Tag: Pakistan

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Some Suzuki Adds

I had a good laugh today, reading some car adds from Islamabad, Pakistan, all advertising their Suzuki Bolan’s which they wanted to sell. I thought I would share them, to spread the joy a little.

The first one might be a little lame if you don’t know what a dibba is.

dibba noun : 1. a small container. 2. may refer to a dinky tin car

“i want to sale suzuki bolan carry dibba. 100% genuine condition. rawalpindi number. demand 650,000”

And another…

“i wana sale my bolan van
alwoy rims new tire gud condection no work just drive”

And the best of all. I still haven’t quite figured out the last portion of this add. I tried very hard, but I’m afraid language has its limits.

“CARRY SUZUKI BOLAN ARJANT for sale NEW TAIER ORIGNAL BOOK GOOD CONDATION ALOS ALLKI TACHING BAHAR SEA ONLY UNDAR SEA JUNION ALSO OK GOOD ANY TIME CALL  LOCATION SEHALLA RAWALPINDI”

Hope that made your day!

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Dishes, Dry Yourselves

I’m not quite sure what psychological phenomenon happened to me when I was young, but I hate drying dishes.

When I was younger and would have to wash the dishes at home, I think I hardly ever dried the dishes at all. In fact, I think I could probably count on my fingers the amount of times I dried the dishes. And I think I could even carry that over to putting the dishes away. How did that happen?

When I recollect my various times of doing the dishes, I remember someone would always clear the dish rack for me while I ran the water. It was not because I was unable to, but I always remember wither my mum or my dad telling me that they would clear the dish rack for me while I started. I can hardly remember a time when I actually had to put the dishes away.

Another factor that played into my strange dish-washing psychology is the fact that we have a huge dish-rack at our house. Large, and with three levels, one hardly had reason to run out of space for dishes and, if planned well, one could cram a piles of dishes into the space that was there. Besides, on rack, the dishes simply dried themselves, by no effort my own.

And so, somehow, from these various elements that made up my dish washing history, I spawned an aversion to drying dishes. I really don’t mind to wash them – in fact I find it a relaxing, almost therapeutic exercise – just don’t ask me to dry them.

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The Choices That Make Us

I yearn for pieces of my past – perhaps because they are pieces of me. Something as simple as eating my rice with my hands while sitting cross-legged on the couch – I love it.

These things never had this much importance to me. I certainly didn’t eat with my hands every day in Pakistan. But there’s something about it – something nostalgic that transcends experience. I find that I feel a greater desire to live stereotypes – to fulfill every expectation of the displaced immigrant, pining for home. I become that person. I choose to become him.

Everyone has their aspirations. Everyone wishes they were different in some way, whether for better or for worse. And there comes a time, or we can make it come, when we are faced with a choice to live that person. In many ways it really just comes down to that, a choice. Some people make it. They dress as if from another world, or act like they are from another time. They live and breathe a persona that they themselves invented, and eventually chose to live. They become that persona, that character.

I’ve never quite understood those people. The people who cut a path apart from everyone else. But I see the method in it. I too make choices that comprise who I am – we all do. Sometimes I even shape my surroundings with the hope that somehow they will bring me to be the person I want to be. That perhaps surrounding myself with books will make me read them, and that putting notebooks on my shelves, I will be forced to write in them.

Ultimately everyone makes choices of who they are. In many ways we are shaped by the world around us, but in many ways we are really shaped by the choices we make – the things we let in, and the things we leave out. I don’t have the flame-red hair, the 20s wardrobe, or piercings all over my face, but perhaps that just makes me who I am as well. I am a simple guy. I like books, and sometimes I read them. I keep a lot of notebooks, and sometimes I write in them. I like chai, rice and I eat pie for birthdays. I like international relations, cultures and colours. I serve a great God and I don’t belong in this world. I live because of something I had no control over, an act of incomprehensible grace – but I made a choice, and I live each day in the grace of that choice.

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The Barber Shop

Going to a barber in Jhik is so much more than simply getting your hair cut. You step into the one room shop, off the road and instantly you are in a different world. Here, time means nothing; there is no clock, no bells and no people to tell you where you need to be. Nothing calls you elsewhere and within minutes you forget about time altogether.
The birds chirp outside and smells of shaving cream and other toiletries float around the room. The barber continues talking with the others in the room, laughing and exchanging jokes. You feel a part of their world, listening to them talk and argue with each other of politics or local happenings. However, at the same time you are detached. The dialogue goes on without you and there is no need to speak or to carry on a conversation. Sitting in the chair as your hair is being cut, you feel at ease, listening to them, without speaking—simply enjoying the scene around you.
Even the physical act of the hair cutting is relaxing and almost therapeutic. The gentle clicking of the scissors and manipulation of the hair almost lulls you to sleep as you sit back, closing your eyes and simply enjoying the experience. The spray of the water sprinkles your head before being rubbed into your hair, dripping down your head. Even the razor tickles as it is edged along the back of your neck and around the ears.
When all is done, the barber takes out a towel and rigorously ruffles your hair as, for a moment you seem lost amidst the towel. He then follows up with a head massage, rubbing deep into the scalp and with hard but controlled blows. Knocking your head around, he finishes with a hard squeeze of the muscles in the back of your neck to leave you with a tingling sensation. This whole experience leaves you almost senseless; relaxed and dazed.
You manage to lift yourself out of the chair and onto the bench where others await their haircuts and beard-trims before being given a steaming cup of tea. For a few minutes you sit there, drinking the tea, hot and sweet which runs down your throat and stimulates your relaxed and contented brain. Then you pay the charge, shake the barber’s hand, and step back out into the street; back into a world of time, movement, work and business. And like one who wakes up from a good dream, you trod along the road back home, nostalgic with a happy smile spread across your face.

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Osama bin Laden: Dead

I was drinking tea during our morning break time at school when I heard the news: Osama bin Laden was shot dead in Abottabad the night before. It hit me quite hard, and yet not in a way that I would have expected.
After ten years since the 9/11 attacks in the United States, it seemed ‘about time’ that the US military would finally find Osama bin Laden. But, at the news of his death, I felt as if I had lost a friend. Of course, not a friend in the sense that I knew him; I had know of him, and I felt we had something in common—something we shared.
I had followed his actions and movements in the news over the years, I lived in the same country as he did for some time and I knew people who held the same faith as he did. He was close enough to me, that had I taken a car, it would have been only a few hours before I arrived on his doorstep. He was someone I would have liked to have spoken to—to have had a chance at understanding his mind, what drove him and what he believed. He seemed to me a veteran of the War on Terror, a leader to be revered and feared. Perhaps it was only because of the archaic ideals of honouring one’s enemy that I felt this way. But whatever the reason, I felt I had shared the same earth as he did for some time, and lived under the same blue sky—we seemed to have something in common.
When I heard the news, I wasn’t quite sure how to react. How many people feel remorse over the loss of a hunted terrorist? How many people refrained from cheers and laughter? Perhaps it is a feeling that should be shared by more, or perhaps it was simply the silly feelings of a young idealist. At any rate, I feel sorry to have lost someone with whom I shared this world.