Here is a press release I just came across. It is about an American college adopting a certain code of ethics. Nothing great about the press release or the event. I just skimmed through it remembering the days of my Public Relations job and realized what a vapid piece of unimportant information released to the world in this pompous official manner because it is important to somebody's boss.
It gave me immense satisfaction to know:
a. that I was not alone in being forced to produce similar kind of trash in my PR job.
b. And that I produced world class trash. Most of my press releases read better than this if not as dull.
I can only feel a sense of wonder at the kind of bubble many bosses in the Public Relations business live in. Why would the media be interested in this trashy little in-house development at just one of the 500 institutions in the country and why would the leading papers print this ambitious whimper on their front page?
Reminds me of the brilliant combination of my ex boss and his favorite. Both sat together to figure out for months on end that why the City Pages in Karachi were constantly ignoring the press releases about their activities in Okara. Needless to say my PR writing skills were being targeted as the major culprit, until I stumbled upon the discussion by chance and impetuously pointed out the misplacement of the press release. Wonder why I could never become the boss's favorite.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Brainspace
The distance between two straight lines is the shortest point.
Actually, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
Poetic, I must say, the above (mis)articulation.
That is how thoughts are floating about in my head for the past few days. No connection, no necessarily sensible connection, lots of ideas bobbing about in the brainspace.
Idhar doobay, udhar niklay, udhar doobay, idhar niklay. It is ironic how Iqbal attributed such a vivid scene of almost comic connotation to ahl-e-Iman.
Actually, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
Poetic, I must say, the above (mis)articulation.
That is how thoughts are floating about in my head for the past few days. No connection, no necessarily sensible connection, lots of ideas bobbing about in the brainspace.
Idhar doobay, udhar niklay, udhar doobay, idhar niklay. It is ironic how Iqbal attributed such a vivid scene of almost comic connotation to ahl-e-Iman.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Life has ended, the journey goes on
By Asfiya Aziz
Noori’s grave is in the middle of the Lake. On a raised, round platform in the heart of Keenjhar. The waves splash against the stony structure all day long and for miles around there are only deep, calm water, and lots of vegetation.
“We would leave soon, there is so little to be seen here,” someone remarked. Sindhi couplets on the wall, a lonely bush with ribbons of mannat tied on the branches, and this other grave of Noori’s murshid, as the boatsman informed us.
The excitement of the company feels extraneous, not able to make a dent in the silence within, that matches with the silence outside as if the fleshly attributes have suddenly vanished.
Time is always ripe for the journey – the real, eternal one. This life is a breathless respite.
I am reminded of another silence. In the picturesque valley of Abbottabad, our vehicle turned at sharp angles every now and then on the mountain road. And every once in a while, I would see one or more tombstones marking eternal resting-places. And as the bus turned corners, it felt as if those, one with the earth, moved with restful ease with the motion of the earth. Their company was the mountain and the tall pine trees.
Life ends. The journey does not. We cry, laugh and struggle. One emotion after another wraps us, to fill the void within, to bridge the gap between the mind and the soul. We strive within and without until finally, the role we had to play here, runs out.
Now begins the rest – rather it is resumed. The game that life had started has been won or lost. The match has ended, result accepted.
As you lie under the ground, dust unto dust, the earth is hugging you as if reclaiming what was taken from it. And resting in that little pocket, you know no more struggle is needed. You are in the lap of Mother Earth – safely snuggled.
The bush that hangs above your head, the tree that stands slightly to the left, the little sprouts of grass around and those purple periwinkles a little away from your feet. Welcome back to nature.
Rain is due this month. Some farmer far away looks expectantly towards the sky as his crops await nourishment from the heavens.
The clouds, commotion, and a sudden burst of lightning supply the build up and then the reluctant drip-drop-drip of rain soon graduates into diligent downpour. Singing at its loudest, it continues its duty with complete indifference to the tinkering of mankind. The downpour makes music as it falls on the ground, the trees, and the grass. Every place responds in its own sound carrying the song further.
Rain subsides after a while and the cool breeze blows gently around like cheerful lighthearted applause after a sonorous performance.
The day dawns with a softness in its attitude. It will gradually introduce the heat and glare that is life for the planet. There are new blades of grass rising near your feet. They look like little children raising their heads in shy eagerness. Their tiny hearts beating like wild drums deserve all the affection and care from the world around.
The day advances, the evening glows in bashful radiance, spelling out the final warm good bye of the day. And night falls serenely. Nothing interrupts the cycle of nature. Nobody goes on strike. What man calls anomaly, aberration, is indeed a regular part of a bigger, much bigger picture that he fails to see as a whole and thus does not appreciate the perfect placement of every piece.
The old leaves need to be shed to make way for the fresh ones, signs of life’s advancement. Autumn takes over. Dry, yellow leaves cover the ground above you in acquiesce, patiently waiting for their next stop, shape and assignment. Matter is indestructible.
Winters move in. “Can spring be far behind?” Summers follow - day after day, year after year.
You can feel you are an inalienable part of that big picture now.
You form that little corner that revolves with its mother around the fiery nourishment of the sun – its Mecca.
The earth whirls on its own axis and dances in veneration of the delicate system – left to right go both its twirl and the round. Left to right run the tiny elements around the nucleus within every atom. The dance goes on from inside every atom to the planets in the solar system. Do we know what this system revolves around? The galaxies keep moving, the universe keeps expanding and the eye and the mind fail to grasp the biggest and the richest show.
You will always be part of this magnificence – a small yet essential character. The game that you had played with life eons ago is but a distant memory now. Divine love marks the ecstasy of your existence and you look forward to that final unification when souls return to the source, oneness resumes.
Life has ended, the journey goes on.
(Printed in The News on Sunday, November 29, 1998)
Noori’s grave is in the middle of the Lake. On a raised, round platform in the heart of Keenjhar. The waves splash against the stony structure all day long and for miles around there are only deep, calm water, and lots of vegetation.
“We would leave soon, there is so little to be seen here,” someone remarked. Sindhi couplets on the wall, a lonely bush with ribbons of mannat tied on the branches, and this other grave of Noori’s murshid, as the boatsman informed us.
The excitement of the company feels extraneous, not able to make a dent in the silence within, that matches with the silence outside as if the fleshly attributes have suddenly vanished.
Time is always ripe for the journey – the real, eternal one. This life is a breathless respite.
I am reminded of another silence. In the picturesque valley of Abbottabad, our vehicle turned at sharp angles every now and then on the mountain road. And every once in a while, I would see one or more tombstones marking eternal resting-places. And as the bus turned corners, it felt as if those, one with the earth, moved with restful ease with the motion of the earth. Their company was the mountain and the tall pine trees.
Life ends. The journey does not. We cry, laugh and struggle. One emotion after another wraps us, to fill the void within, to bridge the gap between the mind and the soul. We strive within and without until finally, the role we had to play here, runs out.
Now begins the rest – rather it is resumed. The game that life had started has been won or lost. The match has ended, result accepted.
As you lie under the ground, dust unto dust, the earth is hugging you as if reclaiming what was taken from it. And resting in that little pocket, you know no more struggle is needed. You are in the lap of Mother Earth – safely snuggled.
The bush that hangs above your head, the tree that stands slightly to the left, the little sprouts of grass around and those purple periwinkles a little away from your feet. Welcome back to nature.
Rain is due this month. Some farmer far away looks expectantly towards the sky as his crops await nourishment from the heavens.
The clouds, commotion, and a sudden burst of lightning supply the build up and then the reluctant drip-drop-drip of rain soon graduates into diligent downpour. Singing at its loudest, it continues its duty with complete indifference to the tinkering of mankind. The downpour makes music as it falls on the ground, the trees, and the grass. Every place responds in its own sound carrying the song further.
Rain subsides after a while and the cool breeze blows gently around like cheerful lighthearted applause after a sonorous performance.
The day dawns with a softness in its attitude. It will gradually introduce the heat and glare that is life for the planet. There are new blades of grass rising near your feet. They look like little children raising their heads in shy eagerness. Their tiny hearts beating like wild drums deserve all the affection and care from the world around.
The day advances, the evening glows in bashful radiance, spelling out the final warm good bye of the day. And night falls serenely. Nothing interrupts the cycle of nature. Nobody goes on strike. What man calls anomaly, aberration, is indeed a regular part of a bigger, much bigger picture that he fails to see as a whole and thus does not appreciate the perfect placement of every piece.
The old leaves need to be shed to make way for the fresh ones, signs of life’s advancement. Autumn takes over. Dry, yellow leaves cover the ground above you in acquiesce, patiently waiting for their next stop, shape and assignment. Matter is indestructible.
Winters move in. “Can spring be far behind?” Summers follow - day after day, year after year.
You can feel you are an inalienable part of that big picture now.
You form that little corner that revolves with its mother around the fiery nourishment of the sun – its Mecca.
The earth whirls on its own axis and dances in veneration of the delicate system – left to right go both its twirl and the round. Left to right run the tiny elements around the nucleus within every atom. The dance goes on from inside every atom to the planets in the solar system. Do we know what this system revolves around? The galaxies keep moving, the universe keeps expanding and the eye and the mind fail to grasp the biggest and the richest show.
You will always be part of this magnificence – a small yet essential character. The game that you had played with life eons ago is but a distant memory now. Divine love marks the ecstasy of your existence and you look forward to that final unification when souls return to the source, oneness resumes.
Life has ended, the journey goes on.
(Printed in The News on Sunday, November 29, 1998)
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Khyber Pukhtunkhwa
Hope I spelled it right.
And imagine learning the name of the fourth province as a child. Learning what N.W.F.P. stood for, was a revelation in third grade. More mind boggling was the fact that the Urdu translation simply said "Sarhad" instead of the elaborate Shumal Maghribi Sarhadi Sooba (North Western Frontier Province.)
Sooraj hai sarhad ki zameen, chaand Balochistan hai...
What now?
And imagine learning the name of the fourth province as a child. Learning what N.W.F.P. stood for, was a revelation in third grade. More mind boggling was the fact that the Urdu translation simply said "Sarhad" instead of the elaborate Shumal Maghribi Sarhadi Sooba (North Western Frontier Province.)
Sooraj hai sarhad ki zameen, chaand Balochistan hai...
What now?
Where I live
How many times have you tried to describe the Pakistani society from a woman's perspective?
This post does a brilliant job of describing what women and vulnerable groups have to endure in a western, educated, liberal society. Pakistan is not describable as an educated, liberal society. Yet, the description is frighteningly closer to home - home which is sadly worse off if not as bad.
I have repeatedly felt the need to put this in words, find a way to describe how things are for a woman within the boundaries of Pakistan
After reading this, I am now questioning my notions of respectable behavior for women. This is the world our children will grow up in. This is the world in which we ended up learning respectable behavior only to escape 'disrespectable' behavior from men, explicitly labeled 'rape'.
Our learning was conditioned from the beginning. It's foolish and wasteful and against human rights.
On the defensive from the day I was born. I feel outraged at realizing how my mind was conditioned and how I was forced to step away from my natural instinctive reactions.
There is so much women just grow up dealing with, handling. This is not to say men have a better fate but the fierce conditioning of a girl's mind for saving herself from rapacious intents and stares is a much celebrated part of our much glorified culture.
So much so that the women who hide themselves from top to toe, feel terribly proud of themselves.
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