marks the exact moment of the arrival of the one black hole in the arms of the other.) I didn’t even know the lane or house number in which you live. My fault? (This is a shudder as the two black holes embrace and immerse and… I suppose, try to find the spot!) Even my maid knows which house you live in because you had picked her up from her shanty hut once. Interestingly, Shehla, Uzma, Adnan and I have all been meeting quite regularly. We know each others’ spouses and houses well. And since arriving here in Toronto, I have already met Rahema, Dina and their families and have had a great time. (This is when the climax is reached simultaneously.) It’s ok Asfiya, yaar. It must be my fault that I never tried to barge into your house uninvited. (A blessed release. Gravitational waves of course. One of the black holes rolls over and lights a cigarette. The other one known as my patience lies flat staring at the roof, thinking ‘not again’.) 

This happens again and again. And again. I suppose it will continue until we reach the Big Bang.

Suffering from geopolitics

Hubby and I are suffering from geopolitics since Sunday. You know well that Pakistanis mishandled Afghans who came back and attacked other Pakistanis. In an extension of the situation, BBQ Tonite serves us some Afghani tikka this Sunday which attacked our stomachs. Predictably, BBQT seems hell bent on having this strategic depth in their menu, which gullible Pakistanis like us support by ordering, seeking a brotherly and historically cohesive experience. But we hope to spring back to our feet and importantly, recover our spirits very soon inshaAllah, as Pakistanis have no other choice.

A little crisis of faith

Our neighbours, an orthodox shia family, sent word a few days ago that I MUST come and visit because they have found a "miracle" in their house. Now I am not very chummy with any of the illustrious sisters so I found the command rather strange. Khair, I went after twenty or so days, basically to apologise for not having attended the majlis at their place the previous day.

The women of the house were absolutely thrilled and couldnt stop talking about the miracle in spite of my puzzled, dazed expression. and their mom used very strong words to chide me for not making it earlier.

The miracle: A glass jug has fogged up and there are multiple 'shabeehs' to be seen/made out in it. There is one big shabeeh that resembles a man with long hair. They think it is Imam Hussain visiting their house. By the way, they got three molvis, one visiting scholar from iran to verify that miracle.

The crisis: I think it looked like Jesus Christ. :-P They are related, aren't they? And they are both middle eastern, no? Who knows if they resembled each other?

So they told me to spread the news to all my shia friends. And that's the bit I am the happiest about. I just mentioned it to some of my shia friends, never thought it was a big deal. and now there is this sudden surge in my popularity 8-) One of my friends who had been planning to visit me since 2005, showed up at my doorstep within 6 hours of getting the news!

I am now thinking of spreading the word to my Christian friends too.

I vaguely remember reading about such things happening in Christian homes too. but cannot figure out the correct search terms to look it up. I think its a function of the brain which makes it see familiar objects or faces in random things and the fog showing faces.

so things are exciting for now :-P

Remembrance

Remembrance 

By Asfiya Aziz

My breathing is fast and wild. I feel a heavy load on my chest and a dizziness in my head. My heart had skipped a beat just a while ago. And I know now that was the very moment my dear brother had breathed his last miles away from me.

The lights around me are dim and soft. The room is chilly and everything is quiet and still. I cannot hear my own heartbeat. Perhaps it ceased with my brother's.

The pictures of a childhood together, dance on the screen of my mind. We play, study, chat and grow up together. Here are my parents lovingly, caringly watching over us. It is love, laughter, merriment all around. Here is the scene of a terrible fight. We clash and disagree. Then we leave for our rooms as bidden after a lengthy lecture. Now, I see myself crying bitterly in my room, indignant, terribly hurt. And I see today, my teenage tormentor also cries in pain in his own room. The next morning, I wake up as he kisses my cheek and all around is as sunny as before.

A curtain flutters slightly with the breeze. Who knows it might be his soul slipping in to say good bye for the last time. The light breeze brushes my cheek. I stand up and look out of the window. The vastness of the starry night makes me wonder. Is it as dark as the night that has descended in my brother's eyes?

His lustrous, cheerful eyes, his tall, handsome figure, his strong and broad shoulders - their memory fills my eyes with tears, when once, one look at him used to fill my heart with pride. I feel the sudden absence of vigor the sight of him added to my spirits in my ordeals of life. I sit down feeling tired all of a sudden.

It stabs at my heart to think of the pain my darling brother must have experienced. It numbs my senses to imagine the courageous fight he put up against a far greater, a more potent rival - death. And how he succumbed, gave up the fight, opted for an eternal rest!

My heart is rent. My own flesh and blood is dead. It was my blood that trickled down his body. It was my soul that struggled to wriggle itself free from the cares of this world, it was my body that lay slain before the world. The loyal, invincible bulwark of a brother is shattered for me.

Time goes on. Even this period of anguish will pass. But the darkness, the stillness, the silence that I perceive now will forever stand agape in my life where I would wish to see my brother.

Printed in MAG Weekly on October 3, 1996.

Game has changed

The game has changed. And if it ever was, being right is no longer enough. I refer to the recent protests and their aftermath.

Images of violence, arson, weapons, and vandalism dominated the television coverage of the day. No matter how hoarse the protagonists may cry themselves about the day being peaceful in the rest of the country, the televised images will always speak louder.

The message is simple. In the day and age of technology, Muslims need to raise their game. The advent of satellite communication means the space for public discourse has gone global. What we do in Karachi on a sunny afternoon is being telecast live on the other side of the world. Alien cultures are coming face to face on an unprecedented scale.

While we demand that the rest of the world should make an effort to understand Islam, we need to place a similar demand on ourselves to present a sensible argument for our point of view.

Media loves a spectacle and no matter how many millions turned out in peaceful protest that day, the violent mob got all the attention.

Considering the communal nature of the cause, it was the government’s duty to hire professionals to choreograph the day, to send out the elusive image of a peaceful Islam everyone seems to go blue in the face declaring a love for.

Perhaps a silent demonstration of people holding the holy symbols of all major religions of the world would have demonstrated clearly that Muslims are required by faith to respect all religions. It would have been a far more potent example.

The subsequent efforts by the youngsters to clean up the mess are commendable. However, the battle was lost and it was just that, a cleaning up after. While it works on a different level for our country, it does nothing for the day of shame we brought upon ourselves. It was yet another lost opportunity to present our best image when the world was looking.

Those who feel betrayed by a biased media, need to realize that the turf under their feet has changed colours. The sooner we learn to respond to media attention with grace and ingenuity, the better it will be for our collective peace of mind.