As We Are

Shit I'm out of words again. It's funny how each one of us has a story to tell. And words don't always fill in for us.

I want to do many things right now. I want to take a stroll down the memory lane, write a good short story and go to sleep. A long cozy sleep with dreams of you. I know mushroom dreams are meant to be broken. But that doesn't mean they don't exist. Nothing wrong with a bit of wishful thinking. Don't you think?

And oh its how I wish. I wish and I wish and I wish. I wish for so much to happen. I realize now that sometimes, being alive, is the single most difficult task at hand. This is how I am. This is how we all are. Atleast at some point in our lives. For me this point comes a little too often.

I have only this much to say. Peace.

Summer Love

Summers are fun. Even in a God damn third world country. You are sweating down your ass. And no amount of cocaine or good music can give you peace. You need shade. You need love-yah. You think you got game. You are foolish. You are a self-loathing individual suffering from arrogance. That’s how people come these days. They come in shiny attractive boxes. Low quality and huge price tags. There is no fucking consistency in the production line.

Driving around town in your old car with a half-smoked cigarette, you realize many things. Some are good and some are bad. But every realization takes you one step closer to your goal. You are hungry for something. You are hungry for love-yah. Hunger only grows. You are an animal. You want to rape and molest the world; over and over again. This is who you think you are. But you are not that. You are worse. Much worse.

And after a while... you stop giving a fuck. You know. Things run smooth sometimes. There are no speed breakers on the highway. But not everybody is driving the fast lane. There are snails in the race. Snails that you can nail. And rabbits too. Never miss a good fuck if it comes to you. But you still miss it. Coz you need love-yah. You ain’t no fucking sex monger. You want purity. You want something real.

Summers pass and you quietly retreat to your hideout. A stack full of cheap Murree beer and 70s blues records. That’s all you need.  You need love-yah. Don’t ya?

Slaughterhouse For Babies

Deep within the serene abyss of my mind, exists a slaughterhouse for babies. It has 9 chambers. Following is a brief account of what happens there.


Chamber 1:
There is a pack of hungry hyenas. Subjects are thrown in from a small window in the ceiling. The animals are skilled at their noble task. They slowly and painfully rip the subjects into little pieces.

Chamber 2:
There is an executioner with a sledgehammer. A conveyor belt carrying the subjects passes through the centre. Subjects' heads are crushed into bits.


Chamber 3:
A conveyor belt carrying the subjects into a hot tub of molten lava. What happens next, requires no explanation.


Chamber 4:
A 100 meters deep pool of electrocuted water. Subjects are thrown in from the top. They are reduced to skeletons before they can ever hit the bottom.


Chamber 5:
A conveyor belt carrying the subjects passes through a huge chopping machine. Subjects are chopped into little pieces.


Chamber 6:
Subjects are thrown into a 500 meters deep pit. The experience is meant to break each and every bone in their body.


Chamber 7:
An executioner with a small razor blade. Every hour, a subject is thrown into the room. It is the executioner's task to slaughter the subjects using his blade. He is encouraged to use his creativity in making the process as painful as possible.


Chamber 8:
The cold storage room. Subjects are allowed to freeze to death. There is obviously no shortage of ice cream here. Eat all you can, you little ones.


Chamber 9:
It has no door, no windows and absolutely no way to get out. The walls are unbreakable. There is no light. The author is locked in this chamber. He has the key to shut down the entire facility. 


The pathos must be understood. Otherwise, the puzzle will never be solved.

Ko-Hat - I

The Air Force Officers Mess (where I live these days) is a quite place old place. Almost as quiet and old as the town of Kohat which hosts it. The mess building itself dates back to the British era. According to the official records, it was constructed sometime back in the year 1924. Years of renovations and re-renovations have obviously gotten rid of any resemblance to old British era buildings that this place might once have had. But with the right kind of eyes, you can still see the old British dance parties, complete with all the Gora officers and their wives/girl-friends dancing away to the ballads of those times. And with the right kind of nose, you can probably smell some whiskey too.

Well here's the interesting bit. People tell all kinds of stories about the officers mess especially the bachelors blocks. Stories of hauntings and what not. The sort of things that you'd naturally imagine about any place with a bad paint-job. The most famous (and my personal favourite) is the legend of the Wing Commander*. 

As soon as I got here, everyone told me that the Ghost of a dead English Wing Commander who used to live here during the British Raj, roams the blocks at night. The cause of his death is not certain. There are varying stories and sometimes different versions of the same story. Some say that he was a paratrooper and died when his parachute failed to open on one of his routine para-jumps. The result was crushing. He fell head first on the ground from a height of 5,000 metres. His head split into two halves on impact. Poor guy probably died on the spot. Now he roams around looking for any living paratroopers. So anyone wearing a para-wing is bound to get his ass whooped (Luckily I don't see no para-wing on my chest). The other story says that he died while he was cleaning his pistol. Apparently a mosquito went in through the muzzle of the gun. As he tried to peek in, he pulled the trigger by mistake, shooting himself in the eye. "Never clean your pistol in the blocks Saab" is the warning that comes with this one. Another story involves him being eaten alive by wild KPK goats while he went hitch hiking on his own to the mountains.  There are countless other narrations, which I don't have the time to quote right now.

Needless to say I don't know what's the real truth behind these stories. Whether or not there is actually a Ghost in the blocks is also a matter which requires further investigation. But I'm sure about one thing and that is; Kohat is no place for an Englishman. Dead or not-dead, if the local Pathans were to find out, they would surely take him to the mountains and let him have it. The North-West style!

*Wing Commander is a rank of the Air Force equivalent to Lieutenant Colonel of the army.