Waiting…
Her hand reached out, trying to touch him one last time before she left forever. Her fingers were slightly curled so as to hold his hand but they were very frail. Her weakness evident from the shaking fingers. Still she reached out with her last remaining strength trying to hold him, touch him.
But it was too late, time had run out. Life slipped from her like sand runs through the fingers of an open hand. Her hand still reached out as life left her body. He never came, he never saw her die, he never saw how all she wanted was him as she departed. Her hand slumped to the bed - bouncing lightly on the mattress - waiting for him to come forward, waiting for him to take it.
Lal Masjid
The Lal Masjid brigade has been raging havoc as and when the please around the capital. Yesterday this is what our government did to actually stop them from creating a parallel police force. Raiding movie shops, internet cafes and mini-cinemas before the Lal Masjid brigade could.
True, pornography is illegal in our country but to actually raid stores so that the Lal Masjid clerics (I don’t believe we are calling them clerics) can’t do so is simply put sad. Last week the Lal Masjidians in all their wisdom kidnapped workers of an acupuncture clinic on the pretext that they are running a brothel. We reply to that by seizing porn.
I fail to see why we continue to let the Lal Masjid fundamentalist continue with their defiance against the law of the state? I know people would be giving me a bunch load of political reasons for that but at the end of the day it doesn’t matter. Bottom line is you don’t negotiate with criminals.
Rain
They rise from the south, invading the skies like a vengeful army. The thick dark clouds prevail the sky in mere minutes; blotting out the sun. The thunder claps and moisture laden clouds growl. It’s going to pour and it’s going to be bloody awesome. It is like a power game, a battle between the scorching heat and the cool breeze. Today it is the clouds which reign the skies.
Darkness falls; I sit in my room with the lights turned off. Lightening blitzkriegs across the sky, turning everything around me bright, and then darkness prevails again. Another thunder, another growl – it’s been like that the entire afternoon; the clouds warning man that tonight they rule.
There in the darkness I smell it as the first drops of monsoons strike the ground; the sweet smell of fresh rain complemented by fierce roars of the thundering clouds. Ahh and then it pours. It’s surreal out there - the sound of the heavy drops on the palm leaves, the sheets of rain visible against the distant bulb, the periodic flashes and the rumbling of the clouds as they own the night. . . . . .
Windscreen Divide
It’s a scorching Karachi afternoon, the humidity more of an irritant than the heat. I park my car in front of a fast food joint to grab a quick meal. As I browse through the menu a kid taps on my window. I see a wash cloth and a bucket in his hand and since my car is pretty dirty I signal him to go ahead and clean it.
As I wait for the food I turn up the volume to whatever is playing on the radio. And then the little kid who can barely reach my windshield, steps on the front tyre to get better access to it. There he is, right in front of me - sweat dripping from his face as he works on the wind screen. Even then he has a smile on his face, maybe cause he knows he will get paid in a bit.
That is when I realize the irony of the situation. Me in my car - the air conditioner making the afternoon bearable, him on the other side of the glass window sweating it out for a few bucks. Two worlds, so different, so apart and yet in all practicality just on two sides of a car’s windshield.
IT magazines talk of the digital divide between the East and the West. What about this “windscreen divide” we have on our streets?
Black!
BANG!
The reality of my actions dawned on me as I heard the gun shot echo in the basement. My head recovers from the state of numbness it has been in and I begin to feel the warmth of fresh blood being absorbed by my black dress.
I look down at myself, oblivious of the dead man lying at my feet. Black! It has always been my friend. The darkness, the shadows of the night my perpetual mask. I need it; I crave it for without I stand stripped in front of them all. Conscience, guilt – concepts which are nothing more the mere words for me. All because it’s black – “what you can’t see can’t hurt you.”
I realize his presence now, or at least the absence of his presence. His cold dead eyes look up to me from where he lies, grinding me. Surprisingly, they are expressionless. No regrets! They seem almost content. What would I give for his last thoughts? ‘Cause all I remember is sweat breaking at his forehead when he realized I had a gun. Then why that content, peaceful look?
Ahh! There it is again, thick clouds obscuring the full moon. Darkness! Make him invisible to me! My questions vanishing… Time to lose my self to the shadows. Yes, I said “to”. Embrace me my dark lord, thy servant needs thee!
Random Thought!
Random thought; was going through a “Depression” thread on one of these forums and this came to me.
I used to get depression attacks pretty regularly but then isn’t life too short for us to be actually depressed about stuff we can’t actually do anything about, or for that matter be pissed at something trivial.
Everyone has his own way of dealing with depression right; you smoke, you pray - whatever works for you. But at the end of the day it’s all in our head. It’s just how you want to look at things. This might not make a lot of sense to people who think that life is really being a bitch, but dwell on it - life’s a bitch eh? Well “Bring it on bitch.”
