An Apology

Hey there. Hello World. This is me, the Rock in the River.

I realise I’ve offended you. Not once, but many times. So here it is: my apology.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry you don’t like the way I do my hijab. I’m sorry for doing it while you straighten your hair. I’m sorry my cheeks are round, and I don’t have very visible cheek bones. I’m sorry I’m a size ten instead of an eight. I’m sorry I have acne. I’m sorry for flaunting my acne filled face infront of you WITHOUT foundation, for coming to terms with something I cannot control. I’m sorry for not having perfect eyebrows. I’m sorry for not living in your idea of beauty, for trying to accept myself as I am. I’m sorry for having teeth that are not perfect. I’m sorry for sometimes stammering as I get nervous infront of you and your piercing judgemental gaze. I’m sorry for having ideas and expressing them. I’m sorry for not falling into these traps laid by the system, for challenging that. I’m sorry for being the rock while you are the river. I’m sorry for not having expensive shoes. I’m sorry for liking things you do not think are cool. I’m sorry for not going to the branded colleges and schools that you go to. I’m sorry for valuing knowledge more than education. I’m sorry having different taste. I’m sorry for not being comfortable with artificiality. I’m sorry I’m not you. And I’m SO sorry it effects you all SO much.

But let me tell you: I’m not completely hopeless. I have some achievements to my name: I am not comfortable with myself. I do not like the way my face or body looks. I’m biased against ugly people. People that are unique. I’m trying my best to ignore the people and judge them by their skins. I’m trying to not appreciate actual beauty and talent. I’m trying not to be me. I’m trying, you know.

I’ve realised I have a long way to go, but until then,

Yours truly,


Well, I really did not want it to be gloomy on my hunderedth post (yes that is a milestone for me!!) but the world gets stranger. The more we progress, the backwards we become. Someday, someone might see me (or you) for who we are, but that day is in a future very distant. Until then, let us stick together, you and I, us weird people who love one another for what we write and hold within ourselves, and not for how we look (or do not look like).

Atleast try to make a difference. Appreciate people. Appreciate yourself. Respect other people. And look around, there is not one ugly face. I’ve never seen an ugly human face, or any face that’s ugly!

Oh but what would you know, dear rock hiding behind a keyboard. What would you know of beauty or ugliness? What would you care? Stay in your own little bubble, interfere not in the ways of a world you do not understand, hide. The river is no place for a rock like you. You deserve to be shunned into the Earth’s belly.

Well, here I am still. I’m one for staying in the river, obstructing its course. I’ll not move and let you carry on with this absurd business! I’m not the only rock!


An Intellectual Rant

We are three days away from the elections that will eventually decide this country’s fate. This is history in the making. The thought of existing through history excites me. I know, chances of making any significant contributions to history are very slim, but at least I can try? At least I can exist and witness?

However it is other matters that have prompted this “rant” (and I flatter myself by calling this intellectual). I had a conversation the other day with a friend. I was telling her how people from my family wanted me to pursue medicine instead of sociology; and that they thought sociology was for people who “passed matric in the third division”. I had counter-argued that if we left this country to be run by such people, we wouldn’t have the right to complain when the Prime Minister was arrested and barred from politics. I mean, how did a man like that get to the seat in the first place? Fine; one exception, you could say. Wrong. Remember that time when Mr. 10% became president? He was called that because no matter what he did, he always had a minimum of 10% profit or something. He was named for his corruption and he became the president.

If you’re not Pakistani, you really cannot understand the system this country runs on. There is corruption and ignorance in every crack, hole, you name it. People think we need a savior; someone from the Glorious West to come and deliver us from the hands of these oppressors, but they couldn’t be more wrong. You see, even Sir Syed Ahmad Khan, an eminent leader in the struggle of Pakistan, said all those years ago: if you think a situation like that will ever arise, then that will be suppressing the system and all its evils as opposed to liberating it. The only way out of a situation like this is to beat the system by becoming part of it; changing from within.

However, coming back to the conversation I had! After I had conveyed all this to her, she asked if I wanted to go into politics. I said I may or may not. She replied with how boring politics was and tried to somehow imply that it was unimportant.

This annoyed me. I told her that maybe yes, it WAS for people who lived in Instagram bubbles instead of the real world and that we couldn’t possibly live without politics! Her answer amazed me. She said, “Do you know what annoys me? People who post their two–year-old pictures from tumblr on Instagram and call it ‘aesthetic’.”

The passion with which that first question was asked made me feel as if something out of the bubble was to be said. But I realized, I’m just arguing with the wrong person. In the wrong generation. You see, this nation cannot even think for themselves. People either blindly side by one political party or just disconnect and do not care of whatever becomes of this place.

It annoys me because this country needs progress. From everyone. A collective effort. And the people are least bothered. I’m sorry, I realize you might think I’m being too hard and that politics is not everyone’s cup of tea, but every person should have at  least basic knowledge of what is happening in their country! There is no excuse to being ignorant in times that move so fast and are not afraid to leave anyone behind.

And instead, what do we do? Push the kids into becoming doctors and engineers, to become the labour that builds other nations? There are certain promises I’ve been hearing ever since I was a kid; that Kashmir would become a part of Pakistan, that the rupee would become superior or equal to the dollar, that Pakistan would become the next “super power”. Not only is there no way the situation is even close to all that, it is ridiculous. In fact, a few days ago the exchange rate for the dollar increased to 128 rupees. What does that mean? Inflation, IMF, hard times ahead to name a few. The national debt increased by 570 billion rupees. Exciting news, eh? And I don’t even see anyone talk about it.

Where is this going? And by that I mean this post and this country. I guess I better stick to writing fictional pieces.


It’s that time of the year again. Summer. Sweat.

And anxiety.

I went to sleep really late last night — half one, or maybe later. Seven thirty I was up again, that weird feeling in my legs back again. The feeling I call anxiety. Oh well, getting up in the mornings is quite refreshing, yes? No. I spent the entire day wasting time. Plugging in my earphones, listening to nothing, wandering from this room to that. I didn’t even clean today, which is unusual. However, I did wash my part of the dishes. But that’s pretty much it.

There’s nothing I did today which would make me proud of myself, or even satisfied. I don’t know why I’m like this. I haven’t been reading as much as I’d like to, I haven’t been exercising, but most importantly, I haven’t been writing. Two weeks I spent in heavenly bliss, each day so inspiring I could’ve written fourteen books, but I was too tired. And now, I’m back home, washing dishes to fill up time, and I’m not writing? If I don’t write then I will forget, if I forget it will be as if I never lived, and that will take me back to depression. Not as a relapse as in the mental disease, but the seasonal uninspired me that visits twice a year.

Anxiety. Of what? Perhaps it is time for me to face it, and I do need an audience, so hear me out. Anxiety of the future. Someone told me not to think of the rest of my life, but just set small goals like five year plans. This, although wise, has triggered off another train of anxiety. What if, after five years, I am as now, a nobody? What if I never accomplish anything in my life? What if I never achieve the one thing I want most in life — influence? As stupid as this might sound, I want to change the way things are. My country has been through a lot, and we are trying to improve the “international image” but let’s face it. Things are far from ideal. We have a long way to go.

As I write this, the ex-prime minister of my country is being arrested at Allama Iqbal international airport. Can you see my point? A thing you should know about Pakistanis — we’re always on the roads. If we’re celebrating, the roads are blocked. If we’re mourning, we are on the roads. If we’re protesting, you get me. The mobile networks have been switched off. The entire nation is glued to the T.V. screens, where no transmission of the arrest is being shown. But we’re still watching, hearing the anchors say the same things over and over again. My country is in chaos. Security personnel everywhere, trying to prevent trouble, trying to keep the peace. There are protestors still, I can see the roads on the tv as I write this, but at least it is contained.

Two blasts have been recorded so far. One in Peshawar, leaving 30 dead, one in Balochistan, leaving 70 dead. I’m not particularly an Imran Khan fan, but something he said has stayed with me. Something along the lines of an increase in terrorist activities every time Nawaz Shareef is in trouble. 100 people in two (or maybe three?) days? 100 is, for us, just a number. A number so meaningless nobody is talking about it. Mubashir Luqman’s saying there’s approximately 7-8 thousand people in protest. Well, I’m glad. We prayed and prayed for this man to face the consequences of his actions. And perhaps this is it? Who’s to know.

What does the future hold? A question that might just give me a nervous breakdown at some point. I could tear my hair out, and not just metaphorically.

What does the future hold? The corrupt prime minister has been flown to Rawalpindi to jail, along with his daughter. So what now? With elections so close, I really do not know. Who can say? But please, please, dear God, make it something good, my people could use a break. Perhaps you’d like an insider view of what it is being Pakistani, in real life? I could give you one.

What does the future hold? For me, I mean. What will I do? A little girl asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I couldn’t answer. All I could think of was my dream of becoming a dictator, but could I really say that to her? I’ve tried talking about this with multiple people, but so far nobody can take me seriously. Lol. Perks of being me.

But now? What does the future hold? Will I make another mistake? Will I regret my choices (provided I get round to making them) for the rest of my life? Will this blog grow? Will people read this far? Who is to know.

Dear God, the world is messed up. My country, which is all I have, is messed up. Life is messed up. So please, please, show us all a way. Give us a miracle. A Quaid-e-Azam-Allama-Iqbal-type miracle.

If I’ve bored you, I apologise. But perhaps you will be excited to know that the Rock in the River went to the River with the Rocks? Not the river that inspired this blog, but any river is love. I’ll come back soon, I hope. But for now, send  me (and my country and the world) a prayer! We must not lose our optimism for the future!

In urdu we say, “Umeed par duniya qaim hai.” The world exists on hope.

I’m off to make some tea, before my mum takes off her chappal (I joke). Who knows, if all else fails, I might just open a dhabba! (Please we all know I make the best chai)


“What does it remind you of?”

The voice was getting irritating. What did it remind her of? It was really impossible. How could this person here… how could it be here? It was a drink, but it reminded her of a smell. Long ago, in the bliss of an ignorant childhood. The crisp air, a warm blanket, the impending sense of doom, voices: loud. How could this person know? More importantly, how could she answer the question? There was so much to it, so many details that could not be left out, yet her head was spinning.

“Here, try this one.” This person whose gender she could not fathom, pushed another small glass with a greenish-red liquid inside.

“I’m not sure I –”

“Shh, take it. Here you go!” The glass was raised to her lips and poured down her throat. She was aware that her senses were leaving her. She thought she would faint any time, but she never did. She was awake, and conscious, with dulled senses.

“What does this feel like?” A funny question, if one thought about it. It tasted like nothing, not even water. How it felt was an entirely different question.

“It’s…” her voice came out breathy, as if she was in a fever. Yet she wasn’t. But how could she tell this person?! A million thoughts circled her mind as the room began spinning. The wooden walls merged with the wooden floor, and she couldn’t remember why or how she got there. Wooden rooms like these were not common where she was from.

“What is it? What does it make you feel?” This person was getting annoying. And persistent. What could she say? Her powers were failing her and nothing, except the truth, came to her mind.

A thousand memories flooded her mind. Some welcome, others not so much. Funny, how she couldn’t remember the main event in any, but remembered all the details. The curves of the inside of that toy car, the smell of baby shampoo, her grandfather smiling, his wrinkles showing grace and a life of rewarding hard work. The taste of the underside of a shoe, the smell of the river Indus, the fear she felt when she was eight. A camera flashing in the face of her new brother, turtles in the nullah by her house. Ice cream dripping across her school uniform, the back of a girl disappearing into the distance, a black bag and a pink one, a box of celebrations on the mantelpiece in her parents’ room, the storm after the earthquake in ’05, the paleness of the face of a woman in death’s jaws. Shifting chairs, smiling, not smiling, sighing, not sighing, she realised she was actually doing this. All these memories, nothing in common except her presence.

“Here, try this.” Again. Her head was splitting. She wished she could somehow faint. The room was getting darker, but she was still there. With this person.

She remembered she had never fainted her entire life.

“What does it make you remember?”

How she wished she could forget.

A Wayward Prayer

I went for Taraweeh today. Not properly; I read my farz at home and had no intention of going to the Masjid. My head was pounding, I thought I would sleep. However, I ended up in the Masjid.

The rows were full when I went. The taraweeh had started sometime ago. I intended to read eight. So I stood at the very back, in a row all by myself. I recognised the surah as one of those which we had to understand as part of our syllabus in school. So in spite of the fact that our old Imaam Sahib mumbled away like a fighter jet, I was able to understand a few words. And that was enough for context.

Two rakahs later, the Imaam said salam, and with it the multitude of women ahead of me began shifting. Until now, the women had been standing as wide as possible, trying to not get anyone between them. It was hot. The fans were limited. I don’t blame them.

It was nice being in the back all by myself. Less distractions, too. For example; when we went into rukooh I was concentrating on the tasbeeh, if someone had been with me I would’ve definitely been thinking of their feet. I don’t know why… I just would’ve.

With the shifting, some women got up to leave. They passed by me. One of them stopped, folding her janamaz, and told me to stand with the other women. I was about to say there was no space, however, I saw the woman ahead of me had shifted just enough to let me stand. The woman who was standing repeated what she had said.

“I was late so–” I was cut off.

“Namaz hi nahi hoti. Mein keh rhi hon namaz hi nahi hoti!” (Your prayers have not been said/prayed/offered idk this is a crude translation.)

I don’t know why this bugged me. But anyways. The woman left, and I did too. The surah had ended, I would probably not have understood the rest anyways.

As I walked home, the road was empty except for the cars. I reflected on my strange behaviour. Yes, I knew the entire time I was acting strange. But I realised that I had got what I wanted.

I wasn’t there for the eight taraweehs after all. Two did me more good as eight had done in past years. I was there because of my firm belief in positive energy–positive divine energy. The place was a Masjid. A place where God’s men came to pray. Maybe not all, but some came for God. I did too. I wanted to be near God. Physically. And even though I am aware that we are nearest to God in sujood, I wanted to go to a place which had been dedicated to His name and His alone. Where everyone faced in the same direction, prayed to the same God. I needed that energy. I needed that feeling. That God was there. That there was a solution. That I was a believer.

And then there was the word of God. I just wanted to hear some of it. I never intended to stand there until my concentration weaned off and I was forcing myself to just stand. I just wanted to hear some of it. And it made me feel better than I had in some time.

With every sajda, my head felt lighter. If I had stayed for two more, perhaps it would’ve been cured completely. Perhaps the heaviness of my head would have been lifted to bestow clarity of mind. It was Ramadhan. The air was somehow cleaner, it would’ve helped me. But I didn’t stay. Why? Perhaps because I just wanted to hear the word of God. And when that Auntie approached me, somehow at the back of my head I was thinking about what these people were thinking of me. That I didn’t even know the fundamentals of praying in congregation! But that wasn’t the only reason. I didn’t know the arabic to the Surah after that one.

All in all, I am still confused. Still not clear. Still unsure. But I feel better, more at peace. He put a smile on my face, one of contentment. I know that whatever will be, will be for the better. I know that there will be a solution to everything. And why did I do this? I’m not sure. But anyways. Better get back to praying the rest of my nafl.

I realise this isn’t spiritually uplifting (as I thought it would be). But I just wanted this to be out there. And I wanted you to pray for me, too. This is quite a long post. Perhaps I should sign of here.

Remember me in your prayers.


A memory seeps in. Try as you might, it will seep in. Perhaps the cranium isn’t as impermeable as solid metal or stone? Perhaps that’s why memories seep in with as much ease as they seep out.

However, now is not the time to dwell on the past. Now is the time to seek the future. Ah, the future. Bleak, uncertain, unknown. So unknown.

But it persists. The memory. Now you’ve done it. Tried suppressing it, and now there’s a flood? Ha! You wish to be a judge of human minds, you cannot even judge your own. A memory. Memory.

A playground, a funeral. Late night sessions in the kitchen. Putting a baby to sleep. Being put yourself to sleep by a warm, maternal presence. The backyard with girls and laughter. Ice-lollies with a distinct childhood taste, not had in years but still the taste lingers.

Perhaps check the time? The night has progressed. The wee hours will be gone soon. Amd with them your chance to lay the mind at rest.

What an idea! Lay the mind at rest. Rest? That is a notion for the ones who control their minds. You? Your mind controls you. And society controls your mind. You seek rest? Go to an isolated piece of land. A land at rest, devoid of humans. Stay until your mind is cleared. Stay, and you shall see: the clarity of mind got. What a feeling!

But for now; these memories! What to do with them? Unorganised. So many eras, so many feelings. So many thoughts unthought! Leave them be, my dear. Leave them be. Now is not the time.

Oh, do you feel that? No, no, try! Try to resurface once more, try to gain the higher ground. This is your mind, you cannot drown within! The memories keep coming. Store them, sort them. Now is not the time! Dear me, what is wrong with you? Why will you not respond?

Oh dear, these recesses in you… oh, dear! Where do they lead? A road? A road branching off from consciousness? These memories might be the end of you. Hmm, I wonder where they’ve disappeared off too. Wait, let me come! Wait! I was saying…


Two years!

Thank you guys for being so amazing! I see every one of you, even if you think I don’t, and trust me, I appreciate all your support so much! Thank you for inspiring and motivating me, and reading my writings. It really means a LOT! Amd thanks for getting this ol’ place to two years!

Here’s hoping we can keep at it….

(P.S. Happy Ramadhan to everyone fasting! And I shall get back to the swing of things soon…. the posts I’ve been reading by you guys are great! Expect a post soon! Until then, happy blogging! Here’s to all you guys who don’t care about superficial layers and can see deeper than just a being with skin. That is amazing in the world of today.)