Sexism Zindabad

“Your honor! We have in front of our judicious eyes a Feminist. Yes sir, a Feminist, a woman who is bent upon her preposterously unbending will to grant women their due rights. Women their due rights? Hah! There are no “rights” with women. Yes sir, there are only wrongs and that is my case today.

With all due respect ignored, the disrespected Ms. Feminist here is charged with mass propaganda, intellectual assault on the sage likes of us and conspiracy; Conspiracy to obstruct the course of human development and impede its intellectual and social growth.

Women, as you may concur, are attractive fiends. Throughout the course of human history they have successfully mislead man with their alluringly conspicuous anatomical parts and erotic appearances. They’ve allured man into committing rape. They invite men to do such hideous acts by flashing their appealing looks openly, and men being the courteous and chivalrous beings they are, cannot possibly refuse an invitation, now can they? So Imagine! Just imagine the torment and self loathing, inner guilt and the loss of morale these invited rapists must feel after having done that inhumane act. Are these poor men not human? Do they not deserve to not become rapists? Yes sir, they do deserve to not become rapists. But no, these women have to exist and ruin the lives of these lamentable souls.

Woman is by far the only creature on our planet Earth that is single handedly responsible for the Global Warming. Please hear me out. These creatures’ bodies constitute of unnecessarily protruding bodily parts which take up a huge volume of our environment. Now if you add up the volume of all these parts and do some maths- those guys over at Princeton have done it…That dude in the wheelchair, I think. Stephen Gawking? Yes. – You will then discover that all that volume is making the atmosphere’s height rise. This means that if the Atmosphere containing gases around the Earth was to be 1cm thick, it is now 2cm thick, thanks to feminine bosoms. What’s my point? Ah. Listen closely: This has raised the altitude of the Ozone layer, bringing it closer to the Sun and making it deplete and leave out patches through which pours in sunlight that contributes to the Greenhouse Effect and warms up the Greenhouse Gases, thus fueling Global Warming.

A mass propaganda against Mother Nature herself. This Mother surely needs to administer a few fatal spanks to some volume-occupying bottoms.

They may say I am a Sexist. But I must disagree, your honor! I’m against sex and yet you say I’m a sexist? How very amusing indeed. What was that?… Ah. So a plum woman in the audience just yelled “Gay!” at me. I’ve got  to say I have got to admire your nugatory mind and the intriguing ways it works in. I am gay! I am openly gay! See how I dance about, do the poorly executed tap dance and wave this folder above my head? This is “Gay (adj): Carefree and merry; colorful”. What has become of us! A beautifully elegant word which we connected to the idea of expressing extreme rapture and joviality, now stands with its head lowered, its chin buried in its chest like an impotent, misunderstood and bullied child.

Speaking of children. These women, they want to marry and since that is supposed to involve a poor male counterpart, they take men down in these suicidal pacts called marriages. Not only does the pathetic husband provide ample money to meet her incessant demands, but he also curbs his manhood, his morals and his firm and heroic ideologies; Once a man of honor and integrity now reduced to performing nappy changes. But that isn’t all. This is the most cunning part of these women’s plan: They start to swell their bellies! Yes your honor, I do not hold the knowledge as to how they manage to pull off this trick, but they just do. Then they start to hide behind this belly to make more demands; money for therapies, medicines, doctors, books dedicated to this satanic, or shall I say womanly, cult practice of belly swelling and God knows what. And then they carry children inside their bellies, tangled up in innards! Fragile, little, beautiful children inside their bellies. What torture is this? What insanity, what inanity! I’d prefer they make babies in those test tubes and trays instead. That must be less painful at least. And then there are the Literature loving mother’s who prefer (Julius) Caesarian sections but that is a whole other straw for a whole other cold drink.

All these despicable creatures ever do is bring babies into this world and raise them up. They raise up these children, groom and polish them and educate them about the world. They harness life and let it grow and bloom. They are the caressers of the the souls and subject of the art, passion of a lover and the ink of a poet, Soul to Body and Water to Life, flower to the garden and garden to the birds.

But they are women, right? And women ought to be oppressed. As simple as that.

The defendant is clearly guilty of all these and existence. They must not be allowed to exist, breath or pollute our society by living anymore. And with that I rest my case.”

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For any readers who are deprived of the blessing of an in-built sarcasm detector: This piece mocks the irrationalities of Sexism and relies on the use of sarcasm to support Feminism, not the other way round.

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Ending the Dark

Into the mirror you gaze. Darkness hovers above. It envelopes your skull and your ears. It’ll soon cover your eyes too, blinding you. There is an irritation, a prickling about. You want it all to end and end soon; You want it to stop, you want to get away. But the noises get higher; slashing metal sounds emanate from above. You wonder when will it all end. You had waited so long for this to begin, waited for you to get away from the darkness above. But now this seems interminable; Each passing moment turns to hours and hours turn to pestering poltergeists which perturb you endlessly. Hands grope you, they grope your skull, your neck and they turn your head where they want it to. You are being manipulated without any control over your actions. You want to rise and drift away but the hands won’t let you move, they won’t let you go. And then the black shards rain down from above. They fall everywhere, even into your eyes which bleed out tears. They fall all around you, coloring the ground in black. And they fall into what you are clad in, so they now prick you from within. There’s darkness above, below and upon you. And then, just then when you thought the bleakness was all pervading and eternal, you see a ray of light; a shimmer of hope as the hands lift the shroud off of you and demand a red piece of paper.

You’ve just had a haircut.

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The Liebster Award Tag Post

I’ve been tagged for a blog award by a kind fellow blogger Momina, so here goes the post.

I’d start off by thanking Momina for this, because as much as I feel obliged, I also see this as an opportunity to reflect upon Self and everything that has to do with it. The questions really made me think and sometimes even ponder upon the dark alleys of the city within which I shy away from usually. But this made me listen to the noises emanated by that very city.

So the rules are:

  1. If you get tagged you post eleven facts about yourself.
  2. You answer the eleven questions given to you by the person who tagged you.
  3. Further tag eleven bloggers.
  4. Give them eleven questions to answer.
  5. No tagging back.

 

ELEVEN FACTS ABOUT MYSELF:

 

  1. I do not hold the susceptibility to get bored, for there will always be a book, internet, a mobile, an    ipod, a pen, a paper, or at least ground to engrave words in around.
  2. I’m obfuscated by the Universe, its entirety and infinite perpetuity but above all its existence.
  3. My mind is host to an eternal war between the opposites.
  4. The five abnormally long fellows attached to my palm have the ability to bend backwards.
  5. I have had the tortures of an eye surgery, bone marrow, broken finger and teeth braces levied upon my frail body in the brief existence of my Self.
  6. I’m a believer of Will and the Ways it can make.
  7. I believe I have a novel within me, at least one if not many, waiting to come out. Ah! but maybe it’s just a dream, but then again they do say optimistic things regarding this subject.
  8. As already stated, or perhaps overstated, on this blog: I crave fame and all the positive changes a man may make with the authority and relevance it brings to your thoughts and actions.
  9. I adore rain but abhor lightning.
  10. Friendships are a confusingly volatile affair; The abundance of vulnerability to get hurt that comes with it is depressing to me.
  11. I think many facts are fat lies. These are not, because I do not see the above bullets as strictly “facts”. These are mere reflection of my mind on paper regarding my feelings and views. And my mind doesn’t understand me that much either.

 

ELEVEN QUESTIONS:

 

  • Favorite quote, and why?

“I don’t think I’m tangible to myself. I mean, I think one thing today and I think another thing tomorrow. I change during the course of a day. I wake and I’m one person, and when I go to sleep I know for certain I’m somebody else. I don’t know who I am most of the time. It doesn’t even matter to me.”

-Bob Dylan.

Now such a painfully honest judgment of oneself coming from someone so profoundly influential and effective as Dylan is a comforting thing for me since the quote sums up much of what I am. I do not know what I want but yet I do. I have ever changing tastes in music, movies and books. I think good and bad of a person within the very hour or even simultaneously. If I sit upon judgment on myself, I can’t; firstly because I just cannot figure out anything of substance and secondly because the truths I find about myself are hard and affronting. So I just nod along to Mr. Dylan here and choose to accept the only thing about myself that I can be sure of: I change and I can’t afford to care.

  • One thing about you that people wouldn’t assume by looking at you?

I’m an inherently shy person contrary to my bouncing, cheery and generally confident appearance.

  • Would you rather forgive something said about you or verbally lash the person who said it?

I would want to communicate my feelings in a polite yet decisive manner first, and then think about forgiving.

  • Something about you that makes you really proud.

I have a (mostly self proclaimed) skill with words.

  • A single favorite book you wouldn’t mind reading twice or thrice. Why?

Asking an avid reader to name his favorite book is akin to asking a mother to name her favorite child. But although I may not be able to name my favorite book, I will not be able to do so even more if you’re asking me to name a book I’d want to read again. I’ve never read a work twice. I read with scrupulous attention to everything in a book to an extent where I do not need re reads. Moreover I’m a slow reader so I cannot afford to spend time discovering an already discovered America; Let’s explore space, I mean.

But I would quite contentedly re read a poem collection by Poe, Frost, Blake, Cecil Day-Lewis etc. as poetry has something new to offer in each read.

  • One person whose (God forbid) death would change you? Why? 

If the person I call “Me” and you call Usama dies, that would change me. My body shall be served in the tray of grave in an underground banquet of dilapidation; Feasted upon by the plague and insects. And when I’ll rest in a million pieces in the now replete bellies of these small beings with their appetites satisfied, I would slowly be excreted and after many years, turned into fuel. This fuel may then once run a teleporting automobile of a kid from the 30th century New World Order. And I shall then turn to smoke, sound and energy.
And my soul, it shall soar away into realms we do not understand and aren’t meant to wither.

  • What’s that which you desire the most from life?

Huh! Simple: Happiness.

  • Your favorite word. Yes, word.

Rem acu tetigisti, a phrase but still.

  • Beauty comes from ______ ?

Beauty comes from within the eye of the beholder.

  • Five things that life is about.

Love
Hatred
Success
Failure
Opposites

  • Words for you are?

You mean to ask about the words which describe me or what do words mean to me?
I’ll assume the latter because as discussed earlier, I can’t describe myself.
I see words as bricks that build a mansion, as an arrow which kills the dear and as a flowers which brings alive the garden i.e. They constitute sentences to express ideas and feelings as a vivid whole upon a page and they have the ability to harm as well as beautify.

They help me create, and creating is marvelous.

 

 

QUESTIONS THE TAGGED VICTIMS HAVE TO ANSWER:

1) What does life mean to you?
2) If the world was to end tomorrow, what would you do?
3) What is it that scares you the most?
4) What is your favorite singer/band, song, book, actor, actress and movie of all times? List all.
5) Ginnie emerges from within the mist and inquires about your three wishes. What do you say?
6) If you had to, what would you eat? A cockroach or a lizard.
7) Who are you and where would you rather be?
8) Write a few lined letter to your 30 years old self.
9) Which super power would you prefer to possess?
10) If you could resurrect one historical figure and spend a day with him/her, who would it be?
11) If you are the last person on Earth and have to write about Earth and everything that was within it in a paragraph for any soul to find, what would you write?

BLOGGERS TAGGED:

Tangled Up In Blue
Third Eye

Triumphs and Charms
Monty Bandial’s Two Cents

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The Undivine

Past the dark hour, amidst an icy gale,
Through the barren city enveloped in hale,
Upon the ground with snow white,
Gathering all his will and might,
There trudged a lone aged drifter,
His gait uneasy, his pace swifter.
He looked about the deserted street;
Shadows of the past, and apparitions greet.
And he knew he was welcome no longer,
But his will was firm and the pain stronger,
For him to return to the city deserted,
With his body frail yet senses alerted.
For although the demons had descended the skies;
Transformed the city to a ballad of cries.
And although the demons now waited in shadows;
Shifting shapes, like the ashes of meadows.
Still, he had a cause to return
Someone to yearn, fear to unlearn.
He made his way across the desolated street
And entered the place where dirt and body meet.
He passed from one grave to another,
The epitaphs stood chilled by the tyrant weather.
And then he halted, his breathing became slow,
For on one such epitaph there read the word “Flo”
He fell to his knees, kneeling beside his love,
Loathing the city and the heavens above.
Placing a blood rose into tears he burst,
Like a fallen warrior or a desert traveler in thirst.
He cried to the demons, ‘make me your slave,
Make me your dog! But give life to this grave!
I’ll worship you and prostrate to rise no more.
You can curse me, slaughter and abhor.
But make this mound of dust rise
And from it let my Flo arise
To return to me for ever and evermore
And live the days by the serene Eastern shore
Away from this city, and the wind’s roar!’
And behold, there rose a mute melody so intense;
It tore through the skies, and lulled the wind immense
It halted the time and everything whence
Instilling in mortals trepidations defying sense
And the stillness of the universe entire,
As the waterfalls stilled, the moon rose no higher.
In the forests the howls of ghouls retired.
And far away ‘neath the icy waters of the seabed,
A sunken ship lay, it too with this fear inbred.
And when all was still and horror quiet
A hand rose from within the grave, so white.
The grave parted and from it emerged a maiden;
Her figure lean, countenance with sorrow laden.
Her white robe the only thing that dare move,
From the icy ground the rose she did remove.
As the heavens and hells looked on in awe,
As she plucked it briskly and moved without a flaw,
Moved towards the old drifter with grace,
And under the pale moonlight the two embraced.
And holding the old man by his hand,
The two sank into the time’s sand.
Until the times stop and the oceans run dry,
Until the winters become warm and the raven forgets the way to fly
In the grave the two shall side by side lay
Sharing dreams free from toils and dismay.

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A Paradox

I sit upon an exalted throne,
Judging the banes of society .
Bearing the labels of right and just,
I serve the causes of deity.

I sit hunched in dark alleys too,
Drenched in the malicious rain.
I feel pleasured to hurt and wrong
Without reason, logic or gain.

And my heart does flit and my soul does twist,
I am of merry commotion full.
I reach and see beyond the canopy
Of the heavens above so wonderful .

But my Body does shiver and my Mind does quiver,
The dark blinds me all the time.
Morbidness conquers my conscience
As away the dark hours chime.

My Heart and Soul proclaim to me
To transcend limits and soar.
My Mind and Body restrict me
They torment me and bore.

These are my traits, miserly and great,
I’m a paradoxical angelic demon.
For what else could I possibly be
But me myself, Human.

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Perceiving Oblivion

By the Lie the Truth exists
And by the Wrong the Right.
The Dark pervades eternity,
Its opposite recognized as Light.

Darkness prevails naturally
Light needs be brought
Lies will be, but in man’s mind
Truth needs be wrought.

Wrong is ineffably easy,
Wrong need not sought.
But for Right to reign triumphant,
Wars need fought.

Right and Wrong,
Truth and Lies,
The battle is perpetual,
As away time flies.

*

But there is no Right
And there is no Wrong;
There is no reason
To the nightingale’s song.

For what you deem Wrong
May be another’s Right;
The wind matters differently
To different birds’ flight.

The Rights and Wrongs
Are mere ethics of the society;
Accepted norms
Without variety.

But you shall support your Right,
And you shall abhor your Wrong,
And you shall fight the battle,
For that’s been life’s reason all along.

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It is no business of a poet to explain his poetry, but then again I am no poet.
In the first 4 stanza half it establishes the clash of the opposites and in the 4 stanza second half it implies the reality that all this friction between opposites is basically pointless and it is life’s point to make sense of this pointlessness. Thus the title Perceiving Oblivion.
The perfect division of poem’s length and even a vague physical symmetry of its two halves is an endeavor to portray the balance of the opposites and in this case, belief in order and chaos.
The poem is a personal exploration of the doctrine of existential nihilism and its link with the concept of right and wrong.


			

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Confessions of a Verbally Dexterous Narcissist

Private Baldrick: No, the thing is: The way I see it, these days there’s a war on, right? and, ages ago, there wasn’t a war on, right? So, there must have been a moment when there not being a war on went away, right? and there being a war on came along. So, what I want to know is: How did we get from the one case of affairs to the other case of affairs?
Captain Blackadder: Do you mean “How did the war start?”
Private Baldrick: Yeah.

Now that is not exactly my case, nor is wandering speech and thoughts something I favor, but I have to confess that it does somewhat reflect the nature of my problem. Not as much a problem for me as for others. You see, where I could’ve done with a titter, I guffaw and where I could’ve caught an ailment, I perish. I don’t mean literally, and I surely don’t mean to say that I exaggerate things in any way. What I do mean is this: I have this new found love for the over exploitation of language which sounds pretty much like Private Baldrick’s sentence as opposed to the simple and obvious sentence proposed by Captain Blackadder. I begin to use infinitely extensive sentences filled with unbearably monstrous quantities of impressing words, a habit which is lately being met by frowning brows, yapping mouths and rotten vegetables in flight.

Indicative of a problem.

My tendency to produce excessively ostentatious verbosity has often pestered many, but I have always been a firm believer of the effective use of language. Why should a language which has the ability to soar with eloquence, play with sprightliness and mourn with heart not do so? Why should a huntsmen be deprived of his spears but allowed the bow and why should a player be allowed to play but have his limbs tied? Similarly, why should I be given education, armed with a language and provided with the words as the arsenal but not allowed to use them as I like, to win the war that writing is to a writer? I fail and refuse to understand. For I see language as a tool which disposes me the liberty to use it as I like and with how much regularity I fancy, while I happen to be a workaholic laborer. I utilize the tool until it wears out, and always endeavor to use it niftily and neatly. The resulting product, I assume or at least I prefer to assume, is a figment of my mind expressed through the words I choose to appoint specifically to perform their individual tasks including primarily the task of conveying exactly what I desire to.

It would not be completely wrong if you observe how this post is intentionally more verbose then the others, because you would be undeniably right: I have intentionally done so to highlight my point. Just like I expressed initially, I do not see writing and use of language as something of a trademark or a style which must remain permanently same for a writer’s every work. No, because just like a painter has the liberty to use whatever color he likes, a writer must feel the freedom to use whatever writing style he likes as different styles are suited for different occasions.

Therefore, at this point, I feel it necessary to let the kind reader know where my love for the English language and its intricate use is springing out from: it’s the English and everything they are associated with. They are truly the worthy owners of the language, which they rightly are, and have time and again proven the fact to me through media. I first tasted the exquisite taste of fine English when I read the dancing prose of PG Wodehouse. His stories were dependent not only upon their comic characters’ dispositions, the settings and the hilarious situations Wodehouse so effortlessly seemed to conjure, but also upon the literary mannerism and Wodehouse’s playfulness with words; He could treat expressions and words as toys, play with them, assign them roles and assemble and dissemble them to show us an outcome like a child shows his parents what he has done with the building blocks or dough. Lightly frivolous and masterfully ingenious.

And then there were English butlers, or if you care to assign them their due respect, “personal gentlemen” of the English gentlemen. I came across them through movies and literature which had England as their setting. Wodehouse’s character “Jeeves” was the master of all butlers. Their graceful demeanor, delicate air and the absolute perfection of speech was an appalling display of what being a gentleman was all about. I could not resist but start to imitate their chivalrous ways first trifly, then seriously and finally obsessively. Not in real life, as I surely could not, given that I am a Pakistani and need to shift between Urdu and Punjabi to maintain a common belief among those surrounding me that I am sane. But I really adored using a hundred words where I could have used ten and using ten words where I could have used a hundred. That is, as I figured later, the trick of the butlers: They are precise and to the point whilst using the aid of an excessive amount of speech. Therefore, the length of a sentence or the space an idea takes to be expressed on a paper must not matter and must not be considered as not being to the point. If length of prose is doing anything, it is elaborating upon the point and trying to make the point more to the point. Simply put: More words make the point be directed exactly towards where the writer wants it to go in a better fashion, and not the other way round.

And then there are all those hours of listening to Stephen Fry’s autobiography as audiobook where he seems to quite agree with my thoughts. And those hours also give me that certain ear orgasm or rather blissful satisfaction only skillful use of English can bring about. Oscar Wilde (Whose every line is worthy of being quoted), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Whose world of Sherlock is eternally gripping and a personification of class itself), Hugh Laurie (whose every move is inteligently weighed and comic) and  Douglas Adams (Whose universe is the apex of hilarity) are a few English giants to name who have had an immense influence on my way of thinking, perceiving, writing and speaking.

However, I do confess with an apologetically unapologetic apology that I tend to become a show off and a prick sometimes, but I embrace that for as much as I loathe being called these two despicable nouns, I abhor not being able to show off all the more. As in my arguments presented previously, I still do believe in the use of deft sentence structuring and fine handling of one’s writing, but I sometimes seem to overdo it intentionally with the sole intention to impress. Yes, I crave fame, praise and people’s admiration. There I said it! I have never quite got my head round to understand the possibility that someone might not want these, but I’m working on that. Now it is not that this putrid-little-piece-of-a-dead-rat’s-foot blogpost is going to impress anyone or anything mildly close to it, but I like to think it might. And it is this thought which clings to the back of my head and wants me to produce commendable writing on page, writing that I can call an effort and readers can call brilliant. Thus by appearing meekly humble and humiliated, I would be appearing modest when I could have been bragging. This thought alone makes the observer admire me. I might also make a few degrading remarks about my writing and sit back and enjoy the automatic flow of praise I will be receiving as the observer would obviously try to deny those remarks of mine, partly as he may really think I’m better then what I think myself to be, and partly out of politeness. How very pleasing indeed.

Don’t think of me low, this is what everyone does every now and then. Believe me.

But kindly just hold on a fraction of a minute there. Think. Ponder about the last paragraph; how by being open about myself, by being vulnerable, by being painfully or even preposterously truthful, I gained your trust or even sympathy. And somewhere between telling you the truth and cunningly shrouding my tendency to appear impressively honest and my uncontrollable narcissism with the label of  “A Confession”, I managed to impress you even if slightly, and contrived to show off one way or the other.

If I were you, I would have been able to literally hear the writer smile with malign and self praising thoughts right now.

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