Going on break for a bit. Won’t be updating this blog for a while. Just not feeling well and got a lot on my mind :/ a lot of my writing activity has stopped as well.

I’ll be back later.

Do you ever feel afraid to dream? I always feel that way. I was just trying to get to bed for a super early start in the morning but i just couldn’t relax. Because my mind was just buzzing about with all sorts of dreams and fears.

I always think with a degree of ambivalence. I’m never really here, but never really there either. I’m “on the fence” a lot of the time.

Sometimes i think, what could i possibly have to offer? What with all my faults and failures could i possibly make something out of?

And then other times i think, yes! I’m good enough, i have plenty to offer to society, i’m confident and unique.

But with both cases, i still can’t repel a feeling of being contained. Having so much to say and do, but not having the opportunity of being able to show it. Like a firework just waiting for the spark.

Sometimes it just feels like waiting for life to throw you a bone. I can remember the last few times where i was living my life, just minding my own business, and then boom. Something happened that totally altered the flow of my life.

But between the marks, within those blank-filled spaces, you can’t help but feel yourself poised in a great wait. You know when you just feel like your soul is quietly waiting for the next big thing? Almost like God’s making you wait. Making you hold on. You can hear the future in its whispers, and it’s nearby, but you never know when it’ll hit you…..

You are now under examination conditions.

You are not permitted to talk to one another or to look remotely interested in what you are doing.

Any mobile phones, electronic devices, dignity or self respect found on you will be confiscated immediately.

If you have any electronic devices or dignity on your person, please raise your hand and place them on the tray that is being passed around.

Please fill in the front page with your candidate number so we know who you are. First and last names are optional.

If you are found to be cheating, a report will be sent to the examination board and you may lose your marks and your position in society.

You may start. Good luck.

After what seems a turblent week following from one of the most awkward weekends over, i have nearly reached the end and i am in solemn reflection over my past week and i have just dissected it, analyzed it, and reached some lengthy conclusions. The weight of some of those are so ..heavy, that i feel that it needs to go on the blog for my own personal record.

When my dad came here i felt slight pinpricks in my composure. I wanted him to take me out somewhere, just me and him. I wanted him to sit me down and teach me a few things about cooking (since he’s so good at it) and there’s just so many other things that i had on my mind that i wanted to do with him. Father and son time. And then it dawned on me. Why do i need to imagine these things? What is it, about my own personal disposition, that needs to create these alternate situations that don’t actually exist?

So i traced this line of thought.

Your parents are the people who love you unconditionally, and it is through that unconditional love that you learn to define yourself and hold yourself in high esteem. However if your parents aren’t there, or don’t fulfill their role, then you experience a stunted growth. You are unable to respect yourself to the fullest potential because someone has not guided you. That’s not to say that people without respectable parents are any less responsible in society than people who had perfectly normal parents. Because above all, you are responsible for your dreams, you answer to yourself and to God and you both know what’s up.

But this social responsibility doesn’t overwrite the pain you can feel from a parent not doing their job.

I realised that for a long time now, i had been chasing my dad’s approval and affirmation blindly for deeper reasons. I wanted him to look at me and love me because i was unable to do that on my own. I’ve made mistakes that i can’t correct, and generally there’s a lot about myself i don’t like; but what my behaviour towards my dad tells me is that a big part of my identity and esteem relies on the approval of my parents. There’s nothing wrong with that, because that shows i love them and i value their opinion. But if my dad didn’t approve of my dreams, of my manner of doing things, then everything else felt worthless. I’d just give up. Because i knew that i could not change what i dreamt, that i could not change who i was – not even for him, so what was i to do?

It’s hard to come to this realisation, but i’ve just felt that i have to let go of this. I have to let go of trying to be on good terms with my dad because what he’s asking for is something i cannot give. Furthermore, i have to accept that we may not agree on things. Just because he doesn’t love me doesn’t mean i’m not good enough. I’m good enough if i deem that to be so. Just breaking off from this psychological reliance gives you great peace of mind and scope to live your life with much more purpose.

Secondly, another thing that has pissed me off recently.

There’s some certain individuals, who like to judge on appearance, and then confide in me about how they think so-and-so is gay and how they would stay well away from them out of disgust. Little did they know that i am bisexual and to top things off, i was carrying Oscar Wilde and Stephen Fry in my bag. What amuses me about this is if they actually took the time to sit and use their brains, they would realise that sexuality is not a choice. Do you think that before i came to this earth, i sat and filled out a form with God and ticked the bisexual box? No. Because it’s not a choice. And it wasnt a choice for that person that apparently-gay dude who was the subject of the discussion. Now how can you be justified in hating a person for something they can’t change? It’s just as stupid as hating someone based on their skin colour.

There’s a difference between saying you don’t agree with something, and saying you hate something. The problem is with the perception. The perception is that if you’re gay, you’re instantly a sodomite. And that’s what fuels this “disgust” because people instantly sexualise things to the extent where they become blind. Sex is only a part of a human being, and yet you deny all other forms of social interaction to an individual simply because of one part of their being?

And what the fuck does it matter how they choose to have sex if you’re talking with the person? I don’t agree with what some gay guys do, but then again i don’t agree with what some lesbians do, or what some straight people do either. But you know why it doesn’t matter? It’s because i am talking with this person. I am not in bed with them. I think the problem is that these people are just so sexually insecure that they feel the need to inject sexuality into every nuance of discussion and give everything this heightened double meaning. They need to feel that there’s a danger that a gay/lesbian person might like them or have sex with them in order to heighten their own sense of sexual worth since that’s an area they feel they lack in. But if you were truly secure with yourself, then you wouldn’t need to bring irrelevant information about the other person into your current social context. But somehow….just somehow, they manage to kick up a fuss about it when really there’s no issue at hand other than their own stupidity.

*deep breath*

Ok, i’m done :)

Just a general blog post here to round up a couple of events.

It’s about 9:15 right now so i really should be heading to bed to get ready for my exams tommorow. I’m strangely cool headed about it right now, but i’m sure as i sit in that chair the adrenaline will start to rush. It’s Jane Austen and Wilfren Owen. If i get a question related to Irony on Jane Austen, then i’m set. Anything else will be pure improvisation.

And to my great relief, someone responded to my tutor advert! I’ll be tutoring GCSE English this weekend and then throughout half term before exams. Crash course it seems. I’m just glad i found some sort of English-related work finally. Slightly nervous, but i’m sure it’ll pass over me :)

And lastly, Miss Javed has done it again. Found some secret passage into turning my day from a bad one, into a really good one. She specifically talked about making castles with pillows and blankets, which is slightly scary since i used to do exactly the same thing. Make little fortresses and hide inside them, to try and get away from the world. I used to be really creative and ambitious and try to make the biggest one possible, without it falling apart. Mum would walk in and go “oh my god what are you DOING?! PUT EVERYTHING BACK NOW?” and now i can see her point, since i would take the entire contents of the cupboard out for my fortress making ambitions. Only while in the night, i’d do it again, this time bringing a torch and a book with me (which may be related to my horrendous eyesight) and shutting myself out for the entire night.

Nothing’s changed that much. I use different materials. Mental ones. But now it’s time to poke my head out of the blanket, and see the face of the world staring back at me.

I am going to have one of the most intense weeks this week. Three exams with not much room to spare between them. I don’t know how i am going to make it through. And to make things more complicated, i feel the urge to continue the Doctor Mahfouz story more than i ever have. I actually want to sit here and finish chapter 2, but i’ve got to head to bed.

And there’s two people in my mind i wish i could really talk to. Notice the use of the word “talk” and not “converse” or “chat”. I want to talk. I want to have a one on one moment with them. They know who they are. *yawn* gosh…..i’m starting to hate late nights….

My blog has lately become so heavy with some really emotional topics. So i’m gonna lighten things up a little by posting something a little more free-spirited.

This is my current list of pet peeves. Things that just piss me off or gross me out, or even cause me to become uncomfortable in a weird sort of way. They’re not really in any order, so just see them seperately.

1. Soggy Bread

Let’s say you’re washing the dishes, and some moron forgot to either finish the piece of bread they left on the plate or throw it out for the animals to have (we try out best not to waste food) now while i’m washing the dishes, this piece of bread might become covered with water and become all soggy and slimy. I absolutely hate the way it feels on my skin. I actually feel the need to drop it and wash my hands over and over. There’s something just so reptilian and slimy about it.

2. An unorganised kitchen

I consider the kitchen to be the most important room of any house. More important than my own bedroom. So when kitchen’s are organised in a way that makes no logical sense, it really drives me up the wall. For example, cereal boxes left out. Knives just lying on the unit. Lids have not been put on properly. The sauces have been put next to the spices, the pepper isn’t next to the salt, the breakfast stuff isn’t organised in one place – and the list goes on and on. And when i see a fork in the spoon tray? The whole house faces my wrath.

3. Ladies toiletries

When you go out to any public place, the toilets are still seperated for men and women. So by the same logic, if you are in a house where you are living with other male members, would you really leave your shit lying around? You know exactly what i’m on about girls. The last thing i want to see when i walk into the bathroom is a packet of waxing strips or shaving razors just lying there in plain sight. I actually cringe when i walk into toilets that have things like that lying around. Even more worse if you have more than one bathroom in the house, then keep the toilets seperated for gender! And for the love of god…do not leave your gynaecological hygiene stuff in plain sight, in ANY room for that matter. I don’t care if it’s your father, your brother, or even your damn husband. Keep that shit hidden.

4. Meat bones of any kind.

Lately there’s been a reason why i have becoming more vegetarian. Its because bones are fucking disgusting. I can eat a meal with meat in it, and initially look at it and think it’s a tasty meal. But when i’m done and i look again, i actually feel like i have just eaten a dead carcass. And when i have to do the washing and people haven’t thrown the bones away? Oh my god, that is so, so so GROSS. No no, you know what’s worse? Seeing that stuff in the STREET. I actually feel the need to throw up. I think i might just go on a vegetarian diet this week….

5. People who do not treat Disc’s properly.

If you look at my collection of Xbox or Wii games, you will notice that the disc’s are kept in very good condition. At most i will get 1 or 2 scratches but apart from that, the disc looks like it’s brand new. The reason is because i treat my disc’s very carefully. So when i see people who leave disc’s lying around, using them as coasters or just leaving them on the floor or on tables, and then actually put that shit into computers and consoles? I get this fidgety feeling and i just feel the need to take that disc away and replace it with a new one.

6. Sharing a street with someone

As most of you will know, the road from the main high street to my house is a long 15 min walk. A monotonous one, and even more extended since the road never really changes. For the most part it remains straight, so while looking at how long you have to go, the walk itself feels longer. Now when you’re in the morning and you’re sharing that long road with 3 or 4 people walking to the high street….it bothers something inside me psychologically. The idea that i’m sticking so physically close to people i don’t even know….it just creeps me out slightly.

7. Alcohol in any shape or form

I was brought up to believe that alcohol is something that is impure. So it is no different to getting dirt on you. As time has gone on, i haven’t been able to grow out of it. Even while i was working as a waiter and working at the bar, everytime i got beer spilt on my wrist or my hands, i’d wipe it down at least 4-5 times then take a really long shower when i went home. It doesn’t help that i’ve associated alcohol with drunkards with bellies the size of basketballs, drinking the night away only to vomit it all up the next morning. I don’t think any measure of coercion is going to convince me to even take a sip of the stuff.

8. People who cannot tell the difference between Japan/China, or India/Pakistan

”I can’t tell the difference, they just look the same!” Wrong fucktard. So so wrong. They are NOT the same, they are actually vastly different. It’s taken me some time, but i can tell the difference between a Japanese and a Chinese person very quickly. Not just in appearance, but in culture. And that’s what bothers me about it. You’d think that people have enough knowledge in geography to know that these countries are actually seperate and furthermore, enough common sense to realise you can’t just broadly squish 2 groups together like that. God, something about that stupid notion just makes my vein twitch.

So there you have it. I’m sure there’s more i could write down, but my hand is tired. I think i may write another entry later on detailing on the opposite – i.e the little things that i love and that make my day.

I had smelt trouble when Dad came through the door on a surprise visit. Last time was the most troublesome, most awkward visit and there was even an argument or two. This time was no different.

He started complaining about when at home, all he gets nothing but arguments. Apparently from his perspective, he works his arse off in order to keep the roof over our heads. I won’t deny that at all. The mistake is not in the specifics, but in the premise.

The premise is this. A nice house in a beautiful part of London. London itself, the epicenter of business. The bridge between the East and West, home to one of the most respected group educational institutions in the world and furthermore, a strong currency, relatively fair democracy and welfare state ensures maximum productivity for anyone willing to work hard enough.

Sounds good on paper right?

Now what if i was to say, this little piece of business heaven is going to cost you big. When i mean big, i mean it will cost you your social life, your marriage, your free time with your children, and will relegate you to working long shifts on weekdays reducing your evenings to pure rest and convalescense as you prepare yourself for the next onslaught.

Would you make the deal?

This reminds me of that age-old cliche of signing your soul to the devil so you can get all the pleasures in the world at no immediate expense. Our situation in life as a family is the way it is because of all the desicions my dad decided to take. The man who wanted to abort my sister’s birth because he didn’t think of the financial implications before his penis ejaculated. The man who continued to mistreat his wife despite the fact that she had nearly died on an operating table. The man who worked two jobs to keep me in a secondary private school that was one of the most unprofessional institutions ever conceived in the past 10 years. Why didn’t he just take me out? Those years were some of the most terrible that i’ve ever lived through and our family situations wasn’t any different either. It’s because we were fighting tooth and nail to just survive. And in survival, your quality of life and behaviour becomes reduced to the animal level. Even without you noticing, your behaviour becomes more animalistic.

And now he made some speech about how i need to find some part time work in order to support my mum. I don’t disagree with this at all, infact i had been dwelling on it for a long time. Luckily, my old employers contacted me for some June work so i signed up for that for some quick money, but this won’t do for the long term. But i was under the impression (an impression he had conveyed to me 2 years back in Doha) that my education expenses were taken care of and that if i had just focused on my studies everything else would be taken care of.

And now fast forward to the present. He raises an eyebrow at me wanting to apply to universities outside of London. “That would be very expensive” he said.

That’s all the evidence i needed. I’m convinced now that he’s done something with that money, OR that money needs to be used for some other sort of purpose. Either way, i’m no longer secure.

That isn’t what pisses me off though. What really takes the biscuit is that he is an absolutely stubborn man that would rather have the pride and the prestige of a London lifestyle at the expense of his marriage, his kids, and to a certain extent, his own health. Why….why fight for this little piece of land so hard? Are they so convinced that this is a golden place to raise kids? If so ….why do they live nearly to the edge of their lives, almost dying just to try and capture it?

I want to talk honestly for once, which runs me the risk of sounding highly melodramatic, but i’ll take it.

Getting serious with your life means coming to terms with the challenges that are placed in front of you. In general, the difficulty of day to day life increases, but than in itself is the blessing. As a result, you often forget all the easy things.

You forget how easy it is to be insignificant in the eyes of the world. I can sit here and write blog entries and short stories that are just loaded with my notions of self-importance but you know the truth of the matter is that it doesn’t mean much at all. If i was serious, i could’ve entered competitions. I could’ve written for a paper. I would’ve devoted more time to my writing. And then the saying of a precious friend enters my head “You just don’t realise how many people are better than you” and it’s true. After all there’s only so many spaces in a paper. Only so many empty spaces in the bookshelves and in people’s hearts. Publishers probably look through hundreds of manuscripts. If i don’t shout out and make a name for myself, and make my voice heard, will anyone hear me? Of course not. I realise more than ever how much i want to get out there in the deep end. Because failure always has space. There’s always going to be an endless void where all the wasted people will be thrown in. Success on the other hand, has to be snatched from the competition.

And then i also realise how easy it is to piss people off and misuse trust. And it makes me sick to my stomach to think that i’d be capable of such things, but i am. What’s even more dangerous is that sometimes it’s unintentional, but all the more hurtful. But the strangest of things happen. People learn to forgive. People come back. Things get restarted. And then it’s just like rediscovering that person all over again. And i always spend time thinking of ways how to make it up. How to correct things. The answer always escapes me, everytime. But i try my best, and i hope for the best. I just hope it’s easy to heal.

I think if there’s one thing i will miss when i leave college, it is my politics classes. The class itself is a melting pot of different nationalities and political orientations. There’s even people in there that don’t even have political affilations.

And yet the whole thing is so lively, so full of discussion. Everyone pauses to give their own little anecdotes, their opinions. The level of intelligence is reasonably high, and i always find everyone really engaging. We discuss current affairs a lot and that’s definitely a favourite part of the class because you usually find that everyone has something to say (in stark contrast to my English Literature classes…)

And my teacher is great. She’s a student teacher, so a lot of the time she acts like a teenager with teacher-like powers. I get along with her so well and we have our own little inside jokes and points of laughter. She, like me, is heavily critical of the education system and for once it is so satisfying to be locked in a course with a teacher that agrees with your view on how education systems are corrupt and counter-productive.

“It’s a game Adnaan. Learn to play the game they’ve put in front of you.”

And the highlight. Every tuesday, i finish my politics classes at 5:45 (if it was earlier, i’d have timetable clashes) and at the end of the lesson, we go to a little secluded corner of the college where she and the other students have a smoke and we discuss really broad topics. Usually its politics, but today we were discussing Iqbal’s Jawab-E-Shikwa and the poetry as well as the politics behind it.

*Sigh* i know i will miss these classes when i am gone. Infact, she’s going next year! They’ve only recruited her on a temporary contract. Such bollocks i swear. Well, i’m glad to have had the experience.

I was playing Team fortress 2, about to stab someone in the back with the knife, when the mouse froze. This happened not once, but three times in the course of one game. I got angry and threw the mouse against the wall because it is incredibly difficult to work your way to someone’s back without them realising your presence, only to lose it all straightaway just because your equipment didnt work properly.

The mouse broke.

Well, not broke, but it moves erratically. There’s about a 1 second input lag and furthermore it suddenly stops sometimes. I think i may just dismantle the whole thing and stick needles in it to get some sort of satisfying pleasure from it.

So i went back to using my old wireless mouse. The reason why i dumped it in the first place is because it too was really erratic and the mouse movement wasnt smooth at all. But looking at things right now, its much better than using the other piece of shit mouse i just threw on the wall.

Something else is really driving me up the wall as well. Why the fuck would teachers set homework during exam period? Can anyone explain this phenomena to me? As if we didnt have enough deadlines to worry about! AND to take the piss even further, each teacher treats their subject on its own. That is to say, they don’t care what the workload is on your other subjects, they expect you to get the work done.

So in order to get the work done and complete it to my usual high quality standard, my schedule is as follows :

Wake up at 7 o clock and be out of the house by 8

Arrive at college at 9, then work hard till 3:30.

Get home by 4:30-5:00 depending on the rush hour traffic. Spend 3 hours doing homework and exam revision.

8 o clock. Time to have dinner and shower.

9 o clock. One hour of free time. Then bed.

So from 9 till 8, which is 11 hours, i’m up to my eyeballs in study. Can anyone tell me any other job that requires an 11 hour shift?

This is where the “work hard” cliche gets slotted in conviniently

Yeah. That’s right. I’ll work my arse off and absolutely have no life. It’ll all pay off i’m sure.

Fucking twats.

This is the first chapter to a short story i am working on. I say short because i imagine it will resolve itself sooner than later. Who knows, it might grow into a full story. Anyway, here it is for your reading pleasure. I cannot guarentee when Chapter 2 will be written, but for those of you who enjoy my work, consider this my next blog post. It stands on its own.

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Chapter 1

Al-Corniche road in Doha, simply known as Corniche, is a road that runs along the edge of the city, in direct contact with the ocean and stands prominently on the landscape as one of the favourite walking spots of the city. Perhaps it is the alluring salty aroma that spreads throughout the air as one approaches, or the palm trees that line the road neatly in rows, towering over everyone providing benevolent shades. On this popular road stands the office of Dr Mahfouz, who specialises in psychological therapy. Such a practice did not seem familiar to the contractors of the building, who when told by Mahfouz of his intentions, heartily laughed and said “My dear Mahfouz, it is hard to even fit a few shelves in here, let alone a whole hospital!” unaware of how their misunderstanding underlined the hidden humour. “There are many different types of doctors.” he replied, with a wry smile.

The office of Dr Mahfouz stands as a small segment of a large building whose offices are bought by individuals or small teams wanting to start up business or simply have workplace to themselves. It is on a dry, orange Thursday afternoon that Mahfouz emerges from his workplace, looking tired yet fulfilled. He is a man of average height, with his black hair slightly greying around the edges. His face, with its distinctly arab features, remains clean shaven and many lines of age are drawn delicately around his face, some of which he manages to hide with his rather large glasses. In general, his age manifests in the serious attitude he adopts. His suit is always meticulously clean and ironed, his posture upright, and his speech is rapidly delivered with the amounts exactly measured.

“Today was a slow day Rageb, i was writing reports for next week and only had two clients, business seems to be slow” he was leaning on his car looking out to the ocean, speaking to Rageb on his phone. “You know how it is with these things” Rageb replied calmly, “Maybe you should consider opening up on Friday and Saturday and take the other work days off as your time off, then people would have more time to see you.” The voice on the other side of the phone acted as a reassuring comfort, a quality that nowadays Mahfouz feels he generally lacks. “That’s a good idea. I hadn’t considered it.” The ocean gave a satisfying watery hiss, and he stood there for a while Rageb talked about his own line of work.

The weekends were on Friday and Saturday, unlike western countries were the Sunday was taken off. The reason was a religious one, being in a Muslim country where the Friday was considered the holy day of worship. This was one sliver of cultural difference, and he wondered why such a small detail might escape him. He attributed it to his still existing attachment to western culture. Though he was well aware that Friday was not a working day, his body would still wake up early. He would prepare his briefcase on the Thursday night. It would only be within those few moments after waking where he heard the silence of the street, or those few children playing about on the road, did he realise that it was a day off.

“Do you ever wish to go back to London?” he asked pensively. This elicted a small laugh from Rageb. “You know it’s funny, I’d bet that if you were to move back into London, you would complain about being there and wish to be somewhere else. My point is that we never seem to be satisfied with where we are.”. All this time Rageb is sitting faraway in a tiny shisha café, pipe in hand, puffing his thoughts away. Each wise anecdote is successively followed by a vast billow of flavoured smoke. “I guess you’re right. Well, I’ll be heading home now. Speak to you later.” Rageb disappears with a curt click and somewhere else, disappears behind a curtain of smoke. Mahfouz enters his car and heads on his way home. Driving in Doha is sometimes a matter of life or death. Everyone is quick to their destination, and drivers are very often merciless, resulting in many crashes. Mahfouz had to learn this system of merciless driving himself because it was a matter of personal safety. It is perhaps the only way he has adapted to his foreign environment successfully, while all the other aspects of his foreign life have yet to become native. One of the most troubling aspects was the nature of hearsay. Apartments are protected by their sleek wooden doors, yet talk often escapes out into the open that you would think the whole building was just one big house. People love to talk, Mahfouz thought. And it is this gossipy nature that seems to be amplified given Mahfouz’s background as a western-educated individual. When mentioning that he was educated in London to people he met as his time in Doha went by, they would often elicit surprise and compliment him, before unleashing a barrage of prying questions, designed in such a way to give the person asking the question a rather subtle, if not flawed impression of his life.

One particular person who revels in this prying enthusiasm is Mahfouz’s neighbour, Tamir. Ever since Mahfouz had moved into the apartment building, his neighbour would take it upon himself to impose his hospitality, inviting him for coffee and discussing all sorts of matters he found to be of utter importance. The arabs have a custom; never refuse hospitality when offered, as it is considered a sign of rudeness to do so. However more often, this custom is used by people to impose themselves in other people’s private spheres under the guise of friendship and brotherhood. Such is the deceptive veil that Tamir uses with his fellow neighbour, and like all delusions, the extent of its damage and stupidity is never fully realised.

Mahfouz came back to his apartment exhausted, and decided to take the lift instead of the stairs. He took extra care to unlock his apartment door silently, and slipped inside. After a change of clothes and some refreshment, he lay back on his sofa reading the newspaper, a ritual which he repeated every Thursday night. The front page was detailing one of the new skyscrapers soon to be completed, as well as a side article on the city centre’s expansion. The newspaper was more of a ritual than it was interest-focused. There is something incredibly personal about about taking your time, absorbing every page, immersing yourself in your immediate landscape. For Mahfouz, this is a method of entrenching himself in his surroundings. Through the news, he is suddenly aware of a world around him. A world of car crashes, corruption, statistics and business opportunites. The newspaper never took as much prominence as it did when he was in London, because that is the world he grew up in. When in somewhere so far away from home, naturally one has to become aquainted.

A curt knock on the door followed shortly. Mahfouz put his newspaper down in irritation and walked over to the door. Tamir was standing there with a broad smile and a big plate of roast chicken and yoghurt. “It is a beautiful Thursday night brother. My wife cooked some food, I thought I may share some with you and have a chat” he laughed and without giving Mahfouz much time to reply, entered the apartment and swiftly placed himself on the table. Normally Tamir was a nuisance, but Mahfouz was willing to put up with him for the food. They talked for a while about trivial subjects until the food was finished. Then Tamir sat in an upright position, holding a serious look in his eyes.

“So. It is Friday tommorow”
“Yes….”
“You know brother, Friday is a very important day for us Muslims. It is the day of worship, of complete devotion to almighty God. Yet I never see you in the masjid….you don’t seem to take your faith very seriously” he added this with a particular threat in his tone, implying he would do something about it otherwise. Mahfouz had seen this talk coming a long time ago. Now that it had arrived, he was amply prepared.
“My faith is my own Tamir, I will express it in my own way and God will choose to judge as he sees fit” Tamir laughed a short laugh.

“That’s very good brother. Is this what they teach you in the west? Do not worry. I know you will come around. We have been neighbours for very long, no? I am sure you will find the strength to listen to my words. My prayers are with you” and he patted him on the shoulder with a reassuring look on his face. Suddenly, from behind the thin front door, a timid female voice cried “Tamir….Tamir? Please come and help me put Hassan back to bed…he is crying and I have much washing to do…” Tamir rose up and suddenly rushed out of the apartment. Mahfouz felt a slight chill rise up his spine. Tamir’s angry voice rang through the hallway. “Samiya, how many times have I told you not to come out of the apartment while I am talking with Mahfouz? Do you have no self respect or modesty? Move in now” and he pushed her inside the house, producing a small nervous cry from her, more of which could be heard even after Tamir’s door was shut. Not much time had passed when a small boy’s crying could be heard, followed by breaking plates, Samiya’s muted cries and various other signs of disturbance. This caused Mahfouz to stir uncomfortably. After all, this was real human emotion without the safety of a therapy room and the qualifications on his wall. It had been a while since that family had argued, but above all he did nothing to intervene in the matter. Tamir was genuinely dangerous, and furthermore his intervention could have been interpreted as a sexual act towards Samiya, further complicating things.

And so he sat there, afraid but frozen, until silence finally settled. “What is it about Tamir?” he asked himself. Tamir is peculiar because he outwardly projects a religious aura, his devotion to his faith is known by everyone in the building, as evidenced by his passionate speeches, long beard, and activity in the masjid. His faith however, as attractive or as sincere as it may appear, only really exists to justify his abusive behaviour on his family. Tamir’s pride acts as an additional defense to this, and when questioned on the subject of odd noises at his apartment by others, he simply replies “I am only using the rights God has given to me as the father and the man of his house. It is my responsibility to show them the right way” and continues as if nothing has ever happened.

Mahfouz lay down on his bed, weighing these thoughts. On his desk there were two pictures of his wife and his daughter, though the pictures were still quite old. He picked them up, looking at them while lying on the bed, passionately sweeping away the dust with his fingers. He remained like that for a while, until all became quiet. The sound of the air conditioner hummed and beeped as it changed temperature. Leaves rustled outside when stray cats slipped through them, searching for the next piece of meat to scavenge. All life around him continued, but as Mahfouz fell asleep, the pictureframe still lay in his hand.

So my fellow readers, the time has come to give you a treat. A literary toy. A confusing proposition designed to baffle and entertain. I present to you a single sentence from James Joyce’s Ulysses. Enjoy trying to decipher the meaning. Such is the joy of language. Here it is :

"he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be the first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last  nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity"

James Joyce - Ulysses

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,                                
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 

These are some of my favourite lines from T.S Eliot’s poem The Waste Land. It’s a really fascinating multilayered and cerebral poem and an absolutely joy to read.

Why Adnaan, It’s nearly midnight! Why the hell are you reading T.S Eliot when you’ve got an early start tommorow?

Don’t you know? I’m dissecting this poem. It has nothing to do with my English Literature course. I’m doing it for fun. It’s like taking apart this huge puzzle.

Now you’re just being stupid.

I’m really not. Modernism is actually a lot more fascinating than WWI which happens to be the subject of my history lesson tommorow morning. Or should i say today….

It’s today. Shouldn’t that emphasise how you should go to bed right now?

What you’re saying is dangerous because it may actually be right. One of the biggest threats to your life can be when you find things that are infinitely more fascinating than your responsibilities.

Amazing how you can still find time for philosophical noodling when it’s fucking midnight.

I know right? *snicker* Ok i’ll go to bed in the next hour. I promise.

Shantih Shantih Shantih.

Do not invoke that era. One slight reference to it, only the most delicate allusion and i am lost in torrents of fury and despair. I lose all points of reference, and all meaning has to be fetched once more. A laborious process of recreating strength has to occur, and on observation, one finds strength in the darkest of pits.

I am spent. All my love, fury and silence has diminished. I can no longer give, neither to you, to the others, or to myself. I await the heavens, i wait for the mercy and the sigh. Though hollow, this place is a place of silence. For once, respect that, purse your lips and stay silent.

We were discussing poetry today and i made a snide remark about Wilfred Owen’s cheap shock tactics as far as his poetry goes. I appreciate the horror and the scale of WWI, but there’s only so many times i can read the word “blood” and “death” in his poetry before it becomes rather stale and loses its effect.

Then the discussion was about what makes good poetry and bad poetry. Unfortunately the discussion hadn’t gone on as well as i had wanted to, so i carried it on inside my head.

Around a big blue table sits Myself, Heath Ledger, Tehreem Javed, Shabazz Shillingford and a somewhat murky shadow that has the ability to speak yet never really defines its own shape. This table is the home of many fierce discussions, and whoever is the strongest speaker gets the priveleged ability of having control of my actions for a good while.

For once, i was in control. When literature is the subject, i usually am.

I raised my hand for silence and spoke in a clear and confident voice. 

“The best novels are the ones that never reveal the writer’s presence. The writer uses all sorts of tools to keep his/herself in the shadows, orchestrating the events and the thoughts in order to represent a form of reality. We often talk about bad literature being of the sort where things come across as “forced” or obvious. You know you’re engulfed in a good piece of literature when you stay loyal to it – that is to say the world it has crafted is one that is so powerful, so engrossing that you cannot help your attachment to it. And the brilliant thing is, you close the book covers and realise it was all just that. Just a book. Such an elegant trick, yet so simple.”

The others agreed, and we reached a consensus. Suddenly a paper being handed to me back in the real world. "Next week's essay. Enjoy your long weekend."