Uncomfortably Numb

I had this strange thought today about why civilizations seem to rise, advance and eventually destroy themselves. Imagine creation has a finite amount of resources and time. If you wanted those resources to produce the greatest possible variety of outcomes, perhaps having one civilization arise and eventually occupy everything forever wouldn't achieve that. Instead, civilizations could have an inherent tendency toward self-destruction. One rises, develops knowledge and technology, reaches enormous complexity and power, eventually collapses, and makes room for something else to arise. Each civilization becomes almost another iteration of what intelligent life can become. The self-destruct wouldn't necessarily be some literal timer built into creation. It could simply be a consequence of intelligence itself. As intelligence increases, technological power increases. Greater power creates greater complexity and also greater ability to cause catastrophic damage. Eventually a civiliz...

The story of why I bought a mechanical keyboard The other day we took the kids to Playdium. Before they could play, we had to fill out some consent forms on their computers. They had these old-fashioned, clicky mechanical keyboards. Aaniya started typing on one and said, “This is really nice to type on.” And something about that stayed with me. I’ve been wanting to write more, but I’ve been using Apple’s little Magic Keyboard. It’s perfectly functional, but my fingers almost feel like they’re sliding across it. I started wondering whether having a keyboard that actually felt good to type on might make me want to sit down and write more. Then I realized there was probably another reason that feeling appealed to me. When I was in fourth grade, my dad was away in the UK. I had recently learned about the Commodore 64 and desperately wanted one. I asked Dad to bring me one, and he told me that if I got good grades in my exams, he would. While I waited, I used to practice typing...

Most of the pictures that I took in the late 80s were shot by this camera Kodak Ektralite 10 which was gifted to me by my sister when I was 11, it was easy to operate and had a cartridge of 24 pictures which you could just slide in the back. Perfect for a kid. The pictures were slightly smaller than a regular camera though. My dad had many camera in his collection starting form the 50s like his Rolleiflex. It still worked. The film was hard to obtain though. Around late 80s he had a Yashica which he would let me have occasionally and to his dismay I eventually broke. But the one I always wanted was an SLR and I finally got my wish in the mid 90s when my Mamoo came to Pakistan and gave me his own camera. I loved that camera and took so many pictures with it but it was stolen. I don't remember the exact model no. Thats Rohan in the picture. My photography has mostly been my family and kids. Obviously I got the photography bug from my Dad, interestingly although he took many pictures ...

Before Mahmood sweet shop there was a Mahmood sweet corner. I used to get the moti wali namkeen sainviyan from there on my way back from school, and it was the imaginary boundary that I allowed myself go as far as from home on my bicycle when I was in grade 4. My red cycle, the brakes were gone, but I used that as an advantage since I rolled the handle inwards and it would look like KITT's steering wheel from Knight Rider... Yep, kids imagination is weird. I was a dreamer... Spent my time day dreaming adventures... My siblings were much older than me and by that time had gone abroad, so I was a lonely kid playing in the terrace we had... It had two shades of the ventilation windows and above them two windows of the upstairs rooms... Perfect... two large computer consoles from Star Trek and the windows their screens. I loved Commander Data the most. In a way, GPT is a dream come true. When we got satellite tv in the 90s, there was Star Movies, but it had this weird analogue encrypt...

The slippery slope of pride, The world beckons, take a ride. It's so evident, even though I try my best to hide. Easy to see in others, A wavering soul the guide. How can one invite Him To a heart occupied? For a cleansing is required Before asking Him to reside.

The music that shaped me. I was born into a music-loving family. My dad was a music collector; a lot of vinyls and cassettes, and even spool tapes, were the norm. I guess most of the music would have come from Radio Bahrain and the tapes my sister made by recording off the radio. But there were other tapes as well, which were also a staple diet for me, and when I search for them now, they are really very rare things indeed. I wonder who got them. Was it my dad, my brothers, or my sister? How did they come to know about these, like the James Last tapes, or Space, the French band? Was it just that everyone was listening to these gems at that time? Even now, when I listen to some really good melody, my thoughts are, "My dad would like this." I wonder, do I have anything that’s of my own, or is it just what I learned from all the music around me? I know most of the music was my brother’s choice, and whenever I listen to those songs, I think of him. Once he was visiting Pakistan, ...

These days I’m finding it hard to write about anything. Sometimes I wonder is it because I’ve got nothing left to say or am I just being numb. People change and I think I’ve changed the most. All those posts on social media about nostalgia designed for engagement make me sad for a time that was much simpler but we didn’t know did we that it wont last. Would I change anything... yeps lots. Then again as my sister says that everything one goes through in life is designed for your specific needs. In a sense the events of your life shape the eventual form of your spirit.  Our family has been gone through losses lately. First my brother passed away and then just a few months later my brother in law also passed away. I think I knew my bother but my brother in law I only meet a few times, since he lived in Australia and me in Pakistan and all my endeavours to go to Australia failed. But people say good things about him and thats what matters isn’t it that you are remembered in good words....

  جانے دو بس اب جانے دو سوچوں کو اب آنے دو وہ پل اب یادوں ہی میں بس جانے دو جن کی راہ تکتے رہے رات بھر اب انہیں سو جانے دو اپنی کم شناسی کو اپنی اس اداسی کو تھکن سمجھ کر  کھو جانے دو وہ دل جو کچھ نہ چاہے اسے راحت کی کیا طلب اسے تو بس سکوں کی جا کہیں بس جانے دو آرزو تو بس یہی ہے میری کہ کہوں خدا سے  راضی ہوں تیری رضا پر  تو مجیب اور میں منتظر

Sometimes we do things that maybe just a routine thing but they end up being so profound and meaningful for someone else. My brother Munawer passed away a few months back and just a few months before that he went for Umrah, he had done Hajj before when he was young and now he wanted to go back again for Umrah. While being there he bought presents for all his siblings. That present was given to me last night by my niece and I was stuck with so much emotion. That present was a Prayer Matt with my name on it and Ab e Zamzam. In itself that not would not be a big deal but the fact that he remembered me and my siblings there in Makkah and bought us these and since I couldn’t go for his funeral hit me hard. Its like a last goodbye from a dear brother who always taught me  how to live and even in his last actions for me he gave me a lesson to always remember Allah. May Allah grant him this highest place in heaven. Ameen. 

There you go... Don't matter what you think Don't matter what you say Those with dead hearts  Don't ask them to stay They forget we're all clay Tame the beasts inside Before hunter becomes pray Before it all does decay We are the ones astray It is us who must obey That higher purpose The self you must slay For there is life in death of ego, of selfish hunger Empty the tangled heart  for love to make way 

As the night’s shadows appear, The darkness envelops me — Wraps around like a blanket, The ache spreads quietly. Am I allowed to feel? Do I want to heal? You see what you want; Moments does time steal. Drifting mists of echoes, Scattered in my mind. Even you can’t hear — It’s not yours to find. What is supposed to be, I know it. I agree. I stand, stranded — It’s a fault, maybe. Unable to move, Nothing to prove. Anchored thoughts, I must remove.

 اک ایسی دنیا کا تصور کرنا جہاں بھائی جان منور نہیں رہے بہت مشکل ہے، لیکن حقیقت یہی ہے کہ ہم آج اسی دنیا میں ہیں۔ مجھے ایسا لگتا ہے جیسے میں نے اپنے والد کو دوسری بار کھو دیا ہو۔ وہ ہمیشہ میرے ساتھ تھے، ایک ایسا سہارا جس سے میں ہر مشکل فیصلے میں مشورہ کرتا۔ جب بھی میں ڈگمگاتا، وہ مجھے تھام لیتے۔ ہر دو ہفتے بعد وہ فون کرتے اور صرف یہ پوچھتے: “سب ٹھیک ہے؟ تم ٹھیک ہو؟” میں بھی ان کی خیریت دریافت کرنے کی کوشش کرتا، لیکن ہمیشہ وہی بازی لے جاتے۔ میں اب ان کی یادوں کو سمیٹنے کی کوشش کررہا ہوں تاکہ لکھ سکوں، اور احساس ہوتا ہے کہ چند یادوں کے علاوہ میں ان کے بارے میں کتنا کم جانتا ہوں۔ وہ مجھ سے تقریبا 18 سال بڑے تھے، اس لیے میں نے ان کے ساتھ وہ بچپن نہیں گزارا جو میرے بڑے بھائی اور بہن نے گزارا۔ وہ نیک اور اصولوں پر قائم رہنے والے انسان تھے۔ اگر انہیں لگتا کہ آپ غلط ہیں تو سیدھا خلوص کے ساتھ کہہ دیتے۔ میرے لیے وہ ہمیشہ ایک بڑے کی طرح رہنمائی کرنے والے اور سمجھانے والے تھے۔ مجھے یاد ہے جب میں تیسری جماعت میں تھا، ان کے کوٹ ہمیشہ ٹنگے رہتے تھے اور ان کی جیب میں چاکلیٹ بار ہوا کرتا تھا۔ میں ر...

It’s so hard to imagine a world without Bhai Jaan, and yet here we are. I feel like I’ve lost my father twice. He was always there, someone I could consult when facing tough decisions. He always stopped me from wavering. Every two weeks or so, he would call just to check on me… “Sab theek hai? Tum theek ho?” I would try to do the same, but he always had the upper hand. I’m trying to remember things about him that I can write down, and I realise that apart from some memories I know very little about him. He was eighteen years my senior, so I didn’t share a childhood with him the way my elder brother and sister did. He was righteous and firm on moral principles. If he thought you were wrong, he would tell you directly, but with sincerity. As for me, he guided me and often pointed out things to me like an elder should. I remember when I was in 3rd grade, Bhai Jaan used to have his coats hanging, and there was always a chocolate bar in one of the pockets. Every day I would eat it, but the ...

There goes the sun Days go by life goes on I stare at the mirror What face should I put on Twists and turns abound Life keeps you guessing Gives wound after wound Shadows run you aground  Wonder why this has to be The fiends still roam free While you suffer silently They dance with cruel glee Cant write happy words the heart cannot feel Cant ignore the absurd Its etched once heard I move on severing those  Tarnished hearts Empty souls From ashes I did arose Once again I suppose 

Blink blink blink The curser stares words to describe The emptiness That song in my ear Something familiar Does nothing for me The music stops Nothing there to numb Nothing there to hide Their lies bare No remorse in stares They still roam free Black hearts, lustful eyes Pay they must turn to dust What else is there No faith and despair Rotten to the core That face I abhor Rage is all I feel crave that final squeal Crushed to paste Dogs have a meal

Nothing prepares you for the betrayal of those once trusted and respected. I often wonder how vile and petty people can be, and time and again I am rewarded with examples—even from those considered untouchable when it comes to trust. They roam the world cloaked in masks of piety. They pray five times a day. But it is all theater, a facade to hide what festers inside: a sewer of pus and bile. Everyone has dark impulses. That is human. But evolved beings, guided by intellect, morality, and faith, learn to control them. These people do not. They refine their impulses into intentions. They plan, they connive, they act with malice. They are a rare breed that should never have been allowed to spread their poison further. There are no words strong enough to capture my contempt. Their very existence is loathsome, and everything they touch is tainted. They are a cancer eating through the fabric of morality. And like every cancer, every tumor, they must be cut out so the body can survive. ...

 وہ کہتے ہیں دل کی دھڑکن  کو نکالو اور پھینک دو وہ کہتے ہیں یہ سامان کسی کام کا نہیں جو تم ساتھ ساتھ لئے پھرتے ہو جسکی حفاظت تم نے فرض سمجھی وہ اب اک ویرانہ ہے وہاں کچھ بھی باقی نہیں رہا اسے چھوڑ دو اسے پھینک دو میں کہتا ہوں تم نے کبھی محبت کی بھی ہے؟ یا شاید تم سےمحبت کی نہیں گئی اگر یہ احساس کبھی ملا ہوتا تو تمہارے لفظ کبھی  اتنے زہریلے نہ ہو پاتے تم دنیا کے پوجنے والے اِک ٹوٹے کیواڑ کا مول کیا جانے جو کبھی ایک ماں کے آنگن کا  پتہ دیتا تھا تم خودپرست لذتوں کے مارے اِک پرانےصندوق کا مول کیا جانے جس میں ماضی کے نہ جانے کتنے  سنہری لمحے  بند پڑے ہیں جس میں سے اب بھی َََِاِک باپ کی خوشبو آتی ہے ان پر ترس آتا ہے  جنہیں کبھی وہ محبت نصیب نہ تھی جو وجود کا حصہ بن جائے  لمحہ لمحہ ہر نصیحت بن کریاد آئے تو ہاں میں ضرور پھینک دوں گا ان سب کو اپنی زندگی سے باہر جنہیں میرے وجود  اور اسکی یادوں سے کوئی  سروکار نہیں

Somewhere between the stillness of childhood afternoons and the rusted gates of departure lounges, a quiet wind began to pull at him. It wasn’t a map he carried, but a pulse — a knowing that the ground beneath his feet was only a chapter, not the book. His sister drifted toward the southern sun, his brother to the cobblestones of Europe, and his parents had already spent much of their lives under skies far from his own. The restlessness grew like an untended vine, searching for a wall to climb. And then came the fracture. A single day split into before and after. A goodbye at the edge of a road, a wave, a turning away — and the world folded in on itself. Two souls went with the dusk, one small hand still remained in his. He would carry both the weight and the light of that survival forever. Loss was already etched into the grain of his life. It had come before in hospital rooms, in whispered diagnoses, in empty chairs at the table. And it never ended. Now it wears a new face — the cons...

When you dream about migrating yo never realize how much toll it will take on you emotionally, at that time you are just worried about the logistics and once that’s done you are then ferociously hit with the enormity of your decision. I was definitely not prepared for it. My life, my work, my position, all the things I thought defined me are gone. The things that anchored me like my house, my neighboured, my city, all that is gone as well. I feel like a discarded thing, of no value. The worst thing about it is that it’s of my own volition. I am not here to complain cause I knew it would be staring from scratch, but knowing something and experiencing something are completely different things, Ive come to understand.  It’s like becoming a part of a well oiled machine, where you are seen as redundant maybe useless as well. I am writing this to document not spread blame or shade on anyone, just trying to understand or just withstand the shear ache of it. I know, I hope, that there will...

The banjo of life keeps bajjing… Life main changes are here but the bullshit bakwas apni jaga… Sitting here at the dentist one does ponder upon one’s choices… The fitay munh people you have encountered along the way and why you have to still endure their bakwasment. Why you ask you ask yourself, why was I meant to deal with this… why of all the falooda people I was stuck with this kachi lassi...  Speaking of dealing with things—when I was in Brampton, noticed many quirks of the people there. Like there are more desis there than Jhalandar. You see the person sitting next to you on the bus and wonder, “Iskay ghar fautgi hoyee hay?” There’s a stark difference in people’s faces in Brampton and this city… Over there you always saw faces that were tired and bewildered, I guess some bewis had to do with some of that, but I saw women like that as well. It’s the running, I tell myself. Running towards something or another but always wanting more, never being content with what you have. You ...