The Disowned Children of the Soil

The BBC's Shahzeb Jillani: "The scale of the disaster is beginning to unfold"

It’s a Humanity Crisis that consumes us! 

I am a Civil Right Activist. I take not-so-much pride in writing few words here & there about the atrocities my people are bearing in these gruesome times. I cannot take pride because, I am a Humanist at heart, and I am disappointed that the reason of my existing identity as a Social Activist is not a pleasant one. Rather it is an anti thesis of my very being! But I am happy that I find myself overload with work. There is just so much to do all the time. The situation in the country gives me enough fire to kindle my passions. If not for all these blasts and massacres and injustices, wouldn’t I be out of commission from this self-appointed designation? 

Just the other day, there was a case of a 5-year-old girl that got raped in Lahore. I wrote up volumes and shared no less than few dozen pictures regarding this abominable act. Like media, I went berserk at the sheer barbarity of the act and the nonchalance of the clergy to deal with it even handedly.

Earlier, I had sleepless nights over the unjust acquittal of the offender in the Shahzaib murder case. My friends in Karachi were so horrified of the hegemony of the elitist feudal culture. It was my duty to stand by them against this disastrous blow to our judicial system. I even raised questions for other similar issues in Karachi like that of Hamza murder case. I offered my condolences and prayed with them in their grief. 

I also stood with the people in Islamabad when that clown of Sikandar and his wife had held the whole city hostage. I believe in the sovereignty of the state and therefore his modus operandi was equivalent to mutiny against the nation in my limited worldview! 

And I cannot forget the murder of Salman Taseer, who stood for the rights of minorities. Since I am a humanist first and foremost I was horrified of the abundance of blasphemy charges levied in retaliation of personal grudges. I reflected my views on the blasphemy laws from around the globe like from Saudi Arabia and Bangladesh and so on. I wished to address my brothers in faith to put an ear to logic and reason. After all, it is an issue that will pester our generations to come and we need to decide the fate of our future! 

The Peshawar blast targeting the Christians was another blow to my beliefs of equality and equity of human rights. It was a slap on the Jinnah ideology of Pakistan that I adhere to. I was moved to the core by this gross misrepresentation of my religion. I quoted verses out of Quran regarding the rights of Zimmis in an Islamic country. I even called out for review of the peace treaties conducted by our beloved Holy Prophet (PBUH) with the Christian Monastery.

I championed the cause of the Shia’a Genocide, the Quetta vigil observed for Hazara community and the persecution of Hindus. I even raised my voice for the blasts at the Quaid’s Residency in Ziarat. I participated in the fund and resource mobilization campaigns held country wide for the affectees of the floods that submerged our two major provinces Punjab and Sindh. 

Basically, I stand for Pakistan. Its solidarity and I wish to have lasting peace in the country. I am a nationalist you know. Also, I do it for my conscience so that I have some patriotic stories to tell me grand children. I do not want to be apologetic to them for leaving in my legacy a crippled, divided, insecure and disintegrated society and social system. 

But, today I see my children in Awaran and Kech lying cold and hungry in the rumbles of the relics of their homes. I am watching the orphaned dreams of the innocents helping themselves around site of the disaster.  I am deeply moved at the catastrophe that has snatched away from them the luxury of a carefree childhood and matured them in seconds to the turmoil of reality.  And I am still waiting for the mainstream media to catch up to their adversity and to speak up for those who have lost their voices. 

After all the principle of reciprocity requires that all those speak up for me now for whom I have been fighting with my meager energies and resources. Or am I not “Pakistani” enough for them? 

I am an unfortunate being who had to become a Social Activist, believe me it was not a career choice for me. And the last thing I wasn’t is for my children to be the same. 

My broken, wretched, ruined Children. 

Their anguish is going unnoticed, their agony disregarded and their wails are unmourned! 

Will my children also become part time activists?

Or will they wither away into oblivion as the disowned children of the soil!? 

--Scarlett

Charter of the Social Heretic

My Dear, Paragons of the Virtuous, Believers and the Faithful, 

I have reasons to believe that my uncontrollable atrocities, day in & day out, committed against the “Sacred Testament of SANE (Socially Acceptable Norms & Etiquttes)” are becoming painstakingly unbearable. Many of the well wishers have undertaken this colossal holy charge upon themselves to repudiate this evil out of my brain.

Being mindful of the far and few silently commending my misdeeds, who have warned me, warily, about the wraths of the self righteous that I invite upon myself, I have decided finally make some amends. 

I do solemnly admit to have sinned against my unadulterated knowledge by making myself cognizant of vile words like murder, rape (marital, gang and otherwise), prostitution, child molestation, eve-teasing, female infanticide, and others that were supposed to be kept hushed up even in the most desperate times. 

I have sullied my puritan education by talking and listening to transgenders and prostitutes, not to mention, I have never failed to make mention of these crimes unabashedly. I do apologize your graces for this blasphemy and beseech you to look kindly upon my un-lady like acts! 

It will be plain stupid of me not to apologize for my sailor’s worth of vocabulary that I make use of so very often. I know it makes you jump wretchedly in your seats to hear such words so bluntly out of the mouth of a socialite. Yes, it matters not where and when and for whom these curses fly out of my big mouth. It also doesn’t matter that these are uttered for the lack of any better word or adjective to qualify these acts and persons.  

Never mind it when you say it out of mere jest (read habit) to your fathers and brothers and peers! Surely it is a sign of a worldly man to talk about (the private parts of) other’s mothers and sisters in every second sentence. And the nobles have been severely wronged when I have publicly humiliated myself in making use of these words for the criminals of the aforementioned crimes (rape, murder, eve-teasing and so on). If only words could be called back and my tongue could be bridled! 

I understand that it’s very difficult for you to reconcile your modestly tamed self with the fact that my parents did a poor ass job in bringing me up. May be I was dropped a lot as a kid to have resulted in this misshapen atrophied taint on the ideal traits of womanhood! Yes, I was never taught to believe that whatever elders say is set in stone. My parents were misguided and deluded enough to instill in me this distressing habit to question almost everything under the sky and every matter that is swept underneath that ruddy over used carpet enjoyed grandly by our Ghairat Brigade! Please feel free to pray for my poor angels exhausting the divine resources in jotting down my repeated and relentless sins of originality! 

I am sorry for your ignorance or your blindsided approach for the problems too crude for your fancy drawing room discussions. I am human enough to focus on the things that lie outside the spheres of decency and morality. Yes I debate about the legal issues consisting of topics that should never concern a plain woman as me; like virtues of veil, a woman’s right to divorce, or the dowry, or haq mahar. I should confine my thoughts towards my utter submission and subjugation to my husband. My thoughts should be confined solely to the better devotion and dedication to my household affairs only!

Yes, your worst fears are rightly founded. I am credulous enough to believe that a woman’s place is much beyond that of the kitchen and the bedroom! I believe that a woman should earn a degree at par with her male counter parts, and should have the right to earn a respectful livelihood. I should also apologize for thinking that it should be a woman’s free choice and option to decide when to bear children, if any.  May the misogynist deliver my delusional state to better guidance! I have much to apologize for. 

Nowadays, it seems I have become totally unleashed over social media. I am sorry that I earned and paid for my own laptop and I afford my own internet service. It is also unforgivable that I manage my own blog, twitter and Face book pages. These outlets have become my weapon of choice for mocking and slaying the Sacred Testament of SANE (Socially Acceptable Norms & Etiquttes). For this, I rightly deserve the atonement that is dished out in my favor by those afflicted by my unholy ideas and words. 

I should also apologize for my audacity to declare that if you do not like what I post; u may simply block me; instead of going on and on about my mental and sexual health. Also I have led you to assume, discuss and debate the cause of all this mental illness. For instance, how I have been jilted and ditched by a poster boy. I have also given you reasons to believe that I am utterly unhappy, unsatisfied and frustrated in my life and I am in need of some good and persistent banging to put some sense into my ever so dense mind. I am sorry I have been dim-witted to decline your much offered services for the same. I apologize for putting severe blows to your egos and adding fuel to fire in this rumor factory of yours that is being run under the Sacred Testament of SANE for the moral benefit of the general masses! I totally understand that I have asked for it by my own words and attitudes and you are merely acting upon my own crafted witchery and stipulation. I am deserving of all this and I called out for it and I should apologize for the tarnishing of your saintly cleansed beings by my nuisance. 

Last but not in the least, there is the self appointed clergy who is dying of grief over the sorry state of affairs of my soul. I am sorry I haven’t begged you enough that please for the love of god; do not try to save my soul from the utter damnation that is doomed to. It was born an abomination and hence, so shall it fare in the Hades! I am sorry for not letting you earn your 72 heavenly virgins by letting you baptize my devil’s spawn soul that insists and fights against its own salvation! 

But in the end; you must excuse my unholy emancipation when I say that I am not at all sorry for any of the things above; never was, and never will be!  

I would also like to take this opportunity to bring to your knowledge that, fortunately I was mal-designed in the mind and thinking; and it will take more than this to bring my distasteful attitude a notch or more down! 

Also, I am beghairat enough to admit that my performance and forbearance is forever positively affected by all the “love” that you tirelessly and incessantly bestow upon me. 

Lastly, I affirm you that I have avowed afresh my commitment to my very own brand of sacrilegious profanity that I so blatantly pursue. 

Yours humbly, and truly (read unapologetic), 

The accursed denouncer of the Sacred Testament of SANE (Socially Acceptable Norms & Etiquttes)

And I remain at heart a devout, 

Social Heretic

--Scarlett

A Soliloquy

Aah how sweet your face looks in my hands. Your smile adjoins mine. I can see your grin in the afterglow of the spent candles. The brows above your eyes are touching mine. Crease less. No anxiety, no frowns tonight. Isn’t the music soothing sweetheart. Are you asking me for a dance? You know I don’t indulge in this silliness. Oh, you are moving me across the floor. And when did you learn the steps. Yes, I think I get it, one, two, three, left and twirl. You are just making me dizzy my love. Ahh I close my eyes, and feel the coolness of this breeze over my face. It fills my soul. I am as light as a cloud. Yes, I am flying free.

I am afloat. 

Take my hand, come hither. Let’s go explore those trees over there. Aren’t the flowers lovely? I can smell them in my hair. I put them up for you especially, don’t you like it? Take a walk with me along this road, love. Oh, watch out those cars. Don't you dare fall on the road again. No, don’t show me those scars; they are already nicely healed up. Now come, lets move. You won’t ever find the paths on your own. Let me go first and then you follow, okay?

See, I am walking ahead of you. Oh no, you can’t race me. I will fasten my pace. Let me unload this baggage off my hands. I was burdened so. Ahh, now I am free. I wanna hear your voice. Will you read to me? About love? And hate? And Stars? Under that tree is my bench, you remember? I will sit on it and you may take the floor. 

Lets run to it. You will have to run faster to beat the moon. Oh, you can’t catch me. You are so far behind my love. But surely you are following me, no? Don’t get lost darling. See the road is turning ahead. Come fast. The sun is down cast. Its getting darker. The road seems new and unknown to me. 

Come quick or I might not find you again! 

It’s a dark road the driver has taken, stay with me on line for a bit longer. It’s an unknown road. Does he know the way? Didn’t you tell him that I have to come home to you? He knows the way to you, doesn’t he?

Oh, why won’t you reply!

Speak up Love, I can’t hear you.

I know you are out there. Our journey is near to its end, I am told. My hand is getting stiff darling. I can feel the anxiety jerks set in to me. I fear I am losing you. Am I coming nearer? May be I am drifting further.  I can’t see you in the dark. Will you end this game already? I am scared of the dark, you very well know it.

I am feeling the walls now. They are familiar like you. Oh, I have hit my head somewhere near your door. Now, is that your mocking laughter I hear? I do smell your breath at my neck. Here’s a slap for your cheek. God, my hand hurts.

Don’t hug me you careless dog. No, I won’t smile, you know I am angry at you. No, your kisses wont melt me this time. But you may kiss my head. Yes it’s soothing, I hit it hard. And the throbbing hurts. Feel my heart, its jumping out of fright. 

Ahh My Darling. 

Won’t you kiss my hand too, it burns so?

Now I open my eyes.

Oh. . . ! 

But. . . its only me!

I am just here.

Held in this infinite moment.

In this darkest void.

Alone in my turmoil.

Just me with this promise.

That lies heavily on my hand.

The solitaire diamond. 

And my moist eyes. 

--Scarlett

~ Its a Scarlett Deja Vu ~

It was another September; bygone

That led to the fateful December,

One that I dread to Remember

The blames & accusations

The tarnished soul

The never healing wounds

My Eliminated Identity

Total Loss of Existence

A Failure - A Broken Home. . .

The Zero that i was made

Turned my life around

Led me to this September,

And December is Due very Soon!

Dear September Please Be Perfect,

& December, if its not too much to ask,

Just Make My Dreams Come True !

-- Scarlett

The Sins Of Originality

It starts even before when one is in the crib. The incumbent is expected to give a knee jerk to the human incubator when someone from the outside cajoles it. And if it doesn’t do so, out of it’s own sweet nonchalant will, the incubator is thought to be imperfect. Such patterns chase us all through our life.

A wayward child is made to sit silent and behave like a grown up. To be seated properly is a sign of a civilized upbringing and congrats to the parents for bringing up such a well-behaved child. Is a child supposed to act like a child? Or a grown up? Is it not denying the child the right to be true to his impish impulsive childish cravings?? And what is being proved by succumbing a child’s will to the “right & proper” will of his parents? A thumbs up celebration for the grownups for doing the job right, who have no other accolades under their belts except the conquering of the child’s mannerisms?

It is nothing except our fear of originality.

There is no greater tolerance, then to accept and embrace originality of the other without trying to tame it or mould it or conform it or amend it or correct it or alter it in any other form then it actually is. Because that is the denial of that person’s being. But that desired level of tolerance comes from the ability to accept, which in turn is derived by the strength of mind and character and hence rarely found?

Why is it so hard for us to accept the eccentricities of any person? Why do we have to evaluate a person’s originality? Why do we have to question the sanity of any man who tries to question the set patterns of beliefs? Isn’t this originality, the very essence of that person’s being, something that defines that person and makes him stand apart from others?

Isn’t the diversity of life forms the very beauty of mankind?

From the very tender ages we tame our little ones to become conformists. We cage their thoughts and provide limits to their minds. We teach them to walk; but not to run. We teach them to talk; but not to listen. We teach them to think, but never to imagine.

This adamant adherence to the status quo has become maddeningly suffocating for some selected few, those who have risen above the surface of conventionality, broken the boundaries and defied the limits. They are the ones who have chosen to think and imagine outside the box. They have dared to step outside the boundary, and looked inwards and thought, “What if”? They are the ones who have conceived the notion of, “Why Not”?

And what are the rewards for them, for those who have dared.
Social ostracism.
Character assassination.
Evaluations of moral standards.
Consistent “sincere” advices to return to the voice and reason of orthodoxy, insane though it might seem to the “Original” being.

ye kahaan ki dostee hai ke bane hain dost naaseh
koee chaarasaaz hota, koee ghamgusaar hota

[What kind of friendship is this, that friends are now advisers
Someone should ease my pain, someone sympathize with me]

And what is that original thinker forced to bear in a society full of traditionalists? He has to live a life analogous to the struggle and pain of a mountain climber. He is forced to appease the outer world and deny his own inner self the right to exhibit itself in its truest form. He is reduced to a pretension of respect for the bylaws and standards that he neither understands nor does he agree with.


He has to fight, and convince, and argue, and debate, and justify himself for being the way he is.
He has to ultimately apologize for acting the only way he knows how.
He ends up being sorry for not being anything other than what he truly is; an Original.

Such individuals live a life of continuous confrontation, starting from their personal lives at home, from their parents, to siblings, extending eventually to their spouse and kids (if they ever have one).

Socially, people either indulge them for the sake of little amusement and entertainment at the cost of their time and energy. Or people simply find them a social nuisance, they snub them and try and tame them.

People find it their moral obligation to probe into the individual’s life style and mind and question it and judge its propriety according to their own standards which by virtue of being widely accepted automatically are sanctioned as standard and approved as the higher, better and the correct way to act and speak and think.

The originals remain misinterpreted and misunderstood and ultimately live in an insulated isolation within themselves. Even those who claim to love the originals, are not much happy deep down so much so that they are actually ashamed of being associated with a social outcast. They fall in love with an illusion, an image, an ideal. To them the eccentricities are part of the charm that allures them to the Original. They temporarily become a pseudo-original whilst in valence of the Original. For them the Original is what they had always aspired to be (the rule-breaker), but could never be materialized. Secretly, they themselves yearn to be an Original, and it is this fascination that pulls them to the Original. That some way, somehow, some of the originality streak may brush off on to them. They long to draw some of the Original’s charismatic energy into their own worn out hearts and win some battles of their own.

But of course, it is all that they only think there is to it. Their mysticism of the Original is misconstrued for love. A vastly misplaced emotion which remains unreturned and unrewarded because the Original is too busy sorting out his own messed up life and priorities! Invariably, this high wave of so-called-Love quells down soon enough when confronted with the harsh realities of life and society which is in perpetual ailment of the incurable conformist mediocrity!

The Lover who was once enchanted by the lengthy diatribes of idealistic utopian thoughts is disappointed by the Original’s fall from grace, from the high pedestal where he had once placed his Demi-god. The irony strikes when the lover starts to mould the Original and tries to customize the Original according to his own wishes. In his own way, he is trying to “raise” the object of his affections in the worldly view; naïve as love is. Alas, the Original, doesn’t require the satisfaction of acceptance and certification of sanity from society. He is long past the need for that security! He holds a world within himself where he issues all warrants & licenses. The Original is therefore, nature bound to repeal the corrective, preventive, submissive, oppressive and regulatory advances of the good-intentioned lover.

The Original necessitates only to be heard and to be accepted as he is, not-impure; and to be loved and understood as an Original.

There is no guessing what the end to this Love-Triangle is!

The Original is forced to pay by bearing the pain of being a stranger to the one person whom he wanted to rely on without the fear of being rejected for being original. The price is to live with the loneliness while being in the arms of love which is doubly painful, as he is never understood or respected for what he actually is. He is punished to hide away his true self not only from the world, but from his own self as well. A sheer disrespect of life’s diversity!

 It’s a gross denial of existence. . ah, the sins originality. . .

--Scarlett

Eid Without Henna

Its Eid, the day of joys and celebrations. A day kids eagerly look forward to after the noisy and boisterous Shab-e-Barat. It’s a day of reward after the month long fasting.

Its especially grand for children. I remember as a child my parents used to get me new clothes and shoes, one for each day. My greatest worry used to be to get a fourth one and somehow convince my parents that a fourth day is a legitimate day as well. Unfortunately, fourth day was one of mourning, as it almost always turned out to be a school day.

But the night before Eid, that was a different story altogether.

Chand Raat, had more festivity than Eid itself. My father would take it upon himself to make the night the most memorable for us. He would take us to the well lit bazaars to get petty trinkets, rings, tops and all the gibberish in the world. Matching purses were a must, no dress is ever complete without a purse to go with it. And my dad would go all out of his way, and keep roaming with us till all the tiniest details for the next three days had been covered.

I distinctly remember one chaand raat, where I could not find the purse to my satisfaction. We went to two or three markets and finally ended up in the first market again. After reaching there, my mom refused to set foot out of the car. Apparently, I was acting all vain, and she was not having any of it. It was my dad who frowned at my mom for being a bad sport, and took me to the shops we had already searched twice! After roaming the market once again, I finally settled for the one purse I liked in some way. It was not perfect, but it was all I could do in the night.

Surprisingly, even my dad wasn’t satisfied. He offered to drop my sisters and mom back home, and take me to some other market and search for another purse of my liking. But I was tired at that time as well. And I quit the futile wish. My dad remained insistent nevertheless!

At 3:30 in the morning he dropped us sisters at some godforsaken parlor to get henna on our baby hands and dutifully picked us up henna and all an hour later.

On Day of Eid, post Eid Prayers, he would take us to a local bazaar full of local rides and we would gleefully shriek in the descents and gasp at their ascends. My father would wave from a distance and insist on taking us to all the rides available, even the camel and the horse ride. The drive back would include ice cream positively.

Finally around noon, my dad would be relieved of his fatherly chores and we kids would heap dead on our respective beds, henna, jewellery, flutes, sunglasses and whistles and all.

Eid is such an occasion for children. They look forward to it the entire year. They insist on fasting, hoping to get rewards at the month’s end.

At the eve of Shab e barat, they go out and get crackers. From that day, they start looking for that ideal dress, and matching shoes and accessories. The hair need to be cut just right to go with the outfit. Eid dresses are tried and tested till they fit just perfect. Colors and styles are discussed with friends.

The night before the Eid, Chand Raat, kids iron their dresses with more zeal than the whole last month. Dresses are laid down, their tags are to be removed in the morning. Shoes are put near the dresses. Shined once again for the invisible dirt specks. They await the mornings heartily.

Oh, but sleep is an evasive thing on such nights. To wake up to the sight of the new things, the gifts your parents have secretly purchased for you, to be given on the day. And to wake up to the gourmet food prepared with all the love and tenderness of your mother. And the joys of receiving Eidi, a cash that is to be spent during the course of the day on more festivities.

After all, Eid is a Joyous Muslim Occasion!

Today, it is yet another Chand Raat, my dad is still taking my 28 year old self and roaming with me from market to market for yet another trivial thing that I have left outstanding deliberately to get on Chand Raat with my dad, as per ritual.

Father is one figure around which the whole Eid event revolves. But as I relive the moments of my glorious past, I am jolted to the bitter present and the quetta blasts.

The news reads thus;

“The suicide bomber detonated his explosives outside the mosque in Quetta's Police Lines area where the funeral procession of station house officer Mohibullah was being held. The bomb went off as senior officers prepared to offer prayers for their colleague. .. SHO Mohibullah was shot dead by unknown gunmen earlier this morning when he was reportedly taking his family for Eid shopping.”

As I type this draft, I see my hands, no henna this time around. It would have washed away anyway while wiping the tears off the faces of the children who will not be going to Chand Raat with their Dads to finish their last of the Eid shopping. My henna would have washed away while consoling the crying child who will not lay out his Eid dress this night, nor will he look for the invisible dirt on his new shoes. He would be sitting near a Coffin Box, listening to the grownups cursing some foreign agents he had never heard before. He is looking for the right graveyard and the right cloth for Kaffan instead of matching shoes. My henna hands would have blemished the white of the untimely widow, who will spend a lifetime looking for the right answer for her child to explain why and for what Daddy missed all his Chand Raats and Eids with his beloved child. My henna would have faded into an ugly color while washing blood stains off the streets, and mosques and the avenues of my country. The color fades so soon, and there is so much of blood to wash away, it is

pointless to put it on in the first place. . . .

Yes, henna this Eid would be unwise. So would bangles. My children are weeping. . . their Eid has been delayed indefinitely and their Chand Raat has been tainted forever!
















Its a Scarlett Afterglow
--Scarlett

Latrodectus ~ "The Black Widow"

I am not ashamed of who I am. I m still a mystery to me. Yes, I am guilty of murdering myself. So hang me for it! And you will die as the breath flies away from my body.



I am not a coward. For I say all I feel.
I am not daring. For I can’t care beyond me.
I am honest to the core. I don’t pretend to understand.
I am that sweet deceit. The con that I be to please you.
I am not what I seem to be. Yet there is nothing worth to hide.
I am sorry for all I put you through. But I am aggrieved of the misery I inflicted upon me!
I am but an enigma; the cyclone that consumes all till destruction.
I am the light that aglows, and the heat that incests the soul.

I can’t help but hurt the people who love me; and yes, there are numerous I have hurt. I can’t help but be myself. The treacherous venom that corrupts your mind till there is not a grain that is left untouched, unscathed by its essence.

And after that…

Ahh. . .  what is left after that. . .

The memory of a time that was, passionate bliss, the briefest orgasmic moment of triumph, the touch of glory till it pales in to the Scarlett Afterglow, Me . . .

--Scarlett