Baby Boom or Baby Bust?

This Friday’s sermon at Sultan Masjid in Phase V reaffirmed my belief that it’s not that a large part of our religious clergy are illiterate or uneducated, it’s just that they’re blissfully unaware and downright ignorant. Unaware and ignorant enough to make nonsensical statements which have no Islamic legal jurisprudence backing to them yet are made with such conviction that one would think that the good Angel Gabriel was whispering in the prayer leader’s ears.

Ranting on about the present government’s ineptitude in every sphere of life from inflation and lack of water and electricity to our inflated cabinets, inflated ministers and their inflated egos, I could empathize with the imam’s words. That is, until he turned to talk about the tax that was proposed by a sitting female MNA to be levied on a family if it had more than two children. (In my humble opinion, I think the concept of the tax isn’t such a bad idea. Our meager resources are not enough to keep up with our booming population. We need to stop the baby boom before it leads to bust. But track records of Pakistani administrations shows that they can however screw not only a good thing but a great thing up very very easily. Our GDP per capita puts us at par with a lot of African nations, places where drought and strife are commonplace. Limiting our population growth is something that is essential for progress). The imam’s anger was palpable as he went on about this being another conspiracy by the government. About how this was about the rich taxing the poor since the poor in Pakistan are the ones who have larger families. (I was surprised that he didn’t term this a Zionist conspiracy to limit the numbers of Muslims in the world? Or a Chinese conspiracy to push their one-child policy across the border? Or maybe an Indian one to reduce able personnel in the Pakistani Army? I wouldn’t put it past a lot of us to say that, conspiracy theories thrown out at the rate of a dime a dozen in this part of the world).

The imam was quite emphatic when he preached that we Muslims should have as many children as possible. According to him, having multiple children was a God given right and we should go forth and multiply, disseminate our seed far and wide. He went on even further with the example when he said that our religion tells us to find women who are supple and voluptuous so that they can bear us multiple children.

His remarks were just insulting and plain stupid on so many levels. But a very good depiction of the Pakistani psyche.

First of all, it’s a plain numbers game that a fixed amount of money (salary) divided among many participants (family members) will give each participant lesser of an amount than if that fixed amount was divided among fewer participants. Having more children would mean that each child would get less. Poorer families in Pakistan usually have more children so that they can help out with tilling the land or contribute to the family income by working in factories etc. For example, Dad A and Mom A have 10 Kids. Dad A and Mom A’s combined monthly income equals Rs. 3000. School fees at Rs. 300 per month would mean that out of the 10 kids, maybe only 3 would go to school while the rest would work to help the family make ends meet and have enough food to feed the family of 13. Dad B and Mom B have only 2 Kids but make the same amount as Dad A and Mom A. They can send their children to school and buy them new uniforms and still have a comfortable living. On the other hand, richer and more well to do people, knowing that a proper upbringing which involves a quality education and a high standard of living costs a pretty penny, limit their number of offsprings. This is a very threadbare example but it hopefully puts my point across.

Then the comment about marrying only women who can bear lots of children is just plain preposterous. How are we supposed to judge women and their child-bearing capacities just by looking at them. Child-bearing is a trial and error method. You try and you hopefully succeed. If you fail, you try again. Then there are other complexities like miscarriages, birth defects and of course not being able to choose the gender of the child. Female babies are looked upon with disdain as are physically and mentally disabled children. Does Islam’s legal sanctioning of 4 wives mean that if the first (or second or third) wife doesn’t sprout children (as well as ones who fit the criteria) from the seeds of the loin, they can be discarded and men can just move on?

The mosque was packed and I’m sure there were a multitude of people who listened to the imam intently. I, for one could not and I felt very restless. I did think of standing up and contesting the imam’s words but Friday’s sermons are not a public debate and so one can only sit and listen. I wanted to approach the imam after prayers to see if I can find out where he got his “enlightened” knowledge from but I skipped the meeting so as to avoid a confrontation, one which might lead to a physical altercation.

The sermon left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I’m quite religiously inclined but neither do I preach to others when I myself have so many imperfections nor do I take everything that is told to me with blind faith and at face value. To think that these people are our spiritual leaders and our guides to faith does not speak too well for our future, as Pakistanis and as Muslims. Madressa education needs to be accompanied not only with academic training but also with philosophical thought and logical reasoning.

To top it off, Jamaat Islami was standing outside the mosque with loudspeakers yelling at whoever would listen to them (and they attracted a growing crowd). The content of their speech was about how the IMF/World Bank were not lending institutions but devilish organizations with hidden agendas to slowly drown Pakistan into the Indian Ocean with bags filled with tonnes of IOU notes. What an afternoon, I tell ya.

A short term solution: Touch Condoms and Durex should give free samples and impart sex education and birth control methods and the benefits to Mullahs Inc. Women should go on a sexual strike until men stop objectifying them as only the mother of their children and household slaves. And lastly, mullahs on pickup trucks with loudspeakers should just be flogged. And muffled. Or both.

One Of These Mornings...

I've been obsessed with MJ's songs since his death. I'll be the first to admit that I was caught up in the whole neglect-MJ-cos-he's-a-devil-with-a-lollipop for the past so many years.

Now, as vindication for my past behaviour I've been listening to his songs feverishly. Not that it's going to bring him back or anything but still, it gives me peace. One of his songs that's really taken me is, "They Don't Really Care About Us" and as I look around the state of Karachi and the poverty that surrounds me, I can't but help think that MJ might have been right.

I was fortunate enough to meet Tin Man again on Saturday. To give a name to the face and to humanize him, Tin Man's name is Yunus. And when he came to collect all the scrap metal that we wanted him to dispose off, I asked him about his children. It continously amazes me how a man who earns a mere pittance has been able to do so much for his kin out of hard work and determination.

As I helped him move boxes and broken computer screens, I marvelled at his insistence that I take some money from him for the scrap metal. When I told him that I would be happier if he spent the money on his kid's education, the smile on his face was enough to brighten up my day.

Yunus also scrubbed and washed the floor, as a way of repaying me with his hard work. And to think that while he worked hard, I was roaming around trying to find my shorts so that I could go spend a lazy Saturday at the beach. I stopped for a minute and thought about the disparity, the inequality, the unfairness of how this world and life operates...and I've been feeling low ever since.

Maybe I do care but maybe that's not enough. Maybe those who really need to care and who can make a difference just don't care enough. Our rulers, our overlords...

Last night, I found out a relative's wife and son passed away in a car accident in Saudi Arabia. They were distant relatives but still someone who I had heard about. Another look into how ephemeral life really is.

Death happens all the time. It's just something which is in the news or something which is hidden away. We shoud thank God for that. But when it hits us in the face is when it become real and a part of life.

I want to end this post on a sad note. As Patti Labelle sang along with Moby on the Miami Vice soundtrack (which I'm obsessed with):

One of these mornings
It won't be very long
That you'll look for me
And I'll be gone

A Tribute: We Sang Until We Dropped

We sang till we dropped and we dropped and still we sang.
- Clash of Cultures

Michael Jackson passed away in the morning. This is a tribute to him. A tribute to both Whacko Jacko as well as to the King of Pop. He was a legend, no doubt but he was also a tortured soul, both from the inside and from society. Michael and I go way back. Way back when I was a kid and used to bike over to Neverland with all the other kids on the block.

Kidding, kidding...bad joke. But it surprises me how people become saints and are glorified once they leave this world. A dearly departed of sorts? But are they really dear? I think the same happened when BB passed away and was idolized with people forgetting about her past and just immortalizing her good deeds.

So Michael Jackson went from King of Pop to the Devil with Lollipops to a Black-and-White Popsicle and from Neverland to Qatar to London. And all along, he was ridiculed and scorned. For being too feminine and too black. For being confused and for being a homosexual. For being just a poor kid who had gone from rags-to-riches and the money and fame had spun him around so fast that he just couldn't stop.


I loved Michael Jackson's songs. And now I can say it proudly. Now I don't need to hide behind a fake identity in a chatroom or throw my voice in a different direction if I say it aloud. When MJ sang the song for "Free Willy", I was impressed. And not just by the killer whale jumping over the reef but by his white shirt-black pants-white socks uniform. I still sing his, "The Way You Make Me Feel" and I remember trying to moonwalk in the privacy of my room.

The last time I ever really spoke to someone about MJ was when I was at the Virginia Square metro station and I struck up conversation with a girl who was in one of my classes at George Mason. She was from California and on the legal team of the parents whose kids were (supposedly) molested by MJ. She was so sure that he had done that. Emphatically, she laid out her argument while we waited for that train and by the time I boarded the blue line, I had a bad taste in my mouth about ever even liking MJ's songs.

That has changed now and as I read about his cardiac arrest and watch the crowd outside the UCLA Medical Center and the Appollo Theatre in NYC on none other than GEO and Express News, I feel remorse. For a legend lost. For a man scorned. For a soul bruised and beaten and finally coming to rest from the hardships of the world.

Yo Whacko Jacko, hope you find peace like your Graceland brother, King Presley.

RIP, Smooth Criminal.

Stand Up

I want to leave you with something inspirational. I would tell you to stand up because we’re the champions but we haven’t won yet (not the war and not any cricket matches either). So just remember what a famous Pakistani band once sang: “Hum hain Pakistani, hum to jeetay gein haan jeetay gain” (We are Pakistanis and we WILL win).

- My Karachi Diary 2: 100 Days and Counting

I woke up today with a smile on my face. I thought about the final last night and then I thought of writing. I thought about the last paragraph I had written in a blog post and I thought that I should express my emotions through my blog. I thought about the tweets that were done last night and I thought about Facebook status updates. I thought a lot. And all of them were happy thoughts.

We won. Younis Khan, Shahid Afridi and their boys have won something which they missed out on by a few runs, a handful, last year. And this year, as underdogs they won it. We won it. They made us proud.

It was a surreal moment. Incredible but unbelievable.

I'm not going to say that I always knew they were going to win it. Nope. I was skeptical until the end, until only two runs were left out of ten balls and I saw the Pakistani cricket team waiting by the boundary holding a Pakistani flag ready to invade the field. After the last ball was bowled, I yelled out and went running to my balcony. I stood at the edge and shouted out that we had won. My king-of-the-world moment. And then I waited for the gunshots and they came. The rat-a-tat-tat that echoed in the night was great. A signal and a siren to go with our victory. Our embattled nation had come together and we were proud of something. Towards unity. Towards peace.

When I woke up on Sunday morning, I told my Dad that we would watch the match together. It was Father's Day and the least that I could do was watch the match with him. We would celebrate together if we won and walk around the house with slung necks if we lost. I could have watched it anywhere, from roadside cafes to five-star hotels. There were giant screens everywhere. This was a defining moment and the whole nation wanted to take part in it. I was invited by one group of friends to a hotel showing (where the crowds promised to swell to stadium capacity) and by another to their house where friends would watch it together. But I'm so glad I chose to stay at home and watch it with my parents and cousins. The last time Pakistan had won something of this level, I was 12 and even then I had played truant from school and watched it with parents. This time round, I wanted to do the same.

Such events are few and far in between and as we came back from a wedding after the game, the Paki youths on bikes, rickshaws and atop buses at 3 in the morning were enjoying what little happinesses we get in our country at war. I loved it. The joy and happiness on people's faces was what lit me up from the inside. It didn't mean that things were okay; the IDPs, War on Terror, suicide bombings, bombs in public places etc were all there. But for that moment, that point in time, we were happy. Happy as Pakistanis. It was even better than the restoration of the Chief Justice since there were some who were against that. But this was for the nation. As a nation.

I overheard a fashion designer at the wedding saying that this was just like a shot of heroine. The high would be temporary but the problems would remain. I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that it was more like a shot of Red Bull. The high would reinvigorate us and let us tackle our problems head on. The win had given us wings.

AJ Javed

The superheroes are not dead or forgotten yet. There are too many of them out there to forget even one. But alas, if I was to start mentioning all, I would never stop. From little kids who go to school by day and sell flowers by night in a means to support their family to senior citizens who watch over their grandchildren and hobble around the house on walking sticks to prepare chai while their children go out to make a living, superheroes live on.

But I do want to talk about one. One who is forgotten in this whole war frenzy where the northern part of the country is at war with itself while the southern part can't forget the mishaps and misadventures of the misfit President-General. His name is Javed. And I'll call him AJ Javed. Army Jawaan Javed. He's much like G.I.Joe. Ground Infrantry Joe. And he is a superhero, whatever your feelings towards the current crisis in Swat and Waziristan might be.

The current battle being fought on the mountains of the Karakoram is really taxing our army. The populace is behind them and that is why they fight on. Our overlord, the USofA wants us to step up the battle and we have ventured into Waziristan to hunt down Baitullah. But as we sit here in our nice little homes, safe from bullets and not restricted by curfew, AJ Javed and his comrades and co-foot soldiers fight on. Fight for what they've been ordered too. Fight for this country. Fight in the name of Islam against the so-called crusaders of Islam. Fight for us.

Now don't think that I'm glorifying our army for fear of being jailed for treason. Yes, my loyalty lies with Imran Khan but from what I've heard, some of his rhetoric has really disturbed me. He would rather that we hold dialogue with the militants. He has his reasons and parts of it make a lot of sense. But the part where he calls for civil disobedience against military action needs to be looked at more closely.

Our army is far from perfect. From having failed us in the plains of Dhaka to the foothills of Kargil to enjoying superiority over civilians with their better-than-thou attitude, they need to be corrected. From kickbacks to I-scratch-your-back, the armed forces are not members of the Puritanical sect, not one bit. Their palatial houses in their defence housing societies and their ten car convoys rubbishes those who say the army can govern best. Then they're also notorious when it comes to Army Inc. being the largest business conglomerate in Pakistan. There's also the dreaded ISI goons who roam around the country, pushing him, kidnapping her. They have immunity from our courts and can only be tried by army tribunals which gives them an unfair leeway.


But it's not AJ Javed's fault. Like any other army trainee, he is trained not to question but to obey. And so keeping the Generals and Field Marshals aside, we really need to respect the army and in consequence, respect him. Put a Superman emblem alongside his various accolades because come what may, the army's trained to do or die for Pakistan. Our Pakistan.

Now let's sketch a picture of what AJ Javed's life might be like. Something like in the Pakistani drama, Shoaib Mansoor's "Alpha Bravo Charlie" but just a little more difficult.

Javed grows up in a little kutchi abadi behind the Defence Housing Society in Lahore. His dad is a sepoy in the army, doing culinary duties in the house of a brigadier. Javed grows up marvelling the Brigadier's house but more than that, he is awed by the double-barelled shotgun hung on the wall and the pictures lining the mantle of those who died in the 1965 war.

After finishing his matriculation, Javed goes to the army recruitment centre and enlists. He is one of the many young men who sees the army as a way to travel the country, garner some respect and work for his people. At Abbottabad cadet college, Javed goes through the year-long army drill. Waking up at 5, doing several obstacle courses, becoming proficient in various firearms, eating daal roti, having lights out at 10pm. This becomes a daily routine. Javed barely gets to see his family.

Trained to see India as the one-and-only enemy of Pakistan, Javed opts for Siachen with a passion. The highest battlefield in the world where frostbite and military rations are constant companions, Javed mans the artillery which is forever pointed towards the Indian Army's position. He gives the Indians their wake up call in the morning with a round of gunfire and they say goodnight to him by launching mortars.

Trouble starts brewing in Swat where Javed remembers he wanted to take his fiancee for their honeymoon. His platoon is shifted there and Javed is saddened by the IDPs he sees and how the one beautiful valley has been flattened by artillery and airstrikes. One night, Javed is woken up by his captain for a rescue mission for families living up in the mountainside and taken hostage by the Taliban. Decked out in his gear, Javed feels euphoric. Almost like this mission would be something exciting, something which he was trained to do and the combat that he has yearned for.

A gunbattle ensues.

The militants are either killed or retreat into the night. AJ Javed helps the familiies as they run into the waiting army trucks. When a mother pleads to Javed that she left her sleeping baby in the house, Javed runs back to fetch him. Grabbing the baby, Javed is shot in the neck by one of the militant sniper's up in a tree. Fatally. Javed dies in the arms of his comrade, reciting the kalima and with a look of satisfaction in his eyes.

Given a full military burial and with a wreath from the Chief of the Army Staff, AJ Javed's service is appreciated. He's a shaheed, a martyr. He's also a superhero.

I thought fit to write so much about AJ Javed and give a little anecdote about his life story. I feel many a times we take for granted what those trying to establish law and order in our lives and in our country do for us. Mr. TPM might not be as heroic as AJ Javed but his contribution is not minimal either.

I want to end with a quote from none other than Kemal Ataturk:
A nation which makes the final sacrifice for life and freedom does not get beaten.

We're not going to be beaten unless we ourselves let them beat us.

Superhero Status

I wrote this for The Green Kaleidoscope. Feedback would be much appreciated.
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Superhero Status

I’ve always wanted to be a superhero. Growing up, I would imagine myself sometimes in a Superman costume (minus the red underwear. I really do prefer blue) flying around a metropolis, zapping hardened criminals with my laser vision and picking up boulders and trucks on my pinkie using my superhuman strength. Other times, I wanted to be like Flash and wake up five minutes before I was supposed to be in school, get dressed, eat breakfast and be there in time enough not to have a tardy by my name in the attendance register.

This article is about superheroes. That said, if you think this article is about X-men or DC Comics heroes, you’re wrong. Think again. Think harder. Think about who could be the the real superheroes. (If visions of Altaf Hussain (or Imran Khan) in a tight yellow underwear and cape come to mind, delete them. Immediately. If flashes of Sherry Rehman in a Wonder Woman costume is what you think of, let it be known that you are sick and need medical help. But it’s a different story if you think of supermodels as superheroes. Heidi Klum and Gisele Bundchen can save me from a burning building anytime).

But let’s cut out the funnie (and bizarre). The superheroes I’m talking about aren’t those made famous by comic strips or Hollywood blockbusters. I don’t even consider them to be super or heroes. No. The superheroes are those you meet everyday. Walking on the Pakistani street, working in your house, standing behind the cash register at the store, staring at you in the mirror. We’re all superheroes. Each one of us.

Off the top of my head, I can give you four examples. And I bet you can think of dozens, if not hundreds more. They may not be acknowledged but they are the ones who really are super, maybe not by name or outward appearance but definitely by personality and by their actions.

The first superhero that comes to my mind is the traffic policeman. You might shake your head and disagree keeping in mind our sordid state of traffic affairs but trust me, he really is a superhero. Mr. Traffic Police Man (Mr. TPM) stands in the heat all day. A normal day requires him to work 12-13 hours, much over the legal stipulated working day. Throw in the dust and the pollution and the incessant honking of cars and trucks and you get squalor working conditions for Mr. TPM. Couple that with angry, abusive and reckless drivers and you realize that Mr. TPM who’s dealing with this for many hours must really have superhuman qualities. Yes, he may take bribes in cash and kind and harass motorcyclists, bus drivers and pedestrians and look the other way when the high-and-mighty bend and break traffic laws. No, I don’t think giving bribery is okay and you have to realize that these traffic policeman have to bend like that for our so-called benevolent rulers. Bend or be snapped out of a job and livelihood. All of this shows that Mr. TPM live close to the edge. The edge of traffic, the edge of sanity and the edge of sustenance. And all the good they do for us should not be discounted.

The second is more like a superheroine. She’s the domestic help (Maid of Honor). Maid of Honor has one of the toughest jobs in society. She not only has to make sure that everything is fine and dandy at her workplace but also at her own home. Maid of Honor juggles stuff magically; ironing a shirt, feeding the baby and preparing a delicious meal. She then goes home on public transport, facing traffic jams and sexual harassment. If she’s lucky, she’ll go home and won’t be subject to domestic abuse. She’ll be luckier if she can have a good meal since women and the female child are known to be the last one to eat. She’s a mom, sister, daughter, cook, babysitter, dishwasher and cleaning lady all rolled into one. Being all those yet having all the traits of a human should make her super, superhuman that is.

Then there’s the Tin-Dabbay walla man (Tin Man) who walks on your streets, pushing his cart, shouting loudly for his wares and hoping that you would lend him your ears as the afternoon sun blazes on. I recently spoke to such a Tin Man and was pleasantly surprised to know that his daughter worked in a bank as an accountant and his son was studying to attend university. Tin Man was educating his children even though he never got educated himself. He wanted to give his children a better life and to achieve this, he worked two jobs; one that required pushing around a cart all day and the other was taking the night shift at a general store working behind the cash register. I marveled at this selfless attitude. Supergenerous, I say. Tin Man qualifies to be a superhero in my book.

And last but not least, there’s You (U). And you might not think that you’re a superhero but U does the simplest things which might not seem very heroic but help to make the world go round. U wakes up early in the morning to go to work. U folds his blankets so that it would save some work for the Maid of Honour. U stops at a traffic light and listens to Mr. TPM’s direction. If Mr. TPM does pull U over, U deals with it patiently and professionally. U heads over to the office and works hard all day. On his way home, U buys something which would be irrelevant but would help that person knocking at your window feed his family. U comes home and gives the Tin Man some of the stuff to recycle so Tin Man can feed his family for the day or the week. On the weekends, U leads his life normally. Walks his dog, takes his/her son to the cricket practice, reads a book to his daughter. U turns on the TV and amidst all the news of the bombings and kidnappings, U realizes that he is living life. And enjoying it. U and Ms. U really is you.

So be not shy to thank your domestic help when they serve you coffee or tea, smile at the man ringing you up at the cash register and do not flip your lid when the traffic police pulls you over for a traffic violation. They might not be able to fly around and move mountains but they are doing their job and for that they need credence. Mr. TPM, Maid of Honor, Tin Man and U are everyday people. But they are superheroes. They are the ones who make the world go round. So be the superhero that we know that all of us have in us

After reading this, go home. Look in the mirror and tell yourself that today you are a superhero. And do this everyday. And remember that superheroes do good. Get kittens out of trees, help old people cross the road, yield to other cars. Feed the hungry, give blankets to the homeless and educate the Pakistani nation in more ways than through books.

And if you feel that you might not be a superhero, remember what Jakob Dylan and the Wallflowers sang, “We can be heroes, just for one day. We can be us, just for one day”.

Hot and Cold

I'm depressed today.

Yesterday, I was happy. Pakistan won. By a whopping margin. I watched the cricket match with my cousin and younger brother and yelled and screamed everytime a Netherlands wicket was taken. (For an over-over commentary, go to Five Rupees). Then my rescued bird is doing just fine. I saw it yesterday in its cage. It was hopping around (wing still damaged) but it looked so much better. Like someone had pumped up and resuscitated its broken spirit (and wing). I'm going to call it the 'Red Quail' from now on. I love the Red Quail's red eyes. So fascinating.

Before that, I wasn't feeling too well. I was recovering from my Sunday trip to French beach where I frolicked in the waves and ate barbecue looking at the sun setting over the ocean. But I also took in (ingested) enough salt in to fill my daily nutritional requirements for a year and a half. Pakistan's dismal loss to England because our captain thinks Twenty20 is fun cricket just added to my not-feeling-well day. (Idiot that Younis Khan is!)

But the reason why I'm depressed today is because I opened the papers and saw the Peshawar carnage. And it tore me into two. The attackers planned it out so well. They jumped the wall, lowered the barricades and drove their explosive-laden truck into the PC hotel. They killed people who I want to be like; UNHCR officers, NGO workers and people who just want to save the frickin' world. They want to save the IDPs and the poor of Pakistan. Do they deserve this? Read and comment on CHUP. Kals gives awesome coverage to this.

You know, maybe it's immature or chimerical but I wish I owned a Transformer. Not one stolen from KESC but one from another galaxy. Like an Autobot or a Decepticon. Then I would show these mercenaries of religion not to mess with us. I like world peace. I would enforce it without letting the sheer power go to my head.

I promise I would.

PS: Here's a song from the Goo Goo Dolls who sang the soundtrack for the Transformers movie. It's titled, "Better Days" and Inshallah we shall see better days for this country. Inshallah.