Once Upon a time in Pakistan (and then India)

Mohtarma Middling goes Green

Here

Writing Home about Home

This week, quite by chance, a video of mine found it's way to artist Riaz Mehmood's video installation for the VASL International Residency 'Writing Home about Home'


In addition to this, Mohtarma Middling stepped out for a third time.

Amazon in training

Sometimes i wish life was less about mental agility, more about physical ability, and that i had started training to fight evil goblins as a child.
One day, this trainee amazon shall turn into a High Priestess and maybe by then, i'd have completed and published this deck of cards as well ....

Can't wait to see you...

New York New York ... enroute to Florida;)

Stolen from quieter days when there was time to read

'The human being born to amnesia and heedlessness will have little in common with those chastened by precedent and memory and the desire to nurse the future into being
... IAN HARROW


Don't talk down to me.
Don't be polite to me.
Don't try to make me feel nice.
Don't relax.
I'll cut the smille off your face.
You think i don't know what's going on?
You think, i'm afraid to react.
The joke's on you.
I'm biding my time, looking for the spot.
You think no one can reach you,
no one can have what you have.
I've been planning while you're playing.
I've been saving while you're spending.
The game is almost over
So it's time to acknowledge me.
Do you want to fall not ever knowing who took you?
... JENNY HOLZER (INFLAMMATORY ESSAYS)


Life is not a series of events that can be coldly calculated, with levels of achievement that deliver you to a final height where you 'win'. It cannot be paused or have the channel changed for something better. There is nothing better than to live a life, to see the world without the vertical lines cast from the TV screen, to be a part of the grand scheme of things.
... ERICA WILLIAMS


A SINGLE EVENT CAN HAVE INFINITELY MANY INTERPRETATIONS

ACTION CAUSES MORE TROUBLE THAN THOUGHT

CALM IS MORE CONDUCIVE TO CREATIVITY THAN IS ANXIETY

CATEGORIZING FEAR IS CALMING

DECENCY IS A RELATIVE THING

HABITUAL CONTEMPT DOES NOT REFLECT A FINER SENSIBILITY



You should limit the number of times you act against your nature, like sleeping with people you hate. It's interesting to test your capabilities for a while but too much will cause damage.
.

We deserve the right to Cultural Ambivalence

When global order is established
like type/words in sentence,

structure on a page;
it creates Violence.

Violent, dark etchings destroy the tranquility

on a clear unmarred sheet of paper;

like political unrest in people fighting

to lay claim to their own Identity.

.............................................

Print fell on deaf ears

Deaf to all but their fantastical inner worlds

You keep striking word blows

Its not incapacity that withholds understanding

Its only my desire to read another story

.............................................

School reunion at Fuschia

Sometimes my family likes to dress up

Disembodied Images, Discarnate Man - An exhibition

This is how it all came together.

Disembodied Images, Discarnate Man

I made this video a while ago on Adobe After FX. Thought it was about time i uploaded it to my blog.

B15G by FalseParkLocation

A video edited by Abhineet Gogne, an upcoming talent from India. Love it!

Huzoor Bux and the Water Tanker Mafia

Ever since i learnt to drive, i have been battling unpredictable, loud and aggressive buses, rickshaws, motorcycles and cars on the bumpy streets of Karachi. The worst demon to hit the streets, however, is the slow, lumbering, leaky water tanker that has a tendency to angle its rather large rear at your headlights in narrow side lanes.



According to estimates, there are about 5000 water tankers in the city of Karachi. These tankers each make about 10 to 12 trips up and down the city streets daily. This means that your chances of bumping into at least one such monstrosity are quite high.

Crazy traffic, bumpy streets,.... we, at the channel, decided to look into this particular issue. Where are these tankers getting their water from, does their heavy weight and many trips up and down karachi's streets damage the roads and have they really been resposible for such a large number of traffic accidents?

So, we isolated a Mr Huzoor Bux, a repesentative of the Private Water Tanker Association for details.

(tbc)

Mohtarma Middling finds a home

Guess who's moved onto page 12 of The Fourth Article ?

The trials of Mohtarma Middling - Episode 2

Some people fight to the last

All in a day's work...

somebody could do with a weekend off...

Wooden hearts and dark souls dont breed no sunshine

Today, i came across the following story about a factory in our city spewing toxic fumes that are a posing a serious health hazard to the residents of the area.
There have been complaints of asthma, blindness, TB and various other ailments that have been linked with the monstrosity. It is the story of a community bleeding at the hands of a corrupt nazim and a money hungry Seth and of the impotent authorities that could have saved them.
It never ceases to amaze me how low people can sink and how self serving they can be for the sake of a few extra rupees.


The Sunlight factory that continues to spread darkness

By Farooq Baloch

Karachi

Sometimes it seems that the government is blind to the plight of people. A factory continues to spew wood dust and death due to an faulty disposal system but despite the protests of area residents, neither the City Government nor the Sindh Environmental Protection Agency has come to the rescue of the people. Instead, the area police has let the factory operate unhindered while those who protest against its functioning are picked up and harassed.

The Sunlight factory in Landhi, continues to fill the lives of many with darkness. The factory functions unhindered despite the fact that in the past couple of years, several people, many of them children, have been deprived of their eyesight and been afflicted with diseases such as asthma, tuberculosis (TB), chest and throat cancer. The emission of hazardous wooden ash and smoke from the Sunlight factory continues despite the hue and cry raised by area residents and NGOs fighting on behalf of the people.

The Sunlight factory, located along ‘8000 Road’ in Landhi Industrial Area, manufactures wooden plywood and compressed chipboards. Due to a technical fault in the plant, hazardous waste (wooden ash and smoke) that is supposed to be emitted into an underground tank, is released into the environment.

Due to this illegal and deadly emission, thousands of residents of nearby goths, hundreds of employees of neighbouring factories as well as motorcyclists and pedestrians on the main road are put at risk daily. Almost all the families in Sanwra Goth, that comes under the coverage of Shrafi Goth, have been affected with this deadly emission.

“My kids can’t see properly,” wails an aged man whose house is hardly 10 yards away from the chimney of the Sunlight factory.

He added: “When I took my children to a doctor and told him the story of the Sunlight factory, he advised me to change my house and reside at least 25 kilometers away from that factory or my children would fall prey to chest ailments.”

The man said that the worst season for his family was winter when the wind direction blew the wood particles into their house. “There is not a single family in this goth where the children are safe from this wood dust emission (Burada)” he lamented, adding, “If it was possible and affordable I would have shifted from here long ago.”

Nearby factories and residents of the area made several complaints to the authorities but to no avail. The Oil and Gas Development Company Ltd. (OGDCL), located next to the Sunlight factory complained to the Monitoring Cell, Karachi Region.

“A factory of wooden plywood and compressed chipboard is situated next to our boundary. Different drilling chemicals are stored in the compound. Wooden ash in bulk fell inside our compound along with smoke. Due to this reason there is a risk that the chemicals could catch fire resulting in destruction of our heavy equipment/vehicles, store and workshop offices and warehouse as well.”

Residents also gave their complaint to the district administration.”This factory was started by the name of Tiger Steel and changed its name to Sunlight. The owner of the factory imported machinery which was not allowed to be installed in a residential area. There is risk to our lives. If we complain, the owner threatens to hand us over to the police.”

A complaint was also sent to SEPA. “It has been observed with great concern that M/S Sunlight Wood Factory has been established inside the compound of Tiger Steel Mills, Sector No 20 Plot No 21 at Korangi Industrial Area near Sharafi Nek Muhammad Village few years back. Initially it was functioning smoothly, but later it increased its production without carrying out environmental safety measures. Its dust and small wood particles, along with unknown toxic chemical fumes are released into the environment. Due to this practice, old people and children are suffering severely, their eyes and lungs have been affected badly.”

The police have proved unhelpful despite the overwhelming evidence of pollution and its effect on peoples’ lives. A similar factory was operating in the same manner in Awami Colony few kilometers from the Sunlight factory. But due to the efforts of locals, this factory was closed. While many other wood factories that manufacture chip boards are also operating in the same area and in Korangi, they all have underground tanks and the residents have no complaints.

Riding the air waves on the tube

And so it happens, i finally land myself the coveted job in telly and i am now officially part of Pakistan's media boom. It's been less than a week at the job and i can hardly believe my luck.
Now the hard work starts; on a daily show, on my career, on my quest to prove myself.
I shall be exploring Karachi's history, its day to day civic issues, the events that shape one of the largest cities in the world and the people that populate its landscape. It promises to be a lot of hard work but my enthusiasm knows no bounds.
I am thrilled, excited, nervous, but incredibly happy over all.
I pray that Allah helps me on my new journey and i am truly grateful to be exactly where i am right now. Here's to a bright and eventful future! Alhamdulillah!

A stitch in time... (prevents infection)

A week after an unfortunate swimming pool incident that led to 4 stitches on my knee, i arrived, at the local A&E. The stitches had started to itch and were to be removed.
It was Pakistan day; a public holiday, and for some inexplicable reason the hospital was busier than usual. I sat myself down at the resident doctor's desk, waiting to be seen to, as she filled out forms.

Some minutes later, a bunch of scruffy 12 year olds burst into the room, one of them clasping his bleeding forehead. His frightened 4 year old brother followed behind, his tiny feet encased in a bright pair of patent leather Pathani sandals. A nurse showed them into a room.

I sat and watched people come and go. A young man had been diagnosed with a Urinary infection. His little wife worried about the possibility of Appendicitis. He was to be admitted into the hospital that very night and a senior doctor had been especially called in to tend to his concerns. The doctor filled out a prescription form and went on his way.

The couple left, to pay for their treatment, the scruffy bunch soon after; the injured lad's forehead now sporting a small bandage.

The attendant nurse approached the resident doctor and informed her that the child had a deep gash on his forehead but he couldn't afford stitches. So he sent him on his way. She shrugged and continued filling in her forms.

My surgical blades arrived and they turned, all smiles, towards me. The resident doctor followed me to a bed to ensure the wound was free of infection before the very same nurse, who had tended to the lads, cautiously proceeded to remove my stitches.

I enquired after the boy. His wound was deep, he had required 6 or 7 stitches at least. I asked why the hospital couldn't provide them and was informed that it was a offence to even minister bandages that had not been paid for. That the child's only option for appropriate medical attention was a government hospital such as Jinnah; a hospital that was miles away.

Shame, guilt and remorse gripped my heart. Here was i with a minor wound, now properly healed because i could afford treatment. That poor boy, who needed it more than i did will, very shortly, have an infected gash on his forehead.

I wish i had run after him.

Just because...

I stand corrected - courtesy Gerardo

Hola mi amigas!
Yo estoy aprendiendo Espanol. Es facil y sympatico y yo estoy muy contenta con mi progreso!
Uno dia mi deber fluente en el idioma!
Inshallah...

Habla Espanol

Hola mi amigas!
Yo estoy aprendizaje Espanol. El es facil y yo estoy muy contenta con mi progreso!
Uno dia mi deber fluente en el idioma!
Inshallah...

The Sufi Tarot Card Reader

He sat near the railings in the center of Camden Lock market, obscured by two white lace curtains that provided shade not only to him, but also a pair of velvet covered stools and a short round table. I wasn’t sure but he seemed to be playing with a pack of tarot cards.
Curious, I peeked in and was met with a bright grin.

‘Hello! Would you like a reading?’ he asked, shuffling the cards with a flourish, his round, bald head settling into his broad shoulders with a friendly shrug. Like a turtle I thought, warming to him.
‘Erm,…ok’ I found myself replying. I was unemployed, after all. Time stood still, aching to be dispensed with.

‘Ooh,’ he gasped as I sat down opposite him, ‘I must tell you. There are spirits with you’
‘Spirits?’ I looked about me in fear.
‘Yes’ he replied bending his head towards me, ‘can you sometimes intuit things?’ His eyebrows wagged mischievously.
Yes, I thought, I can intuit that I am wasting my money here.

A short pat on his deck and a lavish spread later, my love life was stripped of all its essential clothing. Blushing, I tried hastily, to change the subject and took a wild guess. This was Camden, after all.
‘I don’t suppose you could direct me towards some literature on Kundalini Yoga?’
‘O yes! I was a practicing Buddhist for many, many years!’ he exclaimed, launching enthusiastically into a long discourse on Buddhism. I breathed a sigh of relief. Buddhism I can talk about, but employment? My lackluster love life? Perhaps another day…
‘I do find, however’ the oracle pondered, ‘that Sufi Zikr is a far more effective means of tapping into one’s psychic self. I am a sufi tarot reader’, he presented a business card, ‘indoctrinated in the arts by a Pakistani Sufi Master. The man changed my life.’

I was intrigued. Every week I had been taking a bus to my friend Laura’s home. She was training to be a yoga instructor and gave free lessons. I found meditation to be a great relief from unemployment angst but somewhere, in those intense sessions, I had started feeling the absence of God. Here was the ideal combination: my Islamic God and the silent, introspective Buddha, both kneading my energies into a calm balm to soothe nerves worn raw with fear and worry. I begged him to direct me towards a center of learning and a week later found myself hesitantly entering the doors of a converted church enquiring after the next Zikr session.

It was ramadhan. I had found a job, but was also afflicted with a feverish cold that had struck when the weather turned. I was sniffling, my body ached, I had been on my feet all day, but some undeterred curiosity dragged me onto bus after bus towards Seven Sisters. The anticipation was immense, but the evening’s worship was to start with Iftar and Taraweeh. Zikr, itself, would not commence until several hours after and was to bring the evening to a climax.

Warily, I found my way to a cafeteria. Here sat cloth covered women on cloth covered tables. I could sense they could sense an intruder. There I was in my jeans and flashy red jumper, my bare head standing out in a crowd of modestly attired faces, muslimahs well versed in the art of cover up. I sneezed and was graciously offered a piece of bread.
It was an uncomfortable meal. I escaped to the women’s toilets with tears in my eyes. What was I thinking? I didn’t belong here. So many perplexed pairs of eyes couldn’t possibly be wrong. We had no common ground, regardless of how generous they were with their food. Should I stay or...(Flee! Flee! Flee! my mind hollered)

No! I had come all the way here, I must see it through. I shoved my hands under a running tap to perform ablutions. Dear God, show me a sign.

‘Don’t judge this mosque by those people’ a Hijabi lady spoke up. She had been watching me from afar. ‘Everyone has their own understanding of God. Are you muslim?’

Yes I am, born and bred. In need of a God I have abandoned for far too many years and wrestling with fears and anxieties, chasing after empty pleasures knowing full well their aftertaste. And O, did I mention I was unemployed?
She is a convert, breeding a young family of muslim women. She has fought her family for her beliefs and now they too have found her way to be good. She is my sign.

Upstairs, in the prayer room, Taraweeh starts and I join a jamaat of women. I am struck by the beauty of the room. I can easily visualize a yesteryear when this very room featured an ornate altar and multiple rows of wooden benches facing it. The walls are high and huge glass windows in the gothic tradition welcome in a wispy layer of pale silver moonlight that wrestles with the orange glow of the lanterns. A large patchwork quilt hangs on a facing wall bearing the names of Allah in brightly colored thread, lovingly created by some of the women I am seated beside. There are wall hangings featuring Quranic verse and a framed picture of the Kibla. This room has witnessed centuries of prayer and performance within its stone walls and I cannot imagine a more tranquil space for tonight’s anxiously anticipated Zikr.

Prayer starts and I painfully realize that this is my first Taraweeh at a mosque and I am clueless as to the format. The prayers seem different and once again, I feel doubt, a nagging fear that I am not meant to be here. Then, gradually, a rhythm settles into my joints and unfamiliar words settle onto a familiar tongue. I feel my aches and pains melting away as I pray and bow and chant with a community I now, somehow, feel a part of.

20 rakahs later, the room falls silent. Some one has extinguished the lanterns and the moonlight no longer needs to compete for attention. It settles, instead, just below the high ceiling, lending an eerie glow to the many figures that have now assembled in front, the cloaked Shaykhs conducting the Zikr and the men who have come to attend. The room is still, I can almost feel it breathing, or perhaps those long deep breaths are mine. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for magic. My toes tingle as I hold my breath.

A voice starts chanting itself into a loud, heavy chorus, they are chanting clipped, short words; the names of Allah. My eyes remain shut as I join in, swaying to the tune of this heavenly chorus. It feels pure and rich and resonates in harmony with some chord within my person. I can feel my eyes tear up, tears i have no control over as they cascade down my cheeks with shameless abandon. I am overwhelmed with remorse. What is this feeling? It is immense and palpable and it is as if my entire being is melting.

I leave the church in a daze.

Due to a series of unfortunate events, I could not revisit the mosque and a month later found myself boarding a plane back to Pakistan.

Struggling with culture shock and the confusion of repatriation, I sought Sufi friends, if only I could contain within my heart, the series of cathartic emotions I had witnessed that fateful day. Within the midst of chaos, they alone took on the mantle of guide and oracle. Such intense sentiment must have SOME meaning.

What?

It must be relived!

So onwards I march, past a seaside mazaar, its colorful building replete with flags and swarming with people pulling to itself with some cosmic magnet the crippled, the psychic, the mad, the eccentric. I witness soothsaying parrots, fortune tellers, palm readers, I read tales of women being picked up and raped from outside its gates and it perplexes me. In that entire stretch of land swarming with the occult is a culture I do not understand.
Weeks later I find myself in a majlis. There are hymns and prayer and songs of praise but I cannot feel God. It is as if he appears and disappears at will, I chase after him and catch a fleeting glimpse. Then the fight begins, the struggle to be cleaner of heart and purer of spirit.

I wonder if my Sufi tarot friend had any idea of the yearning he would unleash, or if he could sense my hungry spirit. Were he in Pakistan, would he too be found practicing outside the mazaar of a deceased saint? Despite my confusion I remain convinced. In the land of mystics, teeming with saints and guides, I too shall find my path. And it promises to be an overwhelming journey.