frizzbee's lucky stripe

Objects of Lust

2009-03-06T01:37:00.001-08:00

Inspiration....

2009-03-06T01:34:00.000-08:00

Marjane Satrapi started writing Persepolis when she was 29 in 1999, and it was published the following year. If she had written it 10 years earlier it would have been rubbish, she says, because it would have been too angry. Back then, her world was simply divided into goodies and baddies. Whereas the extremists of her youth took the shape of mullahs, now she sees them everywhere. "I am against fundamentalism. I am not against any religion, Islam, Judaism, Christianity etc. It is the use of an ideology to kill people that I am against." She is not critical of the veil per se, she is critical of its imposition. "I really believe in a society where if someone wants to walk in the street completely naked they will be able to, and if someone wants to wear a veil they will also be able to."

Blu Tac

2009-02-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

Some days words collect in my chest, just below my breasts. They mash up against each other like a big piece of Blu Tac and rest like a dead weight. I can feel their presence in every sentence i utter. I know they are there but i cannot speak them.
I am unsettled and anxious.
I know these thoughts, these words, these ideas are so close to my heart and so true to my person that they must be contained. I write, the words dont come. I speak, they dont travel to my lips. They wont move because they are afraid. Because within me they are safe.
What do i do with this heavy, sticky lump of Blu Tac that's glued to my ribs? Why is it that whenever i feel i have chucked it away it returns?

Mohtarma Middling pops up again!!!

2009-02-14T02:42:00.001-08:00

Mohtarma Middling's latest offering is online here

Manora Beach, Karachi - Feb 2009

2009-02-11T10:26:00.000-08:00

Sri Varun Dev Mandir, Manora - Feb 2009

2009-02-11T10:22:00.001-08:00

My desk at work

2009-02-11T10:14:00.000-08:00

Mohtarma Middling on The Green Kaleidescope

2009-01-13T10:25:00.000-08:00

You can find her here

The Humans are Dead

2009-01-10T01:10:00.001-08:00

Mohtarma Middling Episode 4

2009-01-07T23:11:00.000-08:00

Once Upon a time in Pakistan (and then India)

2008-11-22T23:42:00.001-08:00

Mohtarma Middling goes Green

2008-11-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

Here

Writing Home about Home

2008-10-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-10-11T12:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T01:35:00.001-07:00

Stolen from quieter days when there was time to read

2008-10-08T11:13:00.001-07:00

'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

2008-10-08T11:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-28T14:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my family likes to dress up

2008-09-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

Disembodied Images, Discarnate Man - An exhibition

2008-09-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

This is how it all came together.

Disembodied Images, Discarnate Man

2008-09-28T05:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-28T03:52:00.000-07:00

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

Huzoor Bux and the Water Tanker Mafia

2008-07-20T06:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-08T05:16:00.000-07:00

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

The trials of Mohtarma Middling - Episode 2

2008-05-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

Some people fight to the last

2008-05-14T12:45:00.000-07:00

All in a day's work...

2008-05-14T12:41:00.000-07:00

somebody could do with a weekend off...

Wooden hearts and dark souls dont breed no sunshine

2008-05-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-19T11:53:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-03-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-02-14T03:16:00.000-08:00

I stand corrected - courtesy Gerardo

2008-01-10T02:01:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-09T02:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Persepolis: Dying to watch it!

2007-12-31T04:28:00.000-08:00

The day BB died

2007-12-28T08:36:00.000-08:00

I first heard the news when i sat down at the dinner table to break my fast having just returned from a swim. My father sat twitching at the head of the table, his fingers clutching his mobile phone willing it to ring. The television had been left on and his ears strained to tune in to it over the clatter of tableware and cutlery.
I asked if i could switch it off and his eyes almost popped out of his head. 'Benazir has been shot'
'What?!' i couldn't believe it. Benazir? Shot? I had never heard of such a thing.
'Is she alive?' I rushed towards the television. One of the local news channels was broadcasting live. The ticker running below proclaimed in BIG BLOCK LETTERS Benazir Bhutto shot at rally in Rawalpindi. 10 minutes later she had been proclaimed dead.
I sat glued to the television, my family around me, stunned. My father's mobile rang continuously as he tried to get through to a friend in the PPP to press for further information.
There would be riots.
At times of crisis, us Karachiites follow one simple code. Get home as fast as you can and stay there until the smoke clears. We were safe, but it was just after 6 and there were several people on the streets trying to find their way home. My sister was one of them. Several frantic attempts to call her later, we realised that the phone lines were jammed, possibly due to an unexpected influx of traffic.
I felt tears prick my eyes as i watched footage of Bhutto walking from the rally into her bullet proof car, followed by an aggressive Naheed Khan. The footage of the actual moment when she was shot could not be broadcast due to PEMRA regulations. So we watched as she walked towards her godforsaken car time after time: an instant replay of the moment JUST before Ms Bhutto was attacked followed by footage of static ambulances and bleeding bodies amidst smoke and flames. The imagery shifted to feature throngs of grief stricken people within the hospital walls.
No one deserved to die like this, regardless of how corrupt or power hungry they may be, without any family or loved ones about, amidst strangers and opportunists. I wept for the loss of her life and of those that were lost, swept away by the forces of hatred and anger.

A few minutes after, i felt a sense of calm descend, unlike any i had felt since i heard of her arrival on Pakistani soil and certainly in opposition to the fear that clung to my heart as i watched her step out of her aeroplane at the airport. I am ashamed to say that i actually heard the lyrics 'Ding Dong! The witch is dead' resound in my ears. Finally, the situation had reached a moment of climax, some great evil had been averted signalling a change to an old decrepit system. The extremist elements in the country will now come head to head with the true spirit of democracy, not the sham the nation had been dreading.

My father picked up his walking stick. It was time for commiseration, conjecture and heated politcal debate. It was time to go visit Chacha Dada (his uncle). Being quite fond of Chacha Dada myself, and eager to hear his opinion on the matter, i slipped on my walking shoes and we stepped out. The street outside our house was still, our chowkidar advised us to return early and to be careful, his brows furrowed under his white prayer cap as he slowly shut the door behind us. We walked towards the market, past a dark petrol station that had hastily been closed down, and a main road jammed by slow moving loudly beeping traffic.
'You see beta! we couldn't have gotten anywhere with our car. This is why i Knew walking is the best solution!' my father's eyes were bright with excitement.
The cars lined up as far as the eyes could see. Perhaps if i looked hard enough i'd spot Rabia. But my father was pulling at my arm as we wound our way across the street.
We arrived at Chacha Dada's. The televison blared in the living room, in several of the bedrooms and upstairs, in his annexe, remote in hand, sat Chacha dada. His face lit up as we entered and my father and him plunged headlong into their discussion.
I watched the television, watched their faces, numb with the rapidly unfolding sequence of events.
Rabia rang to inform us of her arrival and my father breathed a sigh of relief. Having decided that the Bhutto dynasty had finally come to an end, that the elections would now have to be postponed and some names of possible party leaders to take her place thrown up in the air, my father decides it is time to return home.
The streets are now quiet. The traffic had magically disappeared. My father holds me back and we stop to watch a throng of men cross our path, laughing at our fear. A lone stranger asks if we can direct him to Khayaban e Badban, public transport having come to a standstill and him now having to walk his way home.
At home we learn that cars have been burnt, my aunt in fear for her safety has switched off all the lights in her home. Some friends and acquaintances have chosen to spend the night at the office for fear of facing an angry mob on their way home. A cousin's car gets attacked. A petrol station, a car dealership, a hospital has been set aflame.

Who are these people? It is as if whenever the country faces some crisis, a self motivated, self directed, made to order, angry, violent mob hones in on banks, petrol stations, cars and unleashes its fury. Are these the very people that get stepped on year after year by a self serving government that makes empty promises, in or out of uniform? Benazir offered no democratic solutions, she was as power hungry as the rest of the feuding feudals, politicians and military personnel clambering to the very top of a crumbling, shattered, broken nation. Perhaps disappointment and resentment runs so deep, that this is the only time these people can express their dissatisfaction.
In their self expression lies the true voice of the people and the tragedy that is Pakistan today.

Is it time for a new Pakistani politician?

2007-12-27T14:08:00.000-08:00

Assisted Suicide

2007-12-26T09:59:00.000-08:00

And to the woman He said,
'I will make most severe
Your pangs in childbearing;
In pain shall you bear children.
Yet your urge shall be for your husband,
And he shall rule over you.'

...Genesis 3.16

The Real Tuesday Weld: Cloud Cuckooland

2007-12-23T11:30:00.000-08:00

The trials of Mohtarma Middling - Episode 1

2007-12-22T23:18:00.000-08:00

"Don't call me Mommy!!"

2007-12-19T05:01:00.000-08:00

Rabies: It's (always) a Bad Day

2007-12-19T04:24:00.000-08:00

Rabies and Hairy play Doctor

2007-12-19T01:35:00.000-08:00

View from The Kidney Centre, Karachi

2007-12-19T01:16:00.000-08:00

See if you can count the birds.

Self portrait - Life in a fish bowl

2007-12-15T11:07:00.000-08:00

Foot tappingly happy

2007-12-15T08:05:00.000-08:00

Second in a series of foot sketches. Funny how they reflect my mood:)

View from the Landseer, Archway, Islington '07

2007-12-15T08:00:00.000-08:00

This is the view from the pub near where i lived in my last few months in London. It was a lovely pub that served 'Happiness' tea. It was a few quid for a pot; the perfect complement to a day spent sketching.

The day i sold my things at Brick lane...

2007-12-15T07:44:00.001-08:00

...i laid out my wares on a patch of land facing the Truman Brewery; i knew i would be leaving London, had far too many things i didnt need and little to no money.
It was a sunny day; i wore my peach summer hat, a white linen jacket and shared cigarettes with the nice Japanese couple a few stalls down. There was a Palestinian student on my right, a brilliant salesman with a quick quip and a cheeky grin, and to my left a couple of Chilean artists with a great selection of LPs.
The hours flew by, what with the travelling Samba drummers, tourists stopping to make small talk, take pictures, and the nice chap who bought me ice cream.
To speed up sales i had brought along my sketch book and put up a sign stating that i would draw a free sketch for anyone who spent more than a fiver at my stall. (alot to ask for considering i was pretty much selling junk) To emphasize the sales gimmick, i started sketching the brewery in front of me.

Before i could finish it the police turned up and we had to pack up and leave. I left with cash in hand, lighter bags and a poster on the wall stating 'Moving Home Sale! (London is too expensive) Please donate generously'. It had started to curl around the edges and looked like it would crumple into a heap at the foot of the wall any second. (sigh) good times...

If Musharraf were a projectionist....

2007-12-15T04:59:00.000-08:00

This is the projectionist's nightmare:
A bird finds its way into the cinema,
finds the beam, flies down it,
smashes into a screen depicting a garden,
a sunset and two people being nice to each other.
Real blood, real intestines, slither down
the likeness of a tree.
'This is no good,' screams the audience,
'This is not what we came to see.'

Brian Patten

Free the Press

On Spirituality

2007-12-14T12:30:00.000-08:00

First they came for the Jews

2007-12-11T12:52:00.000-08:00

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

Pastor Martin Niemöller

's freeezin...

2007-12-06T09:38:00.001-08:00

Birdsong

2007-12-02T20:59:00.001-08:00

The birds outside my window sang all of last night.
Their voices rose to a frantic pitch soon after midnight and they are singing still, well after 10:00 am. I can only attempt to explain this by the slight chill in the air. Winter approaches, breeding season for both the birds and all the young Karachiites prepping for another long wedding season...

Freedom of the Press

2007-12-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

Pakistani Sputnik

2007-12-02T07:50:00.001-08:00

Bashirya in Trouble

2007-12-02T07:22:00.001-08:00

Family

2007-11-28T14:36:00.000-08:00

The past few days i have been making regular trips to an elderly uncle's residence for some help translating an architectural manifesto initially penned in the French language, but soon to be published in 14 others, Urdu included.

There is a lot to be said about the joys of sitting with an elderly family member, the youngest and most alive of my grandfather's siblings, one who now spends his days writing about the experience of Partition, his political leanings thereof and resurrects, in vivid photographic prose, ancestors long dead and buried. i find myself putting off the actual work just to hear him quote Ghalib, Azad, Iqbal, Bernard Shaw or whoever else he draws upon at any given moment to elaborate his literary understanding of the world around him.

Something about the combination of a conversation independent of time and superficiality, a reflected expression of my own hopes, dreams and sensibitlites, of familial bonds and a sense of rootedness, of heritage, spread within me warmth, peace, and an awareness of belonging. I am seized with a strong desire to grasp this new understanding, to sweep out any cobwebs in my head that arise from the dislocated fragments that have been my education and conditioning to date, to subsume myself in the very thing i sought to flee. Was i frightened by its beauty?

Everything i aspire to has been arrived at by the people that populate my familial landscape through the cultivation of those very traits i seek to understand.
It's been done! This is the direction to take, to build upon! It is as if i am a child again, led by the hand through one of the many garden parties we had at home, being patted on the head approvingly by great aunts and uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers. This is who we are beta, how we do things and why. This is why YOU are the way you do.

Funny thing, life and living. Occasionally, certain joys choose to unfurl their petals and surprise you with the capacity of their modest,latent, passionate soulfulness. Makes me want to close my eyes, breathe in deep and smile.

Rising from the grave

2007-11-15T09:39:00.000-08:00

Now Son, Here's how it's done....

Heil, mein Führer!

(Brackets)

2007-10-06T10:42:00.000-07:00

It was Wednesday. Maths. Page 28
And I was already thinking about tomorrow
Thursday. Maths. Page 29

We were doing problems.
The ones where you have to remove the brackets first.

I was on question 13 and right inside a bracket.
When this strange phrase came into my head.
And before I could trap it in a bracket
It shot out of my mouth
Into the classroom.

'Bring on the dancing prunes!'

The room was silent
And 30 pairs of bracket-solving eyes
Swivelled in my direction
The teacher stopped putting crosses
In somebody's maths book
And looked crossly at me.
"What did you say?"

I could have told him.
But instead.
I put a bracket around my reply.
'Nothing.'

The teacher sighed.
'How would it be if EVERYBODY
Called out the first thing that came into their heads?'

The Painted Veil

2007-09-10T17:37:00.000-07:00

I saw The Painted Veil recently and was moved to tears. It is a lovely film, very well performed and beautifully shot with a haunting soundtrack by Alexandre Desplat. The film is based on a book by Somerset Maugham and its title comes from a poem by Shelley.

Pasted below is Shelley's poem which is the essence of the tale.

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,--behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it--he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

LIBERTY FESTIVAL 2007

2007-09-05T12:08:00.000-07:00

Yes, i've been busy and hence quiet on the blog front. But i return with a colourful bunch of photographs to liven up my comatose blog;)
This Saturday, the Liberty Festival was held at Trafalgar Square. Yours truly was one of the people organising the 'Carnival Section' put together by Creative Routes. Here are some pics for the day...!

Kerekes Band - Contemporary interpretations of Hungarian folk music

2007-08-03T17:37:00.000-07:00

A Hungarian band i'm loving these days...

To mark the proms

2007-07-27T13:17:00.000-07:00

Pigeon Song

2007-07-27T09:09:00.000-07:00

London, did you have to
take my child away?
you buried him under
rent and low pay.
I've been cycling in circles
round your empty streets.
i've been searching
in the pouring rain.

I've been going alone
to the cinema
I've been stealing all my food
from the electric avenue
now the pigeons gather
round my feeding hand.
and we talk til the evening fades.

I have learnt how it goes
what you wait for never shows
and what you least wanted
holds you down like a stone.
just like a stone.

Now i feed the birds.
day after day.
only they can hear me pray for
a lighter heart. a lighter load
to be moving. moving. moving
my way home

Spin Cycle - As promised, here are images from the performance...

2007-07-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

MORE TO FOLLOW

Justin King and Andy McKee

2007-07-12T08:08:00.000-07:00

A pianist in the attic

2007-07-11T04:03:00.000-07:00

Well, here i am again at the Manchester International Festival for this week's entertainment. On the agenda this week are two eagerly awaited performances, The Pianist and Pretend you have Big Buildings.

Based on Wladyslaw Szpilman's story of survival, The Pianist is better known by Roman Polanski's film. This performance, by director and writer Neil Bartlett, is narrated by actor Peter Guinness and features renditions of Chopin and Szpilman's music by Mikhail Rudy.

The choice of venue struck me and my accompanying friend as somewhat unusual until we arrived, having finally parked and found our way through the cold mancunion streets. The warehouse attic of the Museum of Science and Industry provided the ideal atmospheric backdrop for a powerful tale of survival narrated with sardonic verve and compassion. Mikhail Rudy's performance was heavenly, an angelic aphrodisiac.

Tonight's play, Pretend you have Big Buildings, by 26 year old Ben Musgrave, promises to be equally inspiring. Until then, i shall sketch to some Edith Piaf, Chopin, and, in anticipation of Sunday's Rise Festival, The Holloways.

Cooking chicken curry for a friend:)

2007-07-11T00:56:00.000-07:00

The Vanishing

2007-07-03T15:40:00.000-07:00

Apologies to all readers who are a bit fed up of crying over spilt milk. I would like to, instead, draw your attention to some music, a festival and a film.

Namely, the Manchester International Festival. A recent trip to the city yielded a visit to a performance called The Vanishing by Michael Mayhew, a live artist based in Manchester. In this particular instance, Mayhew sought to record and represent stories of vanishings in people's lives, the bigger project having him question notions of invisibility, and involving travel to Australia to track down a missing sibling as well as collaborating with a magician on illusions. The day's performance resulted in a sonic representation of recordings of people's stories as shared with the individual performers; audio that rose and fell and boomed within the high ceilings and mosaiced floors of the town hall, a whisper rising to a crescendo to a rasp, a momentary silence shattered by the sound of waves crashing, and chanted stories blurted, shouted, scrawled on the black clad performers walking the globe they had mapped in their heads. I closed my eyes and relaxed while one of the performers, in this instance a friend, writhed beside me, her eyes shut tight as she chanted, chanted, chanted...

Also featured in the festival were two rising stars of British music, Bat for Lashes and Kid Harpoon who, caught my ear, but, i missed.....i missed.....i missed.....

As for my latest trip to the cinema; Marion Cotillard is phenomenal in La Vie En Rose. Her large, expressive eyes coupled with the little sparrow's soulful voice are delightfully haunting. I'll play some music and let it fester.

Crying over spilt milk

2007-06-15T15:28:00.001-07:00

The milk in the fridge has curdled
And i'm making yoghurt today

I can feel your gaze on me
As i reach for the curdled milk

In the light that switches on as i open the refigerator door
the empty bread bin
the teapot standing still on the kitchen shelf

I pour the milk into a bowl
and it splatters onto the table top beneath

You look away

Diaspora

2007-06-12T10:58:00.000-07:00

Fear. Guilt. Isolation. Exile. Freedom.

Rakshanda in London: A Retrospective

2007-06-12T01:14:00.000-07:00

A Publishing deal:

Fairy Tales from the Funny farm, out shortly, at a bookstore near you!

An Installation in a launderette:

From a quick sketch to an arts festival, nothing quite like seeing an idea come to life.
'It seems absolutely obvious, as well as convenient, to use as a subject what you are thinking and looking at all the time'
- Lucien Freud

A Failed relationship:

'I didn't know what hate felt like, not the hate that comes after love. It's huge and desperate and it longs to be proved wrong. And everyday its proved right it grows a little more monstrous. If the love was passion, the hate will be obsession. A need to see the once loved as weak and cowed and beneath pity. Disgust is close and dignity is far away. The hate is not only for the once loved, its for yourself too; how could you ever have loved this?'
- Jeanette Winterson, 'The Passion'.

Precious friendships:

'U need money? If u w8 a cpl wks, mine is comin. will get u a bike as a pressie!'

'Practice saying "no" like i advised. Three expressions of interest? Looking like you do, and living in London - you should get that every week. Be choosy, very very choosy - you are a bit 'o class, you know. But what do i know?'

'Of course we will as this is not easy 2 have in many people's lives n we are lucky 2 meet each other n we will keep it forever.'

'Thats right, we are always together, whenever, wherever. And we'll get over all these things together'

'Don't look back and look forward to the things to come. it'll all be good inshallah'

'Are you home? Do you need a lift? I'm on my way back from work, can pick you up'

London, i will miss you.

where i go on my day off:)

2007-06-11T03:43:00.000-07:00

Spin Cycle

2007-06-03T12:48:00.000-07:00

Pictures of performance will be posted soon

I had a black dog

2007-05-23T13:29:00.000-07:00

Why does this book make me smile?

BONKERSFEST! 07 VISUAL AND LIVE ART COMMISSIONS

2007-05-22T01:01:00.000-07:00

Camberwell Green, Saturday 2 June 2007, 12-9pm

Bonkersfest! Has worked in partnership with South London Gallery to present four new visual and live art commissions at Bonkfersfest! 07. This strand of the festival programme celebrates a relationship between Creative Routes and the SLG which has developed over the last three years and represents an ambitious move by Creative Routes towards the production of new art works inspired by madness.

RAKSHANDA KHAN AND SOPHIA YADONG HAO: SPIN CYCLE

Spin Cycle is an interactive one-day live artwork and installation at a launderette close to Camberwell Green that will take place during the festival. Spin Cycle explores obsessive or addictive forms of self-expression that offer albeit temporary relief from stressful experiences and painful memories. Khan and Hao will perform a repetitious ritual of washing hands which refers to the phrase “to wash one’s hands of” as a metaphor for a cathartic process of erasing painful memories. In Spin Cycle, the audience is invited to participate in a ritual of cleansing and washing away.

Sophia Yadong Hao is a live artist based in Manchester. Her work attempts to break down boundaries in personal space through interaction and improvisation.

Rakshanda Khan is a graphic designer based in London currently working on a graphic novel aimed at the mental health sector.

LOCATION AND TIMES OF PERFORMANCES TO BE ADDED

That which shines brightly

2007-05-18T15:11:00.001-07:00

Having just about survived fundraising for charity in the cold, wet, unforgiving London streets, i am now gainfully employed as a gallery assistant at the Hayward. The job entails dressing in black, manning a radio mike, smiling pleasantly while trying my best to look stern, telling members of the public what not to do and spending my working hours standing amidst large scale works of art. My first week had me smugly smiling to myself in glee. What a great part time job!

The exhibition in question, which led to my timely employment, opened to the general public this week.
It is Blind Light by Anthony Gormley.
Taking it's name from an installation featuring a large, cloud filled perspex cube housed within the lower gallery, Gormley's works question our relationship with space, be it architecture or our own bodies. To quote:

'The body is our first habitation, the building our second.'...1997

The works on display startle, provoke and excite; bodies become cities, solitary figures stand tall (or small) atop buildings on the horizon, empty body spaces hang suspended amidst glistening bubble matrices, 8 life like cast iron figures stretch painfully to attach themselves to the corners of a room, a chamber punched through with holes and aluminium tubes beckons to the less faint hearted to navigate through and the starring attraction; Blind Light, envelopes visitors within its confines; rendering them blind and disoriented, groping their way through a wet, vaporous fog, lost in space.

'...you become the immersed figure in an endless ground, literally the subject of the work.'

I was struck by the scale of the exhibition, excited by the part my tiny black frame played in the gallery matrix, the cyclical movement of the gallery assistants at work, the order that must prevail for a visitor to navigate through the gallery space...I became simultaneously aware of my presence and absence.
Then, at 10, i went home.

Jenny says...

2007-05-13T03:12:00.000-07:00

What's going on?

2007-05-13T02:08:00.000-07:00

Civil unrest in Karachi.

Balderdash and Piffle - We're all bonkers!

2007-05-13T01:35:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since i posted and i thought i'd fill you in on what's been keeping me busy; Bonkersfest!; a free one day arts and music festival in Camberwell Green, celebrating madness, creativity, individuality and eccentricity; combating stigma and promoting good mental health. Yours truly and a Live Artist friend shall be performing in a launderette on the Green on 2 June as 1 of 4 artists commissioned by the South London Gallery. The festival promises to be entertaining; Jo Brand is opening (by firing a banana laden cannon), Bobby Baker and Kim Noble are performing and Sound Minds is sending in the musicians.

Before that though, this weekend in fact, a dear friend opens up her studio to all and sundry for some closed eye drawings and bead making.
Do not miss Lauren Shear, her warm open studio and the seemingly endless (and o so lovely) cups of herbal teas that ensue the minute you step through her door.

editorial

2007-05-10T04:48:00.000-07:00

Skin tight

2007-04-26T03:30:00.000-07:00

The Miraculous Cure

2007-04-26T03:18:00.000-07:00

The Right Number

2007-04-25T13:54:00.000-07:00

The Right Number by Scott McCloud, a 3 part sequential story of a man's obsession with finding love through the right combination of phone numbers, is a must see.

2007-04-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

2007-04-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

A fairy tale from the funny farm - to be illustrated

2007-04-21T07:05:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time i had a dream. It was a pretty dream, full of colour and warmth and scented curiosities. In my dream, i was a beautiful princess living in wonderland.
I treasured my dream, wrapped it up in scented paper, cushioned it within red velvet and tied it up with a heartstring. I stored the dream in a brightly lit chamber in my heart and i gazed at it everyday, in awe of its beauty.
One day i awoke to find it gone, someone had stolen it. My chamber now lay dark and empty, the velvet torn to shreds and scattered on the cold, hard floor. I cried at my loss. I cried for days and days, my body wracked with grief.
One day, when i could cry no more, the tears stopped flowing. A little bird sat at my feet, its body glistening with my tears. The bird twittered, shrugged off my tears and spread out its wings in preparation for flight. I looked up to see a ray of light had entered my chamber and the scent of freshly cut grass assailed my nostrils. I ran after the bird as it flew towards the light.
I am still running...

And now i tire of tedious music

2007-04-16T17:34:00.000-07:00

As well as

2007-04-16T17:20:00.001-07:00

Although i do quite like

2007-04-16T17:17:00.001-07:00

Once Upon a Time there was a Hurt

2007-04-16T16:47:00.000-07:00

It's going to be a bestseller!

2007-04-15T15:45:00.000-07:00

Equality never looked so pissed

2007-04-11T14:43:00.000-07:00

To clarify (for those of you who have commented): this image was an illustration for a magazine article some one else wrote. It is NOT a self portrait. Lighten up guys!

Is it any wonder i'm tired?

2007-04-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

Enjoy your Lucky, my friend/ It's truly a wonderful blend/ A rich, nutty flavor/ That we know you will savor/ How do Haikus work again?

2007-04-11T13:19:00.000-07:00

What (or who) drives someone to wake up at 3:30 am, hop onto one bus after another, to arrive at wimbledon common (of all places) at 5:45 am on a weekday?

Jamie Lloyd

As it so happens, i, alongwith 9 other physically challenged women, have registered for a 6 week course to tune and tweak and tone the 600 muscles we must supposedly exercise a day to maintain 'optimum physical shape'.

Today was the first day of the course and a refreshing start to yet another long day of work/meetings. Despite having had 2 hours of sleep, i have to say, physical training in a park, bright and early in the morning, certainly lifts up your spirit.

I am now armed with a diet plan, a daily exercise program, a support group and a personal trainer who doesnt take kindly to excuses. Joy!

fresh air

2007-04-04T14:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a regular;)

2007-04-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

Need Patricia Hewitt MIND?

2007-04-03T17:24:00.000-07:00

In light of the current proposal for the Mental Health Bill, i would just like to say...

First and foremost, i am astounded by the government's assumption that CCBT (Computerised Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) is a good idea.
Secondly, CTOs (Compulsory Treatment Orders) a.k.a Psychatric Asbos, are just another form of discrimination and reveal an alarming lack of understanding of the issues surrounding Mental Health and the provisions made for it in this country.
Thirdly, i would like to draw attention to Creative Routes and Bonkersfest! because they really do care about the mad'uns.

It's Toasted

2007-04-03T16:57:00.000-07:00