Survival: From the eyes of the un-sung

The 18th of October, 2007. The newsroom is a great place to work. Information in itself is a huge rush, and once you’re addicted, you can never go back. Not without considerable withdrawal that is.
But it’s true, there can be too much of a good thing.
It was an unusually crowded Thursday night at the newsroom. Our boss had already told us to prepare for a marathon shift. We’d come to the office that morning, just as she was about to board her plane to Karachi. And we would be staying till she got to Jinnah’s mausoleum, and then some.
After a grueling 12 hours on my desk, I got up for a cup of tea shortly after 11. Looking relieved that nothing had happened so far, my boss (another hardcore, albeit closet PPP loyalist) joined me. We sat and joked about the sea of humanity that lined Karachi’s longest thoroughfare and how long the journey might take still. I dreaded the prospect of spending another night on the sixth floor, but since he’s the boss, we all play along.
It couldn’t have been midnight yet when our senior producer burst through the coffee room door. “Two explosions in Benazir’s caravan,” said Farhan. Always the consummate journalist, the reporter in Farhan shone through. He didn’t say ‘bomb’, ‘suicide bombing’ or ‘blast’ – words any layman would’ve used in his first telling of the story.
The colour drained from my boss’ face. We all ran for the door, and leapt into the newsroom seconds later. After that, the night was a blur.
Taha, the business correspondent, was dispatched to the hospital where corpses were pouring in by the car load. Mobin, the stock market boy, was flicking through news channels, writing down any piece of new information he could lay his hands on. Zarrar and Razeshteh, the anchors, stayed live for hours after that. Sohail, one of our cameraman, had been right there when the bomb went off. He’d just lost a good friend in the blast, a photojournalist for the ARY network. But in he rushed, panting, heaving and screaming for any word of Sabin, the reporter he had been assigned to – and only relinquished his tapes after he was told that she was fine and out of harm’s way.
It’s amazing how the human mind works. When it has no visual aid, it spirals out of control. If the news is horrific, the most terrible and macabre scenes will play themselves out in your head. But when you can put a face to a scream and see the blood on asphalt, it’s a whole new ballgame altogether.
Sohail’s tapes were amazing. Horrifying, but amazing. His footage of the blast site, the blackened truck that Benazir was on, and the pictures of party leaders, and even BB herself, being taken off the truck and whisked away were the best that anyone had. In a matter of minutes, the footage was cut and delivered to Geo News. And there, for the first time in eight months, the words ‘Geo English Exclusive’ found their way onto television screens worldwide. Later that night, we watched as CNN ran the footage, with the text very visible, again and again and again.
But back to the newsroom. I think the Americans have a word for times like these. They call them ‘moments of truth’. But in Pakistan, we call them ‘weekdays’. Insensitive you say? Try sitting through an editorial meeting, where you’re told that a story on election symbols should be given precedence over the deaths of hundreds in Iraq or Waziristan or Swat. It’s a cruel business. Actually, it’s a cruel world.
So there we were. Naveed, imported specially from Islamabad for Benazir’s return, had been right next to the caravan when the bombs went off. We’d had him on the phone for nearly three hours by now. But when he walked into the newsroom at around 4 in the morning, bloodstained clothes and all, the picture changed completely. Anchors who’d been moaning about going live now returned with renewed vigour, willing to man that desk for another 12 hours. And as Naveed walked to the news desk for the first studio discussion of the night, none of us blinked.
Not a lot of good came of what happened that night. Taha still has nightmare visions of what he saw at the hospital that night. And most others are no better either. It had been the single bloodiest night in Karachi’s history.
But at least she was safe.

Calling Elvis

Stagnation's a bitch. Especially when taken together with uncertainty and lack of fulfilment. It's the sureshot prescription to send you over the edge. So why am I, I wonder, still kicking?
I hate my job. There, I said it. And it's not because I don't like doing what I do, because I love it. It's just...

The new city is also starting to get on my nerves. It would've tolerable if I had something to look forward to. Don't even have that.
What can I say?
Life's a bitch... and then you die. (Thanks Bajwa, but I prefer this version over "... fuck hard")

"Did he leave the building, can he come to the phone? Calling Elvis..."

Mark Knopfler is a very very talented musician. In case you don'k know, Mark is the voice and the wailing guitar that is Dire Straits. And he tells you "...that ain't working, thats the way you do it, you play the guitar on the Em Tee Vee... Money for nothing, and chicks for free!"

Free indeed.

So it's five months to magic number 24, and I'm still no closer to finding a girl. Seriously considering surgery now. Cosmetic, stomach stapling... who cares, as long as all this excess flab gets the fuck out. And the worst part is, my lazy fucking self won't lift its ass out of the bed all day now.

Yipee!

Discovered recently that I can't tell a joke to save my life. I think it's genetic. That would be convenient... blame it on Daddy. How Oedipal of you, someone would say.

Oh who am I kiding, who even talks like that anymore?


P.S. If you're reading this and you know who you are, clap your hands and repeat to yourself, "My new year's resolution will be to stop hiding in the closet and get a life." Christ! Closet crushes are so 1960s.
Maria would have my head for saying that!

The drugs don't work

I felt for sure last night
That once we said goodbye
No one else will know these lonely dreams
No one else will know that part of me
I'm still driving away
And I'm sorry every day
I won't always love these selfish things
I won't always live...
Not stopping...

It was my turn to decide
I knew this was our time
No one else will have me like you do
No one else will have me, only you

You'll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
I'm here I'm now I'm ready
Holding on tight
Don't give away the end
The one thing that stays mine

Amazing still it seems
I'll be 23
I won't always love what I'll never have
I won't always live in my regrets…

[Jimmy Eat World: ‘23’]


How far would you go to forget someone? You could stop seeing them. You could stop talking about them. You could stop hanging out at places that remind you of that person. You might even think about seeing other people. And by this time, you’re probably over that person.
Not me though.
I stopped seeing her last year, it didn’t help. I stopped talking about her, it didn’t help. I stopped going to the places we used to go to, it didn’t help. I started thinking about other people, there was no one else I could bring myself to like.
But there’s more…
I moved to a new city, thousands of miles away, it still didn’t help. I began doing drugs, that didn’t help either. I began taking crazy risks, hoping I’d kill myself somewhere down the line… but it didn’t work. I tried to convince myself that I liked someone else, but that wasn’t true.
Waleed died and Sidra cried. She will never get over it, because this is not the way it was supposed to end. She can’t ever see him again because he’s dead. She can’t have him because he’s dead. It’s physically, chemically and elementally impossible.
You’re still alive. You’re still here. I still can’t have you… ever. That cloudy day, when I was driving on the Mall and you were sitting in your office, and we were both looking at the clouds, you wanted me to tell you who I want to marry and I told you it’s someone you can never get me. That’s because it’s you. You’re the only one I ever loved, will ever love and will always love. Love isn’t a powerful enough word for what I feel. You can never understand what I feel, and that will kill me.
You want to know why I always fought with you? It was because I cared. I fought because it was the only way my emotions could get out. Love and hate are so alike its never clear when one stops and the other begins. But I know now which it is.
From the looks of it, things aren’t going to change. You’re going to keep drifting from one schmuck to another, and I’m going to be condemned to just standing there, watching you throw your life away.

Forever is a long time. Try being in my shoes. I double dare you.

Englishman in New York

I don’t take coffee I take tea my dear
I like my toast done on one side
And you can hear it in my accent when I talk
I’m an Englishman in New York

See me walking down Fifth Avenue
A walking cane here at my side
I take it everywhere I walk
I’m an Englishman in New York

I'm an alien I’m a legal alien
I’m an Englishman in New York

That Sting was something wasn’t he? He had this knack for singing the songs that lulled you into a false sense of security and then threw you out as soon as you got comfortable… you know what I’m saying?!

But the point of this post is not to delve into the finer aspects of the poetry of Sting & The Police. No. This post marks the beginning of a new phase in my life.

A new city, new people, a new beginning and a new lease on life. All I felt has been summed up in the opening verses of the immortal song. I needn’t say more.

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies...

You know you’re going through a withdrawal phase when you start listening heavily to Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham aka Fleetwood Mac.

It was surreal. Rediscovering, clarifying and lecturing all over again. It was like that night in my room. But this was more impersonal, more forced, more of a struggle.

I knew that things would never be the same. We had drifted too far apart, too much had happened, too much had been said. I would never listen to those songs in the same way I had before. You know how when you’re in love, it seems as if every single lyric, every single verse is talking to you, and the song was meant for you.

Now, the songs have changed. From ‘Iris’ I’ve moved to ‘Outside’. She, however, doesn’t give a flying f**k. And it is at this point that you know that this can never go anywhere but hell.

I had dreams, I had plans. I wanted to do a lot of things. All of that had changed 45 days ago.

Now, I thank the lord that its all over. Now, I can go back to my dreams of world domination.