Eastern Vagabond

Essays on travel, cities, memory, and the unnoticed textures of the world.

Category: Nostalgia

My perception of the fluidity of time.

  • Ticking clock…full stop

    Now that you’ve hurled the stone, you turn on your heel and walk away.

    Somewhere far down, there’s a splash.

    Under the orb of night, little silvery beads of water try defying gravity, creating ripples, gyrating spirals in spirals. The murky waters quiver; your stone fades somewhere in the dense amalgam of dirt-brown and gloom.  An endless army of ripples sets out to pillage the unbounding shores of consciousness – the ravaged shores just beginning to move on so long after the storm.

    The stinking memories surface like rancid corpses in canal. A wound slowly begins to open up and an old, perverted yearning seeps out silently. I look into the streaming lymph. It’s long since kept; now it’s not going to stop. At least not for a while. I’ll shatter bit by bit, piece by piece with the hands of clock, ticking their circle tirelessly, endlessly.

    But you just hurled a stone.

  • The Professor

    My professor’s neckties hypnotize me. Some of you might like to call them ‘absurd’ for they’re very richly painted in colors too bright and patterns too strange that one gets lost in the weird tapered world. Trees, snowflakes, flowers, worms all splattered together in a mysterious cocktail. And while i am totally fine with his other equally eccentric neckties (except they make me think he is a Martian), i do take offence when he wears this floral one. And it’s not just about those brightly colored martian flowers curling and snaking all over either. There is an old-fashioned wooden ladder too that starts from the bottom and spirals up to his Windsor knot with all kinds of slimy worms hanging from its every nook and cranny. And the fact that he wears them in autumn makes his neckties look more like blooming off-season creepers which would soon wrap around his wrinkly neck and choke him to death. His withering hair look like waves in a tempest and you can’t stop theorizing how his space-ship might have abandoned him after a secret surveillance mission on Earth.

    When he threatens, his necktie swings ominously like a pendulum as he says “No cross talks or i’ll switch into another role. And you won’t like it, i am sure you won’t.” And then comes my favorite: “If you be nice to me, i’ll be nice to you and if you trick me, i am Satan.”

    Every time he says that, his deep voice trembles and for a tiny moment, a fraction of a second so small that one wonders if that was just a figment of one’s imagination, his eyes blaze, a wild flame gushes forth and blows out in eternal oblivion and what always follows is a long pin-drop silence and the reverberation, “I am Satan.”

    He has a knack of talking in a tone that nobody can understand. He speaks fine English though, is very audible and prepares his lectures quite well but he can still appear like calling out from the other side of our world, in a long forgotten language, in a tone that’s so typically martian but strangely soothing to put the whole class to sleep. And once that happens,

    It’s then he sings a martian song 

    in a language that is long forlorn

    the birds with him do chirp along 

    for no one knew where he came from.

  • Oh Nostalgia!

    I saw a fleshy little insect on my study table today – an animate, miniature Sarcosuchus with a glittering tail full of scales or maybe i am imagining things. Couldn’t shake it off my head for a long time. It reminded me of how I once had a strange fascination for insects. When i was little, i would tirelessly sit through quiet, hot afternoons of our desert town in the living room without even turning on the fan, silently observing the ants as they slowly marched by. I often wondered why they moved in a single line and why they wouldn’t give way to another ant coming the opposite way without bumping into it first. I remember doing a running commentary on their funny “accidents”, sitting on the cool marble floor and my giggles reverberating in the living room. Laughter wasn’t an option back then because everybody else in the family was sane enough to sleep through the burning desert siestas and if i were caught laughing, Ami would get up to tuck me in the bed next to her, and a beautiful afternoon would be wasted.

    Back then, i was free to wonder and theorize anything and everything i saw or hear. There was nobody to tell me ‘hey, you have to have a PhD to have a say in that matter’ [which becomes more of a cliche as you get to the university]. I remembered how i loved to be a scientist. But unlike all the scientists, i had a deep fascination for fairy tales and mythologies. No wonder that of all the nursery rhymes, Dadi amma kehti hain, chand p paryan rehti hain was my favorite. The night-sky always triggered a spirit of unearthing the worldly secrets in me. I’d look at the planets, imagining how the life there’d be like and all sorts of imaginary alien life from abominable monsters to cute little rabbits would spin in my head like socks in a dryer until i’d sink into a tranquil sleep.

    Back then, life was serene. A gift to be treasured. An excitement that must not be lost. Though each day was placidly same, it would always unearth new mysteries and consequent thrills. There was no such thing as ‘boredom’ in life. Every summer we had that strange craze of inventing something. So we would set off with a bottle of Vicks and fill it with everything we could lay our hands on after much thought and determining the right proportions pretending to be some damn serious scientists at work. I remember one time when my bottle filled up to the brim, i brought it to my study table and pulled it open to see what the new invention was. The kids surrounded the table in excitement and anticipation. After a long analysis that included spilling it in the garden (to see if some unheard-of vegetation sprouts up), smelling and even tasting it (yuck!) when i couldn’t make out what it actually was, i declared it to be a perfume (FYI, the thing smelled like shit). My younger siblings made a whoopey and painted the town red with their noisy, innocent celebrations. I was a bit let down when Ami, like always, was too busy to feign any interest in my invention. But for as long as i was the star-performer among my siblings, there was little heed i paid to the rest.

  • On Karachi, Monsoon and Catharsis…

    Summer semesters are horrible because:

    1) Days are freaking hot.

    2) You have your classes in SEECS – school of robotic people with crooked sense of humor.

    3) It’s been almost seven months since the last time you went home.

    Each day is such a blitz that even if I manage to crawl out of it alive, later that day, i end up thinking about the most philosophical things in life. To begin with, what’s freaking me out is this recent realization that for an unreasonably huge part of the day, i am forced to stop being me. I am helplessly stuck in things which don’t really matter to me and my idea of life is only growing more and more obscure. I am not saying it’s not important to study or memorize the loathsome formulas or worse still, be a true nerd. It definitely is. Interviewers are often keen on asking such impossible little details of the four year degree program and then sneer at your miserable face. You ought to teach them a lesson and save the world. But if that makes you forget there’s more to life, you really need to think if it’s a life worth-living.

    I want to believe that the world i live in is a lot more bearable than it actually is. Plus, i seriously need to rediscover my lost self, to find my own little space in the universe around. My room also gets stuffy by night due to poor ventilation leaving me terribly cringing for some fresh air for my worthy lungs which let me complete my excruciating runs to allow me the only high through an otherwise miserable day. So a mishmash of all these reasons brings out the Buddha in me and so i set off for a post-dinner stroll to find a solution for humanity. Okay, a solution for myself. After all, that’s the most i can do for humanity.

    As soon as you come out you can’t quite resist the unmistakable monsoon charm suspended in the air and fall for it at once. Plus, the road is lovely. It runs up the hill to its very top. Yellow street-lights let out subtle, silent calls as if trying to bring back something to me; maybe it’s a memory that hasn’t yet surfaced but my heart at least speaks to me and for now i am content that it’s not dead not at least yet.

    Islamabad is always breathtaking from this hill-top and you wonder why it’s not the same when you’re down there commuting to work or bazaar. The city had to be buzzing with noise at this hour of night but standing on a hill in the outskirts saves you that part and what reaches you is only the sprightly colors of night.

    Sitting in a cafe at the hill-top, I had a flashback about how every year papa used to load all us four siblings in the back-seat of his Corolla 86 and so we traversed the most joyous of the journeys – the beloved annual trip to our homeland i.e Karachi.

    An airplane takes off far away and fades away in the countless constellations above. ‘Like a diamond in the sky’, a faint memory whispers in my ears as I try to hum the right tune. Few attempts and I’m there. It’s funny how sometimes ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…’ is the only piece of poetry you seem to remember and still it has all the romance and nostalgia you want to fill a fleeting moment with. So you sing it to the city from the hilltop like a mad-man.

    And just then, a train chugs its way through a far-off meadowy suburb leaving behind a deafening silence. The whole world quietens down. Even the frogs down the valley stop croaking.

    And the only thing that runs through my head like a never ending song is Karachi.

  • Rant of a Karachi’ite

    So the question is, why do i miss Karachi? Is it the lights or the buzz or the language that’s so native?

    Last time when i went home five months ago, i remember getting off the bus at Ayesha Manzil and loving the feel of losing myself in a huge sea of people, looking and chattering the same way i do. Even though Urdu is the national language of Pakistan, widely spoken and understood, the dialect varies from place to place. Punjabis often have no clue of commonplace idioms. Living in Punjab also means quitting on your favorite slangs (like abay, tafreeh, bharam etc) which make more or less your every sentence. Same goes with the dress. The plain collar-less kurtas i like to wear get me a good number of reluctant stares. No matter how hot it is or how red your neck is of all the rashes you’ve successfully gathered through the summer, your kurta has to have a collar or it’s no kurta. While in Karachi, people have long since broken free of the shackles of Tradition. They go for ease, and then ease becomes the tradition there. That’s what i love about Karachi.

    In addition to that, Karachi’ites are warm and spontaneous yet quite nonchalant at the same time and that’s no less a blessing. Especially when you are tired of stumbling on the sidewalk bruising your knee and looking up to find an entire traffic jammed, staring at you, curious and entertained at the same time. That’s offensive and real embarrassing! That explains why Star Plus serials have such an overwhelming following in Punjab. People just can’t get over their curiosity!

    Islamabad though, is not precisely Punjab geographically. Nonetheless, it carries itself the same way. 80 percent of its Punjabi population makes it so typically desi.

    Well, i wished to write how much i am missing Karachi right now but this post turned out to be one of the usual ‘Punjab vs Karachi’ hassles. Haha 😀 No offence Punjab. You are lovely. Karachi is just lovelier 😀

  • Winterwards…

    Few days back on a morning run, as I picked up the pace and gasped out a long breath, a cloud of smoke spread out in front of me making strange patterns.

    “So, we have finally reached the precipice of the festive season.” I thought to myself.

    Very soon, staying up till late night with a novel and a mug of steaming coffee will start holding a special charm. The season of long, frigid nights and lazy, misty mornings when snuggling in the irresistibly warm blanket becomes the only response to a screaming alarm clock. There are late night walks and smoky breaths and contemplation over strange things, you never got time to think about or you yourself chose to stay indifferent though you were not! The season will wind up in mere twelve weeks and soon all that’s left will be… just memories.

    Happy Winter!

  • A Walk Down The Memory Lane

    The hot summer of Islamabad has become pleasant with a recent downpour, also the harbinger of the onset of a much-longed-for monsoon. Being alone in the hostel, far away from home and attending a not-so-important-but-still-a-good-excuse-to-stay-away-when-things-are-not-that-good-at-home workshop, in an extremely hot weather backed up by frequent power-outs is as uncool as it sounds. Anyway, with the recent change in weather the nights have become much more charming and broad black and well lit roads of NUST more inviting for a light stroll after the dinner. When you have spent a day doing absolutely nothing just willing to curl up into a ball and roll away into far-off meadows, you can’t just miss this opportunity to have a time-out from your seemingly meaningless life.

    When I started with it, I did not have the least idea that this apparently aimless stroll will turn into a walk down the memory lane – one of the many things in my life i have always longed for but thought i didn’t have time for. Mud-scented breeze, long smooth black road, yellow street lights and the darkness all around cast a spell on me and memories came rushing…And by the time i came back, i had lived my life all over again. I wondered why keeping aside my pen and books for a while had been so difficult for me for so long, making me miss out on some tremendously fascinating things around me and within.

    Funny enough, my desire to get some peace was destroyed by two chatter-boxes, we normally refer to as ladies, following me down the road. Thinking it to be utterly useless to expect them to respect my wish, I hastened away till I found myself in the quiet once again. On my way, I came to the highest point in NUST from where entire Islamabad and Pindi looks like a scene from some Van-Gogh painting. The rusty, creaky suzukis, noisy smoldering buses, yellow taxis which have turned gray due to the grime and smoke, on a far-off highway seemed like playful fire-flies flying after each other as if playing pakram pakrai. In short, the world seemed much more beautiful than the one I and most of us are familiar with.

    Now look, engineering  or medical is hard and the fact that you are studying this at NUST makes it even harder – I understand. Sometimes you don’t get the marks you think you deserved; sometimes you miss the deadline of an important assignment or a project; sometimes your friends don’t understand you or you don’t understand yourself; sometimes you wake up in the morning with absolutely nothing to look forward to, to crawl out of your bed – no matter how tough it seems; no matter how big a failure you think you are, just give yourself a chance before starting to hate yourself – yes, try a walk down the memory lane. And i bet you will realize so many wonderful things about yourself which you have long forgotten in the daily grind.You will learn to let go of some things clinging onto whom has only been a nightmare for you for so long and help you see the highway of your life as if from the highest point in NUST – all playful fire-flies… 🙂