Autobiography in 5 short chapters

I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost ... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

II

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place
but, it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

III

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in ... it's a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

IV

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

Portia Nelson

Cups of Sorrow

For more than half a century now, we have been waiting patiently observing our cups of sorrow to be filled at last. But everyday we realize that there is much more to come. So we sit back again and wait more, wait till our sorrows are brimming to the edge. We do nothing but wait.

It has been ages now that we have been hearing phrases like “this is the way system works” which make us curl back into our cocoons, never wanting to face the reality and pretending that one day the golden bird would come and visit our skies and then everything would come to order itself. Realizing this we sit back again and try enjoying our lives, waiting for the arrival of the golden bird, for the good news it will bring and for the prosperity and success it is a symbol of. So we do nothing but wait and let our cup of sorrows fill.

Every day the moment we step out of our homes we switch on to our defensive modes; our society having the extra ordinary ability for turning the moderates into extremist, has given rise to an embittered culture of resistance. We walk out on the street clutching to our mere belongings and dear lives, in anticipation and fear. Everyday we try to familiarize ourselves to a new shade of fear, fear with its millions of shades, reluctant to leave, follow us to our death bed. So we sit back and wait, wait for the time fear needs to internalize and eventually desensitize our systems. We do nothing but wait and let our cup of sorrows fill.

The memory of the glorious days we have once enjoyed as children playing on the streets curd like milk in the face of ugly details today, as we stagger, bleary eyed and exhausted through the deep trenches full of sewage. Moving around in the city is like a momentous task now encountering odd islands of human wastes congealed across the roads, the parking lots, the foot paths and everywhere one can think of, amongst the sea of traffic one stumbles on to go to the peace and security of their homes. But now even at homes the constant hide and seek played by the electricity makes it impossible to attain the required level of sanity and keep the brain cells from melting due to the unbearable heat.

Our subconscious mind constructs the dam necessary for stress free day-to-day survival here which we don’t mean to, we cannot, after all we love this place. It is our home. Many of us even refuse to the opportunities to leave proclaiming our love to the country and relishing upon the fact of the first citizenship. And judge those who have left the country and scoff at their lack of vision and pity their sense of alienation. But what do we do to stop those who are leaving? Provide them with a society abiding by laws instead of a lawless society? Or thinking that by asserting phrases like “brain drain” would bring them back? Or waiting for national songs to affect them and help in bring them back? But we do nothing and wait in anticipation, looking at our cup of sorrows fill.

Indeed it is time for my cup of sorrow to be filled. But once is it filled what do I do? Should I flee before bitterness and animosity becomes a second to me? Should I flee from the country I love, ultimately making me flee from the debris this country is in, from the unpleasant sights of the garbage mountains engulfing the entire city, from the needless deaths by electrocution that occur during monsoon season, from the poor healthcare conditions, from the prevalent danger lurking in nooks and corners of every street which has gone up to an insanely high level, from the eardrum piercing honking of cars hemmed in by increasingly frequent traffic jams? It is time for us to think, what do we really love about our country, and does is make sense to continuously invest belief into an enterprise which pays no dividends? Should we continue to remain hopeful amid all chaos and still believe that something great will happen show how? Should be listen to our heart that advocates loyalty to our motherland come what may, or should we agree to the arguments our mind comes up with?

My answer is clear and simple. If we feel that we have had enough and we can’t take it any more, we should withdraw and take refuge in the comfort and safety of a foreign land, no matter if we have to pay the price with our self-esteem. However, if we believe that something good can happen, then we have to be a part of the force that will bring about the change we are waiting for. Instead of cursing darkness, we should light a candle, however small and insignificant it might be. We have to make a beginning…a beginning towards change, towards happiness, and towards becoming a proud nation one day!

 

 

Love’s not Time’s fool?!?

Is it possible not to be in love anymore? To remember every little detail, the hollow and planes of a face, the tender touch and the warm breath, and yet not be in love?

Is it the daily grind which is making me look away from life? Forget my soul? Or is it the weird maturity I have reached which constantly reminds me to wake from my dream which I thought was love.

Transience

Thou art yet region-bound, Transcend the limits of space,

Transcend the narrow climes of the East and the West. Translation of Iqbal's work.

 

Art is an idiosyncratic prism which translates the unspeakable and the sublime, reflecting the human complicity within nature. Our acts embody nature and art commemorates nature.  It helps us in recounting our emotional ideas fabricated from sorrows rooted in decay and joys springing from growth.

Our over-scheduled daily lives are often little reflected upon. Activities are quickly endured so that the next endeavor can take its place. Initially, the objects that engage our passions may be carefully chosen but the senses are soon desensitized and life becomes more of a sporadic punctuation, instigated by transitional births or deaths.

Sadia Salim a ceramicist feels that although objects are mere commodities, yet are bound in rituals and relationships, ideas and emotion. The physically usable objects have the potential to re-energize our senses and our behaviors. These objects are compelling enough to inspire imaginative use, succeeding in transforming mundane materials and behaviors into celebratory experiences which she creatively transforms into pottery.

Koel art Gallery on the 19^th of March opened its doors to an exciting art exhibition showcasing some of the intriguing forms in ceramic derived right out of disposable by Sadia Salim.

Her exhibition titled ‘transience’ focuses on how sometimes objects function too easily. They merely comfort us and thus fall away from our attention no longer noticing their presence or use. She decided to make use of those occasional cracked bowls, tins and cups to differ our normal assumptions.

One of the instillation made in 2008 investigates the same impermanence of life through everyday disposable objects. “These objects were used by me in one way or another mostly for food and were to be thrown away after a brief and intimate contact. However, I retained them for further usage and then decided to make moulds out of these for my work. The casts were resembled to make contemplative 3-D forms and installations.”

A huge instillation titled “the city… its chaos influencing mind, body and soul desire to find peace wishing away reality” engulfs almost the entire front portion of the gallery. It was done in 2005 based on the symmetry of Mughal Gardens of the subcontinent known as the “Chahar Bagh”, symbolizing pleasure, peace, quite and calm place/state of mind to get away from the chaotic city life. The titled bowls in different directions and changing colours further enhance the garden symmetry. 

Some of Salim’s works deliberately left untitled in an attempt to remove the nature and objects from their traditional role, vessels used as metaphor for humans, the inner surfaces of the pots contrasting the outer surfaces commenting on the duality in character of people makes the viewer respond more critically.

Other works of her included vessels glazed by the anagama technique learned at a residency in Japan and ‘crowd’ where she has bottles cut is halves and put together resembling a crowd.

Although art is usually a foray into museums and institutions rather than being an integral facet of daily lives, there is now more awareness, availability and practice of studio ceramics which is also becoming an integral decorating element for either limited domestic spaces or architectural purposes.

 

I wish I was a punk rocker…

Arrival of a new dawn and a new beginning, or gathering of a new storm? The nation walked hand in hand hopes held high to witness the making of history. Payers and hopes of a marching nation answered after two years at the dawn of 16^th of March 2009 with the restoration of the judges. The euphoria of a revolution fills the air (not to forget the cyber space) of our country! Although the road to a "free" democracy was beset with volatility, dissension and violence, the long march defiantly moved forward. I am not a political analyst, but even a normal pakistani girl who catch the news on TV now and then (mind it not glued to TV) is thinking "Now What? And since morning I could not help thinking of the song "I wish I was a punk rocker"

Arrival of a new dawn and a new beginning, or gathering of a new storm? The nation walked hand in hand hopes held high to witness the making of history. Payers and hopes of a marching nation answered after two years at the dawn of 16^th   of March 2009 with the restoration of the judges. The euphoria of a revolution fills the air (not to forget the cyber space) of our country! Although the road to a “free” democracy was beset with volatility, dissension and violence, the long march defiantly moved forward. I am not a political analyst, but even a normal pakistani girl who catch the news on TV now and then (mind it not glued to TV) is thinking “Now What? And since morning I could not help thinking of the song “I wish I was a punk rocker”

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

When the head of state didn't play guitar
Not everybody drove a car
When music really mattered and when radio was king
When accountants didn't have control
And the media couldn't buy your soul
And computers were still scary and we didn't know everything

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

When pop stars still remained a myth
And ignorance could still be bliss
And when god saved the queen she turned a whiter shade of pale
My mom and dad were in their teens
And anarchy was still a dream
And the only way to stay in touch was a letter in the mail

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

When record shops were still on top
And vinyl was all that they stocked
And the super info highway was still drifting out in space
Kids were wearing hand me downs
And playing games meant kick arounds
And footballers still had long hair and dirt across their face

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
In seventy-seven and sixty-nine revolution was in the air
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair
I was born too late into a world that doesn't care
Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair 

 

Three Cups of Life

Stivya-Sweetness of Nature!