Venial Sin
gay, young & pakistaniGay. Pakistani. Mid-20s. Living in London.
Questions?
Nothing much to hear
Maudlinism
I almost wish that you’d been a horrendous person. That you’d beaten or abused me or done something, anything at all. That you’d been cruel, unpleasant, distant, cold, manipulative, or just a horrible person all around.
Because then, if nothing else, I wouldn’t be missing you so badly, even seven years later.
I can remember you, but I can’t remember your voice. The fact of that alone is enough to make me wish that you hadn’t been such a wonderful father.
Mar 5, 06 11:21 AM| Comments (9)
Duo
Queer rage
There are two things in the world that manage to penetrate even my thick skin of cynicism and make me sad.
1) The looks of sheer hostility that bitchy people give to other persons, say for example an old gentlemen, who offer to help them carry their groceries about a hundred yards to where their car is parked, and proceed to loudly bitch about his presumption in offering to assist them. Get a grip, you whiny bints.
2) The fact that having cleared the living-room credenza and the small bookcase of the tomes that were resting upon them, my new bookcase is now completely full, and I still have about three dozen books left to shelve. Jesus. Sell me something with REAL storage space, Argos.
Feb 28, 06 11:23 AM| Comments (9)
42
Homosociality
You know, the best inspiration for a blog post always comes to me when I’m out, just randomly. Walking around, maybe dancing somewhere, sitting at a pub with a pint, or on the bus up to Notting Hill Gate. Chatting with a friend on the phone. Hell, doing the dishes even.
But the real pisser is that by the time I think about writing it down, and believe me, I’ve got it all written down in my head in any case, because I keep thinking as though I’m doing the voice-overs for my own life when it comes to these things, and there’s always a soundtrack (generally the last thing I listened to on iTunes) thrumming quietly, just at the edge of earshot; well, by the time I actually sit down to write anything, I’ve forgotten what the hell I was going to write about. And it’s really annoying, because I can remember what a great idea it was, just not WHAT the idea was.
Feb 9, 06 10:56 PM| Comments (13)
Beckett, back off
The first time I went to Paris was in August of 2001, right before I came back to university for my senior year. It was also the first summer—during college—in which I didn’t go home to Karachi over the break. Instead, at the suggestion of my brother, I wound up interning at a power and energy R&D firm based out of Vancouver, Canada, but with an office in the Pacific Northwest.
Jan 19, 06 08:35 PM| Comments (21)
Riding Nightmares
Historicity
I had a very odd dream last night, involving someone who has always occupied a strange place in my life. He’s drifted in and out, at times closer than I would ever have believed, on other occasions, so completely alien that I doubted he was the same person whom I had befriended; I’ve always known him to be brilliant, highly individualistic, and often utterly maddening.
And at the end of the day, I’ve realised that no matter what, I’ve always known him better than I ever expected to, and that he’s one of the few people in my life who can say the same about me. Even now, with him sitting pretty in San Francisco, becoming a doctor, I have moments when I catch myself saying “God, H.C. would completely understand this, why doesn’t anyone else get it?”
Jan 14, 06 08:33 PM| Comments (11)
Nature v Nurture
Historicity
Thinking back upon it, I realised that the signs of incipient homosexuality were upon me from an early age. How early?
Pretty far back. Here’s a timeline.
1980: Birth. I was a Caesarean, and a few weeks early. This, I have discovered, may be attributed to the fact that I just wanted to get the hell out of my mother’s stomach before I was entering vaginal regions. I was so committed to being a big homo that I didn’t want my birth to be tainted with another shattering reminder of heterodoxy. It happened once, for conception, and I was determined to not let it happen again.
Jan 10, 06 08:31 PM| Comments (11)
Seen it all before
Queer rage
Now I really have seen it all. I was flicking through TV channels today, waiting for the accountant to leave so that I could get back to wasting my remaining time in Karachi on the PlayStation, when I came across something called “The Late Show, with Begum Nawazish Ali”. Slightly curious, I stayed with the channel through the commercials until the show started up again.
And then my jaw dropped as I saw, on national TV, a drag queen hosting a talk show.
Now there’s a certain amount of cross-dressing-as-a-source-of-amusement in Pakistani culture (I blame it on the British), and it’s not completely uncommon to see a man dressed in a woman’s clothes in a TV show or while doing a stand-up routine. But that sort of man is generally dressed to make it glaringly obvious to even the most unperceptive person that it’s a man wearing women’s clothing; the make-up will be completely absent, there’re no wigs and plenty of facial hair, and the extent of an “performativity” as one of my professors would call it, is limited to a half-hearted attempt to mimic the feminine vocal register. Normally that means that the guy just squeaks or gets as high-pitched as he normally can, and for some reason this provides countless hours of quality entertainment to everyone.
Jan 7, 06 12:02 PM| Comments (18)
Mile High
Travelogues
So the only redeeming feature of Qatar Airways is its incredibly hot cabin crew. I mean, wow.
I got to the airport well in advance of my flight, hoping that my punctuality would give me plenty of time to browse through the Heathrow duty-free, only to discover that my free upgrade to First Class had been revoked because “the flight is so full that we’re pushing all travellers without fully-paid tickets to Economy, sorry”. In and of itself, this wouldn’t be an issue, except for the fact that I’d packed my suitcase as though I’d be flying First, and hence was ten kilograms over the allowed weight-limit.
Like the optimistic fool that I am, I’d packed all of my law textbooks and study materials to bring to Karachi with me, foolishly assuming that I’d somehow find the time to sit down and do some revision. The last set of exams was gruelling enough for me to realise that I need to start working even harder if I want to pass with a commendation or a distinction, and I figured that with the lack of things to do in Karachi, I could use the time to study. Obviously, four months away from here had induced some form of near-terminal amnesia regarding what Karachi is like during December.
So, I’m over the weight allowance. Substantially. Which means that out go my favourite pairs of shoes, which were being brought back to be re-soled, binders full of notes and casebooks get shunted into my carry-on bag, which all of a sudden is heavy enough to give even Atlas pause, and is—I’m convinced of this—responsible for all future spine-related ailments from which I may suffer, and a hefty number of the presents I was supposed to bring back. I was still about five kilos over the limit, so I had to dish out an extra £100 to cover that, and goodbye duty-free shopping. By the time I’d checked in and wandered about, covetously eyeing the Harrods counter, it was time to head for the departure lounge, where I ran into a friend’s younger brother, who turned out to be a harbinger of bad news.
“What do you MEAN, we have a seven-hour stopover in Doha?” I sputtered, looking around immediately for the nearest bar, and realising that the sleeping pills I had bought for the flight would be rendered useless were I to follow my baser instincts and pour the better part of a bottle of Belvedere down my throat.
“We CAN’T have a lay-over that long in Doha!” I screamed at the hapless flight crew, turning into that which I hate most: the shrewish harpy passenger who vents ire on ground staff.
“The airport’s duty-free isn’t big enough to keep me busy that long!” I shrieked, doing everything but throwing myself to the floor and drumming my heels on the ground in the greatest tantrum witnessed by mankind since my elder nephew was told that he couldn’t have the £500 Thomas the Tank Engine model railroad (Collector’s Edition, no less!) on display at Hamley’s.
“There isn’t even a BAR THERE!” I wailed despondently, sobbing through the crack of my knees as I curled up on the departure lounge “seating” (taken from a torture chamber in Darfur undoubtedly) in the foetal position.
“Qatar is a shitty little country with a crappy little airport!” I snapped, drying my tears on the handkerchief a kindly elder British gentleman who was obviously driven to distraction by my distraught appearance had donated to the cause.
Surprisingly enough though, the flight to Doha from London went by relatively uneventfully. I eyed Senior Cabin Crew Member Hadi lasciviously, realising that rarely had an Arab man carried off a starched white shirt with such élan, read Donna Tartt’s The Little Friend in about an hour and a half, and watched a few episodes of Frasier. Then we landed in Doha, and I honestly don’t know what I did for the six hours I spent in the lounge, because the bloody airport is so tiny that if more than three flights come in at the same time, there’s no room for anyone to be seated. Most of my wait was, I suspect, spent in hurdling prostrate tourists and backpackers who had fallen asleep on their duffel bags and knapsacks on the floor.
But when we boarded the flight from Doha to Karachi, my heart skipped several beats. In line in front of me was a vision of adorkable perfection, the geek-who-grew-hot-but-doesn’t-know-it; since he was a friend of my friend’s little brother, introductions were made and a brief conversation struck up as we boarded the plane. And by “conversation”, I mean that he talked while I made non-committal noises and undressed him in my head, starting with the thick black Prada glasses and working my way down to the delightfully snug blue corduroy trousers that he wore like a second skin. Then I added the glasses again, and my imagination sat back well-satisfied with the result.
And then the shit hit the fan.
Jan 2, 06 12:06 PM| Comments (17)
Just another day
(Melo)drama
It’s the end of another year now, the start of a new one, and I wish I had something deeply profound and meaningful to write but the truth of the matter is, I don’t. A year has gone by, life is fundamentally the same as it was a decade or so ago, with minor addenda, and for yet another New Year’s Eve, I’m sitting here in Karachi on my own, wondering if it’s better to go out to a party and get sloshed on champagne and caviar, or if I should just not bother with it and go to bed.
One day is pretty much the same as another, after all.
Best line of the last few days:
Uberhomme: *being followed down the street by a persistent beggar* (in Urdu): “Nahin, mu’af karo, jao, jao” [trans. “No, forgive me, go, go!]. *getting into car and popping head out of the window* (in English at last) “And stop yelling at me!!”
This is disjointed, I know. But what to do? So many things, so little time to write about all of them, the flesh is willing but the spirit is weak. No, a lot of the time, it’s not the other way around.
Dec 31, 05 12:08 PM| Comments (29)
Parallels
Current Affairs
OK then. It’s Monday afternoon, and I’ve been incapable of making myself go to class for the last few days (Thursday, Friday, and now today as well). Part of that is because the last few months have borne an incredibly disturbing resemblance to the events of five years ago, both in terms of situation and approach, and the idea of reliving that set of circumstances scares the faecal matter out of me.
Dec 3, 05 11:15 AM| Comments (12)