Strangers in Bed
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: May 29, 2009
Athena looked towards the broken glass and for a minute she felt like she was back in her horrific childhood. She had been eight when she came home one day to find a frightening chill hovering over her house.
She slowly prayed to God for her instincts to be wrong. But as she made way into the house she realized her prayers weren’t being answered anytime soon. She called for her mother as she and her brother entered the hallways. But they never got a reply. Quickly she made way into the bedroom and saw the figure of her mom lying on the bed. But instead of greeting them like usual she began crying in delirium and Athena realized how serious the matter was when she saw her face. It was swollen to one side and an eye was turning black already. He had done it again.
Athena heard sounds which failed to form legible words come from her mother’s trembling lips. She felt an urge to be mother to her own parent, and hugged her. Then left the younger brother in the room and went for the phone. She had the doctor’s number memorized by now. “Its my mom,” she told him, “she fell off the stairs,” the lie came naturally.
…………..
Athena knew that sometimes kids paid for their parents mistakes and she had come to terms with this reality early on.
This is why everytime her father injured her or her brother, or beat her mom, she told herself sooner or later she would come out of it alive. It was only a matter of time. So everytime her father made his routine beatings and then cried and begged for their forgiveness, Athena waited for the day to arrive when she would let him know that she had never forgiven him.
……….
That day came and went, and Athena realized one day that her father had turned into a fragile old man, alone in life from his own faults, who wished to have a second chance. But there were no second chances in life. He could neither return the vengeful children their lost childhoods, nor could he restore his wife a youth she had never been able to enjoy completely. The pain was long gone but the hurt remained still, etched in their memories and hearts forever. The way he had not only hurt but insulted them each time. That insult would fashion all their personalities for years to come. He couldn’t even ask to be trusted, for trust is fragile and cannot be summoned up at will. All he had then, was a love, that nature bound them with. A love without care, expectation or even hope
. Her mother had once told her that she felt disgusted by her husband so much he had seemed like a stranger in bed. Yet when Athena asked her why she remained married to him, her mother had only one response: “its complicated.” Athena failed to understand what that meant – until now. —-
And the multi colored pieces of broken glass reminded Athena how she had stumbled onto a relationship so different from her mother’s and yet so much alike. He was nothing like her father. He was so much more of a companion to her than anyone else had ever been. But then it happened. It was more horrible than she had ever imagined it would be. With every episode she felt like she had lost a part of herself. A part that trusted and respected him. But each time he asked to be forgiven, she would. But forgiving was not the same thing as forgetting. She could ask her heart to love him unconditionally again, but she couldnt stop her mind from throwing those painful memories at her at the strangest of times. And
the worst part of those memories were the glimpses of his eyes glaring at her, spitting respite. As if in those moments she had ceased to be his cherished love and had turned into a cockroach he wanted to crush under his feet. A thing he hated so much he wasn’t afraid to break it. And then came the insult. The insult of knowing that she was no longer the apple of eyes. The degradation his blows caused became a part of her everyday life. When other husbands talked highly of their wive_* and showed love for them she felt uncomfortable, remembering the dark side of their relationship which was completely healthy otherwise. She couldn’t fathom how someone who loved her so much one moment could hate her so completely the next.
All of it had become “complicated”.
——
She reached into the drawer for the pregnancy stick she had meant to show him. The plastic stick gave life to a dream they had always had. A dream of holding a tiny baby in her arms. The maternal part of her struck her emotions and she cried. For herself, for the arriving baby and for the loss of a love so profound.
He saw her crying and came over, and instinctively she hid the pregnancy stick from him. He coaxed and cajoled for a while and she did not know even how to react. He vowed again he would not do this again. As much as she wanted to believe him, she knew better now. She knew children sometimes paid for the mistakes their parents made. That was why she scheduled an abortion without telling him.
She couldn’t do to someone else what her mom had done to her, just because she wanted a kid. That was just selfish. That night, Athena too had to sleep with a stranger in her bed.
World’s Stupidest Desi Blog Statements
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: April 26, 2009
Okay fine so its not really like a list. Initially it was just this one guy who keeps throwing thesaurus slathered meaningless sentences on my hubby’s facebook 
Here is an excerpt from his blog :
“Intermission: Pakistan became the silent statue to attract global excoriation__ the safe havens for terrorists__the nation-state whose nationals are terrorists. The rationale of the world becomes so bogus when it comes to understanding the reality of Pakistanis.
The nation-state has been ubiquitously pregnant with domestic imbroglio and is very anti-Islamic because of having multiple fathers. But then this political quagmire is as old as the stars, with changing covers. The world knows it full well that this God forsaken nation is creative enough to carve out new ways to forget history–an entity that must be considered as a pedagogue.”
And just to prove this is NOT fake and to perhaps read some other quotes of virtue: www.imranjan.wordpress.com
Queen of the Damned
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: April 13, 2009
Whether this title is due to my reborn allure for the blood sucking vengeance of Lestat, or due to the fact tht iv just finished reading ‘The Witch of Portobello’, no one will ever know. But one things for sure, ‘wives’ have an amazingly savvy sixth sense about their darling husbands. I can tell exactly what point during a meal it is that riz tries to catch a glimpse of fine ass, even if im half way lost in the world’s best prawn chowmein. I can also tell whether the person on the other end of the phone has an adams apple or not. Now seriously, thats gotta be monumental, right?
The argument remains that it just might be that he just isnt as cultivated at all this as some other husband may be, but heck, hes a guy – ofcourse hes ‘cultivated’. Then is it just me, or do women really do have what they call ’sixth sense’ about that kind of thing? I dont know. Maybe you could enlighten me.
Which reminds me of an interesting dialogue in Ally Mc beal about what kind of human being wants to walk around in shoes that are tilting your feet at the most unnerving position, are extremely uncomfortable, can aid slipping n getting hurt, and give u back problems. The answer? Only a woman can. Which in turn reminds me of how stupid this whole deal is. Women get painful threading, waxing, and what not procedures to keep up the illusion that they are born that way. In addition to that they also learn how to make it look like lip glosses stay on for several hours (they dont) and how to get a home pedicure while cooking aloo gobhi for rizwan (they do). Now im not saying we should all go ‘au naturale’ whiskers et all at the next pool party, but can we atleast go low on the terrible heels!
And that said, isnt it freaky that women spend hours n wads of cash on manicures, yet men never remember the color of our nailpolish! The other day riz located my half hidden stash of nailcolors n i think he went blank for a while. ‘I dont ever see u use that stuff!’ ‘thats because i apply it when you r out!’ i say. ’see?’ i flaunted the freshly applied wine colored nails in front of him. ‘really?’and then, with a smile, ‘ thats just freaky.’ It seemed to me like he was saying “really? You were born without color changing magic nails?”
Then again not all men are like that. Some men do know about these things a little more than is neccessary.
We have a friend who is as obviously ‘happy’ (read; gay) as tom cruise has so obviously ‘lost it’. He does in fact remember every shade of nailcolor i have ever worn. He could do a better inventory of my wardrobe than i possibly could. But he likes to play a little game. The ‘i-am-straight-okay’ game. He tries to give out half hearted coos at women, he even throws gay jokes at other people. And the final straw came last week when he told us he was getting engaged- to a girl. This makes me wonder, what is he doing? Why do such ppl not think about the poor woman involved? Isnt this like a crime< God.
Anyway, im gonna cut this right here, and you guys wait for my next blog, which will be about the worlds most stupidest desi blogs. 
for real.
KARACHI DIARIES
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: December 5, 2008
HELLO PEOPLE!
YES IT IS TRUE, THE MUCH AWAITED PROLOGUE OF MY NOVEL IS OUT NOW :p YOU GUYS CAN PREVIEW IT HERE.
HAPPY READING.
KARACHI DIARIES – CHAPTER ONE
KARACHI – SUMMER 2002: KIREN OMER
ONE
She hated this sweltering heat of the tropical city afternoon. That was perhaps the only thing she didn’t enjoy about this city that she otherwise treasured with all her heart. This city that held past memories and future promises for her. If only it wasn’t so hot! She thought to herself, tugging at the lawn doppatta that covered her. And if only I didn’t have to take the bus today, she told herself. She didn’t really have to take the bus to university. But she liked the freedom of a bus over a van, and she couldn’t afford cab charges because she had spent most of her pocket money on the new shoes she would show off in the high school reunion this weekend. Riding in a bus for a few days was completely worth it.
Kiren glanced over at the lanky woman in the washed-out scruffy cotton sari who reeked of cheap detergent. She must have been a maid, like the one who worked in Kiren’s house. She felt sorry for the woman who was obviously quite old and looked so weary of life, as if living had exhausted her completely and she could collapse anytime. If a woman had to go do housework in this age she definitely had a lot of other unhappiness in her life as well. She wondered if the woman had done this always or whether she had come upon bad times later in her life. Either way Kiren was grateful for herself, grateful that she did not have to do what the woman did to survive. She was thankful for her dreams of marrying her Prince Charming, thankful for her good grades and thankful she did not have to ride in this rusty vehicle everyday.
Even Malika had taken the bus today. She must have bought something nice for the reunion as well, Kiren told herself. Was it shoes? What if Malika had gotten the same heels she had got? They would end up looking so stupid. But unlike her, Malika had so many stilettos already; she must have used the money on something else. Maybe that new tote bag she showed me in the magazine that day. She looked over at her and found Malika engrossed in the usual Mills & Boons paperback. Maybe she has bought herself more of those silly romance novels! Kiren couldn’t believe anyone would use their money so uselessly.
If Kiren ever bought a book it would have been something serious. She liked books that showed her a glimpse of the world out there or gave her something back like wisdom, faith or even hope. She had plenty of such books at home, books that told her about the charming romance of Paris, the fashionable grace of Milan, the exciting freedom of New York, the mystery of the Egyptian Pyramids and the ancient splendor of Athens. Her latest divulgence was metaphysics and there was a new title she had been meaning to buy, but this reunion came up and she couldn’t bear to wear the boring flats her mom was always buying her. So she had to buy the shoes. Because people usually cared what shoes you wore and she couldn’t go about wearing old fashioned loafers and tell everyone she had all those books at home. People didn’t want to hear about these things and she wanted to be to be cared about at the reunion.
The bus was full of university people so the crowd wasn’t too bad that day. Some days it was filled with foul smelling rotund men who gave her awful glares. They even smoked their cheap cigarettes and the stink became overbearing for her. She always ended up feeling nauseous when those types were around. She always wondered how their wives could stand to live with them. If there was anything she loathed more than cigarette smoke, it was men with mal-odor.
And if there was anything she loved more than Paris, it was men with the smell of Paris. She adored those grown-up men who constantly wore business suits and designer cologne. She wondered then why God had given her someone like him. He was the antithesis of all she admired with his rough charm, lack of knowledge and immaturity about so many things. He watched all those cheesy Indian movies. She wished he would try to read more books. But not corny romances like Malika of course. What she wanted was a man who could converse for hours on a number of different subjects – about world politics, social issues and Greek history. And more than everything she wished for someone whose life was more than his dad’s grocery store. She wondered how amazing it would be if she found someone who taught her something new! How nice it would be if there was someone she could have something to converse with for hours and hours into the night. With him it was always the usual boring stuff she didn’t even care about like cricket and local gossip.
She checked her cell phone for any messages or calls from him. But the clock on the screen glared back. She took out the fake channel mirror and checked her lipstick. Perfect, she thought and put the mirror back. When she looked ahead, out of the bus, she almost skipped a beat.
She was almost there. All of sudden she began to perspire, nervous and unsure. A part of her wanted to skip this ordeal and keep going in the bus until her own house came into view. But she knew he would be angry if she did that, and she couldn’t stand losing him. She remembered how Malika had defined him once – ruggedly handsome.
He was like one of the characters in those Judith McNaught novels she had borrowed from Malika. Tall, dark and roguish – just like Ms. McNaught described Royce Westmoreland in A Kingdom of Dreams. The thought of Asim in a dark ponytail wearing a 15th century white cotton ruffled shirt, bare chest on show and old-style black pants made her giggle. The thought made her feel a little better about this. Sometimes she couldn’t believe her luck. She must have something in her that made him like her. He was twenty, and at Kiren’s sixteen years, that seemed a whole lot older.
She checked her cell phone again. Still nothing. If it was someone else she wouldn’t even have bothered to make this effort. But Asim was not someone else. Asim was Asim, her first love – didn’t they make all kinds of movies on this? ‘Kiren Asim’ she thought with pride. How good that sounded! Of all the girls who would have given anything to be with him, Asim had chosen her to be with him. But there were some things about him she didn’t like. Like he was such an introvert and liked to keep to himself. She on the other hand enjoyed parties and mingling with all sorts of people. But that was okay, she was sure if the time came, she would make all possible changes for him. It didn’t matter how different they were as long as they were in love. Judith McNaught said that too, didn’t she?
FAX AND THE CITY
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: October 30, 2008
- In: sandwich
- 2 Comments
I like it tht blogs were invented. I can now be the Carrie Bradshaw of our desi metropolitan. On the blogosphere, no one can make you do ‘a few changes here and there’ like they do on television, and you know anything goes.
A few years back I met someone online, one of those platonic relationships in which we were
simply each others muse. We belonged to different countries, had absolutely no intention of
ever seeing each other hence, we could talk in ’stranger’ mode. I used to be a graphic designer back then. Working for an ad agency that felt like home. But all hell broke lose when one fine day he told me he thought my writing was simply amazing, that I should write more often, and think about doing it professionally. I don’t think it ever occurred to me that perhaps he was simply being polite.
So when someone asked Xill to write a book, i was extremely impressed when i heard him be modest about his writing and dint take it seriously. I mean I for one am a huge fan of his writing! I wish I had adopted similar attitude back then. Because its a whole new world out there when you are writing for people who generally agree that I am the best thing that happened to television since caffiene, but when I do write, they want to take all me out of it and write what basically everyone else is writing.
Because its different when you write about the general frustration of existence and survival and its your answer to YOGA. Anywho… As I was saying, back then I began showing my muse my short stories, wrote to him about my personal dilemmas n sumwhr in thr it dawned on me – I wanted to make movies someday. And boy was that ‘revelation’ a kick in the butt.
For as long as i can remember i have made movies. None of them have ever made onto television screens or film theatres, but they have been made. In my bedroom which I once turned into a dragon moat; in my head where I was a mixture of Xena – warrior princess and Beauty of beauty and the beast; In my attic which my brother and I once turned into a camping site. The various hotel rooms in which we were best friends and spy-mates of James Bond.
I remember printing out fake boarding cards on our dot-matrix and spelling out our names with the wierdest Irish surnames.
Even though my brother and I both were into this imagination game, he was smart enough to take up Cost Accounting when he grew up. And i was the dumb idiot who took my imagination to another level. A level where it was no longer simply mine. It was my producers’, or directors’ or what nots.
It was too late to begin studying again (once you start earning money you need to keep earning money somehow) and no one wanted to hire me as a director obviously – so I got into writing as a start. Just to learn the ropes. Learn the ropes I did. I went in to learn how to implement my creativity and learned how apply office politics. Yes people, we live in a world where television is more about ‘how to win your boss’s donut’ than it is about making your passion come alive. Thankfully though, everyone in media even is not like that. There are lots of people who actually do it for the passion and people who encourage you.
Whether n how I ‘learned the ropes’ is an entire spicy paperback on its own, but one thing in my life had changed for good – my confidence in my ability to write. And all because one person gave me a good review.
Right now though, I can see so many things that are changing. The creative people are winning over the politically correct ones, because you can see so much improvement. I dont quite feel so bad about all this right now.
Kuch tou hua hai!
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: September 25, 2008
For as long as I recall, television has been the primary source of intrigue for me.
I have spent hours imagining what it would be like to see my ideas, my concepts, my imaginations on screen with my name under it. And with every little step i took on the way, it got better. From school renditions of MidSummer Night’s Dream to the completion of our production house’s first ‘dramedy’ its been an adventurous ride.
The first trailer can be viewed here:
hopefully its just a humble beginning.
Its a third world altogether
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: August 15, 2008
- In: Sunburn| sandwich
- 5 Comments
Sometimes it takes a bad group picture and guy tears to make u realize its the end of an era. Thats what highschool was. U made all those promises, u said to ureself ure about to win the world, u knew inside ure heart that u were probably never gonna see all these ppl again, but u told ureself there would be reunions.
But nothing lasted. Someone got a job, someone went abroad, someone got married, some were consumed by intoxicants and other addictions and some of us just wandered on, from one thing to another, hoping to conquer the world, and instead being consumed by unfair bosses, cruel love affairs and high cholestrol drive thru chicken.
Ure only on the verge of entering 30 years of ure life n already u feel old. U begin worrying about blood cholestrol, hypertension, death, afterlife, unexplained aches and pay cheques and doctors start prescribing prozacs and xanex. All of a sudden u realize u were somehow just pushed into adulthood. U complain to The Higher Power that u dint wanna be here in the first place!
It all becomes a little confusinG. One by one u try to organize ure problems and one by one u pick them up to try to solve them. And then someone else comes up and tells u they feel exactly like u.. That is when u realize its NORMAL to feel a little stumped at this point in time. Especially if u happen to hail from a third world country where even freedom has its limitations.
I say this cuz we are a generation raised on selective textbook history and multiple hour loadshedding. Its amazing how atleast some of us still find time to question historians and do wishful thinking on behalf of politicians.
My bathroom is filled with bottles my husband has never even read the labels of. My dresser’s cluttured with bottles half of which I know I will never even bother to use. Rizwan wonders why we need a handwash if we have soap already and I’ve often wondered the need of shower gel myself. But hey, I gotta have all those colorful bottles anyway!
That’s what our lives are like as well. We have cluttured emotions we don’t know what to do with. We have the exposure to a lot of liberties yet have enormous guilts our religions and traditional values have engraved into our minds. We r gays, lesbians, alcoholics, gamblers, addicts and we are not okay with it cuz basically we would like to go to heaven eventually, wouldn’t we? So we make our lives miserable to the point where things stop making sense and you end up waking one morning lying in someone else’s porch wondering why we were there in the first place.
We love our orthodox families and wish we could live with them, because we miss them so much. But by the time one workday finshes and you hardly have time for your spouse even, u wonder how to fit the rest of the family in.
That’s our dillema. The dillema of being a ‘cheap labour’ off a third world country and actually being proud of call centres.
We have no creative ‘INDUSTRY’ – well atleast not in the sense of the word; its technically not an industry if the govt. is not backing it up and providing lawful protection and loan sanctions. We have made a business out of education. An enemy out of our own religion.
We are a nation waiting for the right ruler but not doing enough to produce one.
But from within I see a ray of light emerging. A new thought tht seeks no cult formation. A thought so powerful it will eventually form those good leaders. Not from our generation it seems, but perhaps from the next.
U mite want to take out ure popcorn for that one.
VANILLA SKY
There is absolutely, positively, assertively nothing worse than inviting seven guests over only to find the WAPDA management decided to change the load shedding routine that day. This basically means that you have seven hopeful guests and no blender, no microwave to help u out, plus tht happens to b the day ure maid decides to casually take the weekend off. Just when u wondered how things could possibly be worse, the little glass bottle of vanilla extract decides to wander off its rack inside the refrigerator and simply falls and breaks into a million pieces and most of the brown extract is all over my bunny rabbit flip flops – not to forget the overpowering vanilla scent is almost making u dizzy. Actually it was the mess that makes me dizzy but u get the drift. So now I’ve got seven guests, zero power supply and my house smells like a biscuit factory.
Thanking God the bottle broke in the kitchen and reassuring myself that iv read in COSMO somewhr about the pedicural qualities of vanilla I, inhaled deeply. And no longer did the burning desire to impress my guests with home made chicken karhai, italian lasagne and sponge cake dessert fire me up. I did what was necessary.
Ordered take out. So through the wonder of the credit card and Hallmarks scented candles my husband and I managed to throw a nice party. And what was more, thank modern day time management values that the guests arrived atleast 2 hours later than the invitation time, and by then the electricity n take out food both had arrived.
I kinda liked it when life was less gadgets and more home-made everything. For one thing we fell sick less often and the food was actually tasty. No no no people, I’m hardly one to blame technology. I don’t think not having a microwave is a blessing. I guess its just nostalgia.
Its wednesday and the sickly sweet, overpowering scent still lingers. I doubt I can ever even go near vanilla flavor.
—————————-
CARTOON
Hollywood has so far made fun of christians on the whole, catholics in particular, jesus, jews, buddhists, hindus, and what not – but denmark makes one cartoon and Pakistani people (not arabs, not african muslims, not even indian or middle eastern muslims) get killed for working in KFCs. The world mite not see it but its that fanatic-mentality being supported in Pakistan that’s creating all this bullshit. You wanna take your temper out? Go to denmark, find that guy and kill him for all I care.
And I’m not even giving the whole ‘free speech’ lecture here, which by the way, anyone who watches indian cinema, hollywood movies, american televison or geo tv for that matter, should believe in.
I talk about this right now, because there was a facebook group still getting its highs from this discussion. And some fanatic-followers were getting all emotional about something they know nothing about.
————————
TRUTH BE TOLD
Military regime ended and there was this coalition drama and the innocent nation believed in their hearts that now, things would be different. Truth be told we wanted to believe. We wanted to believe that there will be more electricity; we wanted to believe there will be no more people dying in the name of politics; we wanted to believe we will no longer have fatal bomb blasts. But right now I can only wish we were that lucky.
Whats with the delay on everything? They say they r handling bigger problems. Well I say deal with the human-related problems so they are alive to see ure bigger problems be solved! U made them an air-condition nation and took away electricity? What happens to a country in which its metropolitan city had a hospital that had to operate under a charging light cuz the hospital couldn’t afford fuel for generators anymore.
As a friend of my hubby puts it:
“DEMOCRACY can’t be imposed. It can only be protected.”
U can’t go around shouting the word democracy and then make the people go thru these bullshit times, and act like you know better. If u can’t think of a way to make the economy afford the country’s fuel usage then why u sit there in the first place is beyond me. U can’t get away with advising them to shut down their air-conditioning! The next thing we know we’ll be using donkey carts instead of cars so Mr.-in-charge-of-nation can sleep in his thousands of dollars worth VIP suite.
I don’t think the people of Pakistan have a lot of patience anymore. We’ve certainly been thru a lot already.
———
*YE TRAKTAR HAI…*
Posted by: cymarizwankhan on: June 3, 2008
- In: Sunburn
- 3 Comments
Far be it for me to ridicule PTV’s choice of program schedule. But a
friends’ four year old was glued to tv as if suddenly the teletubbies had
grown antennas – oh wait, they already have those. Well you get the drift.
To learn more about why I think teletubbies have antennas you should look
for a blog post titled ‘gross looking antenna beings – wht every cool parent
shud know about the teletubbies’.
For now lets just stick to why my friends’ four year old was glued to the
tv. I looked up at the tv and what I saw changed my perspective of national
television for ever. Standing tall and proud on the screen was a figure in
red, and two men stood around her pointing to various body parts with
explanations… Ha! Gotcha! No I’m not talking about pornography… What
part of ‘national television’ do you not understand?
Anywho. As I was saying, this aforementioned red figure is what oxford
dictionary terms as a ‘tractor’ and the whole of our rural people
endearingly refer to as the *traktar*. Now strange as it may seem this
particular four yr old seems to find tractors fascinating. On inquiring, my
friend sadly commented that her four yr old *Elijah* insists upon watching
this very channel only for his entertainment. So much so that he yells if we
ever try to switch while one of his favorite tractor shows are on.
Mesmerized I watched elijah smirk as a farmer looking guy touched the huge
tractor wheel reverently and explained why a tractor should never be used as
a golf cart. ‘ye traktar hai. Is ke chaar pahye hote hain. Is ke aage ke
pahye chote aur peeche ke bare hote hain…’ *pop goes the weasel*!
Speaking of weasels, I think indian soap makers should be held on trial for
instilling bullcrap into peoples’ minds.
Its not without reason why divorce rates in india r on a phenomenal high. I
mean, have u seen zee tv lately? [yes, I admit; sometimes as a part time
working housewife u *really* run out of better things to do] Apart from
being more of a gravitational dilemma than film azia’s – correct me if iv
prounounced it wrong- *sooha jora*, indian soaps r overflowing with women
who went out of date a couple of centuries back.
As if this wasn’t bad enough, the more they make heroines out of pony tailed
maids [aparently in india these days its ok to mate ure maid] n the
stubborn, stuck up n gaudy pre-feminism heroines, the more they raise the
bar for a normal working housewife to be accepted by inlaws. *Yes, kyunki
saas b kabhi bahu thi but jab wo bahu thi tab aur ab k fashion trends mein
difference hai yar*!! N wht is it with only the vamps wearing trendy
designer clothes!! I can’t believe how the seemingly secular, democratic,
liberal india is into these female stereotypes! I mean I’m all for the
eastern woman glory and personally don’t even vouch for the feminism
theories but even I don’t think every saree clad woman shud be considered a
* good bahu*. Its being judgemental *par excellence! * And don’t even get me
started on minimum jewelry requirements for a star plus *bahu*.
No wonder why even my lovely liberalist mom in law thinks I shud wear a
sequined saree to work just like parwati does. She frowns everytime I leave
my antique * sat lara *at home. And all my complaints are met with a ‘pearls
are a woman’s best friend’. Yes, second only to diamonds n business suits!
I wanna begin talking about why women my moms age watch indian soaps in the
first place. Mainly because they lack the careers that their daughters now
have. These women need something to hold on to when their children are all
going around having experimental lives at best, dining out everyday of the
week, having glamorous jobs and ending up having passionate marriages. They
think we have it all. Their kids never lived life to their rules and are
actually happy. They don’t know how that’s even possible. So they make soap
time *Their time*. No son. No daughter. No husband. No rules for atleast 2
hours. And they really indulge themselves into the lives of these soap stars
as if they were real.
So now if uve had enough of my behavioral psychology lecture I think ill
move on to why pakistanis are smitten with mica bellucci and why when Rizwan went to a video store in lahore and asked for a ‘foriegn’ film, he got presented with a bumch of pornographic dvds. Haha- that’s apparently the new code word. But I’m not getting into that… U really thought I was going to even try to venture towards such a controversy? Nope. Not in the same blog anyway. Ciaos¤
P.s. Yeah it was a little abrupt. So what? U see its MY BLOG! (alwez
wanted to say that).
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