Unpacked myself like a wooden crate,
Armies of fingers and devils,
Assaulted me like rain.
I fly upwards, walk sideways,
I escape from your heart
Like a forgotten phrase.

Did you remember all this?
All its shades, its moods,
Its twisting, spiraling connections?
I would sit motionless, thoughtful,
And think to myself --
“Dare i have the strength,
To defy the emotional orifice?”

To betray every pleasure,
Every hope and wonder,
To feed you at every measure,
And kiss you in your slumber.

Yes, i would be so foolish,
To fuel your soul with my
Abhorrent, blue diversions.

And as if obeying Salome’s request,
I would serve my severed head
On a silver platter,
With cutlery to match.

I stand at the foot of the hole now,
Opaque black shade, attempting
To mirror a passionate eye.
I have struck a deal with my
Holographic entrypoints, not to
Bleed outwardly, not to
Betray openly and broadcast my
Endless curiosity,
And endless hunger.

From my limited experience of books so far, Austen so far has been definitely the one that stands out like a light in darkness. Everytime i read just a chapter of her books, i feel suddenly inspired to write. Everytime i’m blocked and need inspiration, her writing changes it for me. There’s countless commentary and discourse on her writing, and i’m surprised each and everytime by how much people can dig out of her writing.

What separates Austen from other writers for me is her lack of mercy. She will delve very deeply into her character, and then with a very casual narrative voice, almost as if she may have been brushing dust off her shoulder, she will reveal the deep faults and virtues of her characters very suddenly and sharply. There’s no hesitation. She uses really advanced compound sentences to get the point across.

“Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition; was totally free from conceit; and only desiring to be guided by anyone she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, showed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the young friend she wanted – exactly the something which her home required.”

This powerful, piercing understanding of her characters works really beautifully when the dialogue of her own characters shows that they themselves are completely oblivious to their own faults. It all unravels so beautifully and elegantly as bit by bit the characters learn more about themselves and they mature, yet that piercing Austen-esque narrative always remains.

And then there’s that brilliant and subtle use of irony. Take for example the opening line of Pride and Prejudice :

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

This is one of the most famous (if not the most famous) opening lines in English Literature. And for good reason. Why would that be, you may ask. Let me walk you through why Austen demonstrates her brilliance in a single sentence.

1. It is a commentary on how money rules marriage (which in turn connects society).

The keyphrase is “good fortune” implying that financial standing is the only reason why a man would pick a woman. Society only revolves around connections that would make people rich. Nobody cares about anything else.

2. The writer herself does not believe the statement she has written.

We know from Austen’s background and from the actual story of Pride and Prejudice that she wouldn’t believe this statement. So why write it? It is because she recognizes that others may believe this “truth” but since she does not believe it herself, it is a gigantic lie masquerading as truth that other people widely accept but never question.

3. It explains some of the characters in the book.

Some of the characters of the book would happily agree with this so called “truth”. However because it isn’t really a truth, it exposes their hypocrisy and folly.

4. The rest of the book goes onto disprove the opening line.

It turns out it isnt a “truth” and it isn’t “universally acknowledged” since characters and events in the book contradict this opening line. Its subtle use of verbal irony, where the sentence implies the opposite of its initial meaning.

5. Don’t believe things on the surface and look deeper.

Of course you could take that sentence at face value and agree with it. But that’s missing the point. With Austen deliberately dropping a seemingly straightforward and naive line, she is actually saying “Pssst. This is a hint. It can’t be that simple and straightforward. Go deeper than that.” and if you do read on, she disproves that line with the rest of the story. So that’s another way to basically say, don’t believe anything you’re told straightaway.

There’s just so much you could extract from one sentence. And it goes further. There’s characters, dialogues, situations and dynamics. And 4 other books. *sigh* I love Jane Austen so much. Why can’t anyone understand that?!

You know nothing beats listening to Bjork’s Vespertine album late at night or early in the morning. I’ll never understand why people say they can’t stand Bjork. This album has been so lovingly and delicately crafted. It’s so elegantly done and is so easy on your ears that it will just glide over you like a cloud.

This is a personal reccomendation from me. If you haven’t tried Bjork out, i reccomend you the following. Wait till it’s extremely late it night, make sure your house is nice and quiet. Either listen to “Coccoon” or “Pagan Poetry” and keep an open mind and let the music just permeate you.

On the surface it’s simplicity.
But the darkest pit in me,
Is pagan poetry.

Just four letters. However little do you know that BBCD was actually a name that i was called by my family for a good period of my life! Not that i found it to be traumatising, just mildly amusing.

BBCD stands for “British Born Confused Desi” which a twist on the phrase “ABCD” which is “American Born Confused Desi” It’s meant to be amusing since the logical progression of the letters is basically a metaphor for the supposed attachment to English culture. (Obsessive language analysis habit needs to calm down.) Another name i was called was “Britisher” which was really popular among my uncles.

So why the fuss? It’s because for a good period of my life and even that still holds truth today – i am unapologetically british. I have a posh accent that i try to vaguely mask with a badly devised hooligan-slang tone, but my accent is the dead giveaway. I watch my old birthday videos with a mixture of delight and sheer embarassment because of how much i sounded like the bloody Queen.

My dad once said that the only thing he ever respected the English people for was that they were people who read a lot. I can have the most snobbiest, elitist conversations with total Englishy bookworm types about Jane Austen, Byron and Shakespeare and feel totally comfortable. I enjoy buttered crumpets and grey sweaters. I have an ironic and sardonic sense of humour and i’m not afraid of random humour at all. I love Blackadder and Monty Python and Stephen Fry is my personal hero.

“Oh God” Shabazz said in horror. “You’re turning british.”

“But Shabazz darling, isn’t that part of me"?” is the response i thought of later on.

I think about it more and BBCD seems like a really good fit. At days i’ll go around the house wearing my shalwar and eating nothing but desi food and trying to improve my urdu and listening to urdu music – then the next day i’ll be watching Blackadder while eating a toasted crumpet.

There’s no escape from this dualistic identity. But then it is such fun. It’s fun to be everything at once. Its refreshing and exciting. I’d hate to be purely one thing. That’d be so…..boring. *giggle*

I’m naturally suspicious of any letter that comes through the post with my name on it. I rarely get letters anyway, so why should something suddenly pop through, out of the blue?

So this letter was curious. It was a brown envelope and the address was handwritten. I opened it up in my usual sadistic envelope-mauling manner to see what was inside.

It was a letter from Manor Gate Mental Health Institute. I was getting an appointment to address my “mental health concerns” and that i would be “assessed by our specialist Early Intervention unit.” I resent the idea of being implied as a ticking time bomb.

Given my obssessive habit of analyzing language and breaking down every sentence, i’m apprehensive right from the beginning. It reeks of medical and methodological hoodoo. You know like those people who stand in white coats with fake smiles and fake accents and try to convince you that you’re actually a nutcase so they can sell you more pills? Something like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey.

However at the same time (because contradictions are more fascinating to mention and even more daring to live) i feel this need to go there. From my recent 20th birthday i had been skimming over my journals and looking over my past year and i just feel that one of my big problems is not wanting to acknowledge that i have a problem.

Like for example, why would there be a tall dark man standing next to my drumset in my room late at night? Instead of admitting the problem and saying “Okay. I’m hallucinating” i would just totally deny his existence.

And this has been the theme of the past year with a frightening consistency. I’d have extreme moments of depression where i wouldn’t even know why i was living, then moments of extreme humour and laughter. Peppered with auditory and real hallucinations. If i had the humility to admit that i actually had a problem, then maybe it would not have intefered with my life as much.

Have you ever had that? When you have a problem but you don’t want to admit it? That was my mistake. I just didn't want to admit that there were some screws loose. I wanted things to just move smoothly in my own way and nothing else.

The problem is, the more you deny you have a problem, the more it will creep up on you. Once the sabotage begins, since you’re still in denial, it goes from “there’s something very wrong here” to “oh, something random is happening.” This will actually screw you up more than anything else.

I’ll relate an odd incident that happened 3 days ago. It must’ve been about 2 am in the morning, and i was getting ready to sleep. I have a lamp in my room where i can adjust the brightness. At that time, the lamp was nearly dark but not quite. As i sat down on my bed i noticed from the corner of my eye there was a man standing next to my drumset. But it was weird and hazy…..almost blurry. So i turned and i saw his shoes, they were black trainers with velcro straps. At this moment i started getting really scared so i looked at the window. Then what happened next was something i’m very familiar with.

The air began to get sharper and it gradually tightened. My chest was tightening and it was getting harder to breathe. Fight or flight reaction? Not sure. Anyway, it felt like sleep paralysis. I texted a friend in panic and counted to 10 before i ran to the window and opened it and felt the cool night air on my face. I turned around determinedly and he was gone.

That night i slept with the light on. This isn’t the first time i’ve hallucinated, however it has been a long time since i’ve visually hallucinated. Most of the time i get auditory hallucinations. Of course in the morning i awoke with a deep menancholy. Almost like the man had crept inside me while i slept. Life suddenly hollow and meaningless. I took a nap and woke up again feeling great and purposeful. I felt so happy and creative and had a great day.

The entire thing has been a buildup i guess. It’s been slowly accumulating. One thing i’ve never understood is how i can grasp these events with such clarity and rationale yet simultaenously experience them in confusion and paranoia. Perhaps that’s just me misunderstanding the human mind. But i always feel split….so very split. Hopefully this wednesday will give me some answers…..and not just a bunch of useless pills.

The following was a conversation i had with an Israeli. Things turned quickly political.

Him : You know who i hate? The arabs.

Me : Oh really?

At this point i was trying to maintain that mask of political apathy that i usually keep on at all times. I make it a point that i keep a totally oblivious attitude unless i come across someone actually worth talking to politics about. Above anything else though, i was getting pissed off very quickly. He was pro-israel, and i was pro-palestine. We were on thin ice before we had even began.

Him : The arabs who hide behind their women.

Me : You know something? You’re an ignorant fuck.

So my anger got the best of me. I couldn’t help it that this moron was even daring to imply such bullshit. Inevitably, all he was doing was recycling the excuses the Israeli army uses when they shoot innocent people.

Him : The arabs were such fools to choose Hamas, a terrorist group.

I was still staying quiet, because i knew if i started responding the entire thing would go nowhere from the start.

Him : You call me ignorant, but i would like you to come to Israel and feel what i felt.

Me : Feel what exactly?

Him : What it feels like to have your two brothers say “i love you” to you before they leave for Gaza and that being the last thing for them to ever say to you.

Me : That’s what war is.

There was this split second of “Oh shi-“ in my head when he implied that he had lost two brothers in Gaza in the war. Because after all, why worsen someone’s grief when they’re already finding it hard enough? Part of me wanted to say “You think that’s bad huh? Entire families have lost CHILDREN in the war.” but that fruitless in itself. He had reached that position because he couldn’t help it. Of course he was going to react that way if he lost family.

Him : Some day i’m going to kill some arabs myself.

And there it was, the cycle of hate. I’ve always wondered what it is that makes Israeli soldiers tick. Like, are they actually human? Or are they just demons in disguise? The answer is that they are just probably just continuing the cycle of hate. The only difference is that they are the ones with the superior technology and the bullying power to be that destructive. God knows what the palestinians would do if they had that kind of firepower. Regardless, it was apparent that what fueled this guy was pure unmoderated hatred. And can you really argue or reason with that?

I’ve been absent for a bit so its time to make a few updates. I’ll start with the most immediate.

I had my 20th birthday last weekend, which was basically celebrated on two separate days. Saturday was a bit weird in the sense that it was a dual celebration, as Jiggy’s wedding was on the same day so me and Osman went to see him. In addition to not seeing him for about a good 3 or 4 odd years, it was nice to turn up and give him a bit of relief because he looked fucking terrified. “Thanks man i really appreciate you coming” he said with a coy smile and even though i didn’t get to talk to him much, i was very happy for being there. Among the usual circle of friends, i managed to meet up with more people from my class who again i hadn’t seen for years on end. I was a little apprehensive because i felt that things had changed so much that i would totally find the whole thing to be a prick parade. But the lovely thing was that everyone was totally cool and nobody was nasty to me or overly judgemental to me.

It was also odd seeing the perceptible changes in age in some of them. Their faces had become a little more defined, more harder, gaunt-like. I found myself thinking randomly about how age and time moves us from a state of beauty into a state of decay. Yet the process of growing older is one that has so much potential happiness in it. Everyone came wearing suits, i came wearing casual clothes. I suddenly felt like some sort of misplaced kid in a crowd of grown up adults talking about grown up stuff. It’s funny how much older a suit can make you look.

Being around my classmates and remembering times, a thought crossed my mind. I thought about how when you’re young, it instills you with a natural arrogance. Because your life hasn’t even happened yet, and the future is still in front of you, automatically you gain a psuedo-superiority over others because you have that space and that time to make anything of your life as you see fit. As you get older that flexibility decreases. I sat there thinking, “these people could totally put me down if they wanted to, yet they dont. Similarly, i could look down on 30 year olds with my youth and vitality and make a fuss about how superior my life is, but then where would be the good in that?”  i loved the way that just because we were older, and that our situations had changed, and there were all these dimensions to each of our lives that twisted and turned in their own graceful complexities, we still kept things original. We were just the same people, the same kids. Time and change hadn’t interfered.

On the Sunday i had the family gathering. Again i was intimidated because of the overwhelming amount of spotlight you can get on a birthday and it can end up feeling all so uncomfortable. I sort of carried on my normal day and found myself getting irritated at the prospect of having to leave the house to go to this birthday thing. Before we had even left the house however, there was a few people that were supposed to come that said they didn’t come. We had originally planned 15 people but that whittled down to 11. Naturally i ended up feeling a little disappointed and wondered why people couldn’t make it but soon i shoved that to the back of my mind. Mum even told me that she had asked Dad to phone on the birthday evening but he didn’t call.

A little twitch of anger, a little spark ignited in my head. Then i thought “Fuck it.” because there’s much more worse things in the world to be angry about than an insensitive father. I was determined to have a good time regardless of all the obstacles.

Surprisingly enough, the entire thing turned out to be such great fun. I had just one conversation with my cousin about my guitar about 2 months ago and suddenly he comes up to me on my birthday talking about Gibson SG’s and Fender Stratocasters. That was hilarious! Everyone was really nice and really pleasant, and i even had Sidra turn up later on in the evening (so at least i had someone in my age range to talk to) and we did the whole birthday shenanigans. I went home with a huge chocolate cake (that will help stem my chocolate cravings for at LEAST a week), a bit of money, Guitar hero for the Wii, and Osman lent me the ps2 to play Shadow of the Colossus.

Everything went really smoothly. I was worried that i’d end inconsolably depressed after turning 20, but the truth is i don’t really give a fuck.

A deck of cards is being hastily shuffled,
One swift hand dealt across here and there,
Its instance and gravity remains troubled,
Since the cards the world deals you is rarely fair.

Still a spread of bone-white cards lay,
One card for hope, for despair, for fate’s plot,
A card and a choice displayed for every day,
Since you must play with the hand you’ve got.

The gentle glow of the lamp fills the room with a warm invisible hum. It casts gentle soft-edged shadows along the walls, reminding me of how a city inherits a certain industrial beauty when placed against the momentary amber of a newly-dying sunset. Yes, that’s it. These silhouettes and sunsets are my private moments of beauty.

The light filters through the dark household, creating profound golden lines at the foot of every doorway. As if beckoning to some sort of long lost secret, “come, come hither! There is a golden treasure lying in wait, our ambience does not dare to betray your hopes” and i rediscover this treasure, everytime i enter the room.

It’s just that this room reminds me of a similar room in my soul. It too, glows with a golden truth. And similarly, it is shrouded in darkness, though not a darkness that is impenetrable. Adorned with countless symbols of literature, memoirs of some distant forgotten past, this room is perhaps the one that i have any freedom over.

You feel it too don’t you? That gentle nudge that stirs ever so silently when you know something’s not meant to be. That prickling on your tongue when you know you should say something yet you feel strangely muted. But also the joy that ignites within you, spreading its soothing mist into your body.

I stare at the golden, gentle glow with an inspired depth. Somehow, somewhere, i no longer think, but i know that this light will grow soon.

Materialism, vanity and hedonism are all natural human qualities. We all feel that material spike, where the glitter of the world shines that little bit more, scattering itself around your soul.

Once those initial phases pass, or those initial impulses, the search begins for something wider, permanent, and more beautiful. But then once the search for beauty and truth begins, you also become frightfully aware of a pain and a yearning beyond yourself. Rumi talks about the sadness of the flute of being taken away from its spiritual source and being bound to earth.I won't claim to have enough spiritual clout to claim that a source of my menancholy is being deprived of the spiritual realm.

But yet i grasp with such intensity, an overwhelming feeling of pressure, menancholy, depression that seems to manifest itself in so many different forms but yet always originates from the same source. And this source is so intangible, so untraceable, so ultimately beyond myself. I can never truly address that deep hunger in myself, never.

At the same time, it is a source of creativity. It is that vunerable spark in my writing and my personality. The dark unravelled coil that has so elegantly wrapped itself so secretly yet so effectively around my life that although i feel drained by its presence, my method of coping with it is through creativity.

The battery on the laptop is dying now. I can't write more even if i wanted to. I don't even know what i'm saying.