Karachi Burns!
Karachi burns, someone fired a gun; my city bleeds. Day two and the financial hub of the country remains a battle ground. Ironically, on Friday night when I read the news item on BBC titled “Karachi braced for judge protest.” I said to myself , “they are making it sound like we are preparing for an attack. The irony just continues to amuse me.
35 lives lost yesterday to the violent clashes, another shot dead today. The injured, damn I don’t even remember the count but it’s huge.
I don’t care anymore about who is doing what. All I know is that it’s not us Karachietes; not in the true sense of the word at least. We sit at our homes, watching the events unfold on the televisions as different groups/parties continue their rampage. We are not a part of this; we are the bloody victims ourselves. A strike in Karachi means no fuel for the cars, no transport for the public, worse of all no ambulances for the sick and the injured. These bastards didn’t even leave the ambulances alone.
Leave us alone god damn it. Take your fucking politics and your spite somewhere else!
These pictures tell a very sad story. Damn! Karachi looks like a war zone.
Guilty Gratification
Hands behind my back as a tight knot numb my fingers. The clouds clear and I start to comprehend my surroundings; moon light filtering through the vent, my knees down on the cold damp floor, water dripping in the background, feet and hands bound by nylon. I try to grasp the situation as my head throbs painfully from the blow it had received earlier.
What am I doing here? How I got here? These questions meaning nothing since she is here with me. I can hear her heals click; her limp a dead giveaway. The same irregular click which told me it was her who hit me on the head.
The pain lessens and my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Oh god! Does she look beautiful tonight; a black low cut dress, her perfect skin glowing in the moon light. I notice a shiny object in her hand. My eyes widen in fear; is that a gun!
She walks over to me and puts the gun to my head. I don’t know if it’s the fear or the touch of cold metal against my hot, sweating body but I feel shiver climb up my spine. Is this my darkest night mare or my deepest fantasy? I look up, my eyes meet hers.
“Pain for pleasure”, I ask
She nods her head in negative, “Guilt for gratification.”
My head slumps down, it’s the darkest nightmare.
It’s eerie how it feels knowing that you are about die. I can scream, I can beg but that would be the end of the little dignity I have left. It’s sad – the hope – that maybe she won’t pull the trigger.
Accept your fate, you are about to die!
Its weird – the realization – that last thing you are going to hear on god’s green earth is the bang of the gun as the trigger strikes the bullet; bullet with your name on it.
My last remaining consolation; at last she will take something from me.
BANG!
Wrathchild
“Who am I?”, he asked himself lighting up a cigarette. His car cruised on the interstate as he tried to run away from himself. His past, a shadow of complication and confusion stuck to him like slime, sins which god himself could not absolve. Still he tried, still he struggled for a moral appeasement his soul craved.
“An actor, a pretender or just a jester in the king’s court.”
He never understood the psychological dilemma of comic book heroes and their alter egos. Ironically fate cornered him into the same fix. So many roles, so many faces; he lost himself to his self created mortals. Virtues of vice and the essence of violence; they killed and plundered as they rose and prospered. And then a day came when they owned their creator; fantasy – reality!
He drove on. The gun still dripping warm blood; though memory a distant reality. Lost in the haze of many, his confidant reduced from everything to nothing.
“Times change, people change! But fuck, this is just unreal.”
Snuffed!
His keys jingled as he put them in the ignition, the engine roared to life. He pressed down on the gas as the tyres screeched against the asphalt. He drove away; the engine growling between the gear shifts.
A clichéd start; maybe! But isn’t life too redundant itself for anyone to call out clichés anymore?
He stood there buttoning his shirt and looking at his girl sleep like an angel. He loved her and that had made his decision relatively easy and straight forward. He kissed her on her neck making her purr quietly in her sleep. “So easy and yet so difficult”, he said to himself as he tightened the screw. He looked at her beautiful face one last time whispering, “I am sorry honey but this is for our own good.” He squeezed his fingers, blood splattered all over the bed soaking the sheets as the bullet from the silenced gun ripped her head open. She laid their dead, thick dark blood oozing from her temple; not feeling a thing in her transition from sleep to death.
wb
Ahhhh! Finally some time to write. Its been months since I wrote anything let alone blog. Though I can try and blame not blogging on my new ISP for it had some issues with wordpress.com domain but have no extraordinary reasons for not writing. Or maybe there are… Please god not another writers block, I have had enough of that.
Anyway now that I finally get time to sit down with my computer and a run my word processor to actually write something turns out I don’t have anything to write about at the moment. I think I will just type out things I might have written about if I had been blogging during the last three months.
Pakistan losing to Ireland in the Cricket World Cup, Bob Woolmer murdered, Chief Justice suspended, Masjid-e-Hafsa and their stick bearing Shariat, the heat of summers coupled with the power breakdowns and how UPS (which support the entire household) is one of the best things after laptops and internet.
Hmmm, read through the three paragraphs I have written and it seriously isn’t worth being posted anywhere. However, it’s a start. So I think I will take this as a step towards writing/blogging again and publish it.
Click!
