afterglow

When did the emptiness get filled? When did those four days become tinged with gold?

Everything I write is full of you. How do I shut you out when my breath is bathed in longing? When will we finally forever ever after? How can I wait without breaking with desire or bursting into shimmering memories of yearning?

How did we become so trite?

*******

I’m wearing light purple, the color highlighting the paleness of my skin and bringing out the pink of my lips. I’m so heartbreakingly young and fragile, and so convinced I’m tough and mature. I look at you, in your white shirt and black pants and dark dark eyebrows slanting across your eyes, the rest of your face a blur in the burst of shining light. I patiently repeat the number three times, as your clumsy adolescent fingers fumble with the only telephone in the building.

*******

“I don’t have any lips!” I shriek, pulling them inward so I look like a toothless crone. “You have great lips” you say, with this air of helpless lack of comprehension guys get when women start talking like that. You lean real close like you want to devour me. I want to lean over and complete the thought, but we’re waiting for a restaurant table at a very busy mall.

*******

We are pieces of fictional stories, you and I.

I feel helpless when I see all these young women. All these girls all hopeful and idealistic with their restricted single sex lives of choking repression. All these little girls playing grownup, wearing their Fendi and YSL and who can’t pronounce glitter with the hard syllables of English and so soften it to gleeter, like the sweeter of long forgotten cousins and the meeyure and pleeyure of long forgotten mathematics teachers. Chalky dusters in add math class in the old red building, making my tongue itch to eat lovely white powder of sand even now as I type in memory.

*******

There is so much money is this green city of good roads and abundant water and electricity when poor skinny blackened world weary electricity deprived street smart heathen cousins from a neighboring town starve only an hour and a half away.

Only an hour and a half, and an impossible chasm of responsibilities and waiting and families and preparations. We have a lifetime together, you and I, and a lifetime to wait before we can share it.

*******

You fill up my empty spaces. You complete my blanks, you finish my thoughts, you up my moods, you down my mania, you’re better than chocolate, you’re better with chocolate, you stand all lean and mean in those jeans that hang adoringly off your butt just so and I feel like devouring you, like hugging you and spending my life with you worshiping your bottom and your back and your shoulders and your arms.

*******

Thursday, June 29, 2006 6:09:32 PM

Darling Z,

 

You’ve had a bad day and are cheering me up. That’s really sweet. You really know how to make me feel better. I wish I could do that for you too.

Today has been such a bad day its not even funny.

The Pepsi interview that bombed (that’s what you’re trying to cheer me up), the Warid interview that got postponed yet again, that terrible mistake of a British Council Post I’ve just accepted.

I wish I knew what I wanted from life. I wish I knew. I wish I had the strength and courage to follow it when I do.

Sometimes I think that those with the power to think are cursed.

I think that when I’m married to you I’ll have the courage to do everything because you’ll be backing me. Is that a naïve expectation I’ll have to give up soon?

Tuesday, June 27, 2006 10:48:39 AM

Dear Z

Last night was intense for me. Very intense. Very bad (the good kind), and very intense

You were quite inventive; I didn’t care if it was embarrassing, or even if anyone heard me. But i will say; making that attempt to fake it was kind of sad and demeaning (deny it all you will). Anyway, last night was pretty crazy. It worked wonders for me.

The dream I had yesterday morning (about the serial killer who looks like a baby and is psychotically in love with me but has kidnapped my brother and is holding him ransom unless I marry him) was about you. Yes, the serial killer was you. Because you act like a baby sometimes, which was actually manifested as how the SK looked like a baby. And the psychotic part, well, sometimes your reactions and behavior are so far outside with scope of my understanding that my subconscious clearly labels them as psychotic. Anyway.

I’m sorry I suck at dirty sms-ing. I think its too much sexy stuff. It’s too far off my character and I’m too un-used to it. I’m not too sure if I’m mentally ok with it yet myself.

 

[afternoon] Ok I just spoke to you on the phone and you’re being all pissy because you’re hungry (SEE what I mean about the baby bit). The day is young, I’ll continue this after we’ve talked a couple of more times.

As always, with all my love.

[night] Ok I’m waiting for you to call, you’re playing some old computer game from memory lane. Oh there you are

Sunday, June 25, 2006 7:31:53 PM

Dear Z,

 

I miss you. I have nothing else to do the whole day but miss you. I can’t believe I read out the letters to you last night. I was convinced I’d never let you see them. Oh well, so much for that. My head still hurts; no doubt from the lack of caffeine today. I thought I’d kicked that damn habit.

Ho hum pigs bum. Last night it was SO sad, my family and I had nothing to do, we were all holed up in our rooms not knowing if the other was home or not. I called over my little cousin (the one who looks like A) and we all went to the beverage lounge to watch the argentina vs. mexico footie match. All the players were ugly, the men behind us were so loud we couldn’t hear each other talk, and the hot chocolate was ovaltine with milk. But it was vaguely fun, and I was pathetically glad I had something to do.

I want to be married now. Being married entails I would always have company, and we could always do something together (even if its just a drive – I love hanging out with you). My bank balance is frighteningly low. I have a feeling that I’m going to be worried about money for a long long time after this.

I love you down to my bones. I can’t wait for us to share the rest of our lives together.

Saturday, June 24, 2006 10:27:58 PM

Dear Z

You’ve slept most of this day, because you fell sick (exhaustion) during the party. I’m unbelievably and childishly and churlishly jealous that you were flouncing around the water park with women from work in swim suits or shorts and tanks. How can women do that? I don’t believe you. I don’t know ANY woman in Pakistan who would be ok with roaming around in front of strange men from work in anything less than some respectable leg covering garment (in the least). Parties do not count. I don’t believe you.

My mother sms-d me in my room today and asked me where I was (she was in the next room). I sms-d her back and told her I was in my room. Then she sms-d again and told me to come to the veranda J. I finished the article on makeup I was reading and then went out and we did some chores (that’s how we used to bond).

I can’t bond with my parents. I know this is the only time I have to properly do this. But they’re not my friends, have never wanted to be and will never want to be. They don’t want me to tell them about my life, they can’t stop themselves from casting my stories into neat and derogatory little boxes of right and wrong and we-must-tell-her-what-is-right mode. Most of the stuff they choose not to understand or follow because of the beliefs and they still think that I would follow theirs. They don’t realize I’ve made my own, and resent their well meaning, well intentioned and extremely irritating counsel. I don’t know which parent does it more, but I think my mother gets the worse end of it because dad is more or less out there making his own life while hers is centered on us. And its sad because I love them, and they love me, but familiarity breeds contempt (at least for me) and I know they’re great parents and deeply respect the incredible-ness of them as human beings (I prefer them to any other parents in the world – maybe not M’s dad – but anyway).

So anyway, wake up and talk to me. I’m sick of not having a life. It’s Saturday night and everyone has something to do. The roads are full, the people and abuzzing, the parking lots are full, and I’m alone in my room with my mother in the next. I miss owning Lahore. I miss it. I miss always having something to do with lots and lots of people, and feeling sorry for all the poor suckers on the road I used to be.

I want a ring. Nadia just got the perfect one. I’m so happy for her. Their relationship sounds just like ours. We both (nadia and me) deserve happiness. Her especially (well maybe me too, I don’t know why I said that). I just wish I had a bloody ring. Everyone asks me for it. It’s embarrassing. Then I tell them the how-it-got-stolen story, and it’s really embarrassing to tell people such a personal things. Its worse when those people are your cousins and know your mother. It’s just embarrassing. I hope they don’t bring it up when I’m with her.

Wake up and talk to me! I don’t have a life and its your fault. I would have happily adjusted and waded into life here had you not been tying me back. How can I look forward to a future without you in it? Enough! I’m going to keep dialing till you pick up

Friday, June 23, 2006 7:45:27 PM

Dear Z

Last night was weird. It was intense, and a little over dramatic on your end. And even though it was far from normal for you to suddenly reveal this deep dark secret of your past under harassment from me, the resulting clawing fighting crying phone calls were fairly typical. I’m sick of the pattern. I’m sick of the psychotic almost schizophrenic way you have of handling stuff. This is how I see it happening EVERY time: 1. we have a fight. 2. we hang up. 3. we call back, and you shout and scream and rant and rave. I think “ok, I’ll remain calm, he’s just angry, this will pass” and so I try to be reasonable and hear you out. But it doesn’t work that way at all. Because the stuff you say is directly aimed at me, at every chink you’ve dented into the armor of my self esteem, and you’re out for blood. Sure enough, I can’t take too much of the passive silent understanding listening, and I end up crying. This used to work previously, where you would shut up and everything would get fine. Just like that. The shouting screaming anger would end and you’d be nice normal loving Z again. But then you started getting annoyed at my crying, you just looked at it as a minor annoyance in my way of communicating. And then the tirade continues during my sobs, with cutting innuendos in between the gasps for sniffling breath. And that finally makes me angry, because I feel like you’re kicking me when I’m down, because if you loved me you wouldn’t try to stab me in the chest and carve out a hunk of heart for you to chew on as a midnight snack. When I get angry I start fighting back. I have pride. I come from a family of warriors (well kind of). I’m not going to let some illiterate belligerent prick I have the misfortune to fall in love with try to tell me that I’m fucked up when it’s his entire fucking fault. And then we go on at it mutually twisting the knives we have stuck in each other till eventually you fall exhausted, Mr. Hyde goes back to sleep, and the sweet, unassuming, emotionally in touch Dr. Jeckell returns. You apologize; you say all those things I was waiting for you to say in stage 3(a).

And then you say such perfect things, that I believe you, and fall in love with you all over again till the next fight.

I’m catching on to you though.

My question is, how long do you think this will last? I’ll hate you for it soon. I hate this pattern and I blame you for it, so the hates going to travel up and reach you and then poison us.

And it’ll be all your fault.

6/24/2006 1:07:02 AM

Does this count as another day? I miss you so much. I can’t talk to you because you’re at that stupid office party having a blast listening to desi songs blaring in some water resort. I can’t bear to lie in bed and not fall asleep talking to you. There’s so much I want to tell you. About how crappily I did my cousins makeup, how I got the demo done on me today in the makeup class and to have four people stare at me observing a makeup technique I felt flawed and ugly and like I had a beard and mustache and yellow teeth. It was so embarrassing, like I was a flawed puppet with broken self esteem, shamefully hiding my inadequacies behind neurosis, aiming for a veneer of silent normality.

I’m reading a book right now. Diana Gabaldon. She’s the best writer (one of the best). She’s writing about love, the ultimate kind. I think we share that too, but her character is a witch who can travel back in time and her one true great Love is a seventeenth century highland warrior (so much more interesting than a white picket fence, don’t you think?). There’s a saying in it I tried to tell you about earlier, its something Roger (descendant of seventeenth century witch who turns out to be a modern day one who time traveled – a twist in book 2 and 3) says to Bree (witch’s daughter, also a witch (book 3)). Anyway, the quote goes like this: je t’aime…un peu…beaucoup…passionnement….pas du tout. [I love you, a little, a lot, passionately, not at all].

I love that quote. I want to put it on your wedding ring.

Is writing these letters silly?

Friday, June 23, 2006, 12:48:34 AM

Dear Z,

 

I know it seems strange that I’m writing a letter to you so soon, but here it is. I’m not angry, I’m REALLY calm right now, and a little amused at how childish you just acted. I feel like I just saw something distasteful in you, like the time I walked into my closet and found all my clothes covered in hundreds of teeming ants.

This is how you’ve been telling the story: we met at the internship, we didn’t keep in touch and you kept my phone number and email address because I was the one special person that none of your girl friends could compare to. How sweet. You had nothing to lose, so you emailed me [insert grey area here] but when I replied and came to Karachi and called you, you didn’t want to get together with me (even as friends (probably because the concept doesn’t exist in your mind) and then you ask me to go out with you over msn?

And then you fuck up and we break up and then we get back together again.

Why don’t you tell me about the time you were emailing and nothing happened? Why don’t you talk about it?

Why don’t you tell me about why you got engaged RIGHT after that summer if you “loved” me so much?

What are you hiding? Why are you trying to pick a fight and try to get me angry so I’d forget the original questions I asked? Why aren’t you giving me answers if you love me so much?

 

Was it you in those emails? Was it some guy thing your friends cooked up for a laugh at my expense? Was everything you’ve been saying to me a lie?

Thursday, June 22, 2006, 11:30 pm

Dear Z,

I don’t know why I’m writing this because I know you hate to read and won’t appreciate this at all. But I’m really inspired because I’ve read TWO woman-in-white-type books (which used emails and letters as the only way of telling the story). (very cool). The first book to do that was Woman in White (diary entries) which was ultra cool. The next book I read like that was when I was 12 or 13 and the protagonist was a boy who writes letters to his favorite author, then to his dad, then to himself (like a diary). That was way cool too.

 

Anyway.

So inspired by all that I’m writing these, and maybe something dramatic will happen like my death, and then you’ll find these and guess the password (ok maybe my brother will and pass it on) and then it’ll be like I’m talking from the grave and it’ll be a sad and touching moment. Or even better (see how much I’ve grown up after I’ve met you? I would never have preferred the mediocre boring one before) we’ll grow old and our grandkids will find these and sigh about how great our love was and hope that one day they too could achieve something as grand, wonderful and transcendental as this. (we’ll fuck up our kids too much and they’ll hate us and have too many issues – we’ll just leave out predicting their reaction over this one)

 

It is grand and transcendental isn’t it? It feels like it right now anyway. I can’t wait to marry you and spend my life with you. I know you feel exactly the same way. I hope there won’t be a time where I look back at this and shake my head and think “little did I know how much that would change”. I hope this lasts. I hope we last. I hope that this connection we have never dulls, that this newness, this excitement over small things like bumming in a bed and watching TV never fades, this yearning to be with you forever and ever and achieve all these clichéd picket fence dreams always seems like an exciting impossible adventure I feel too lucky to be a part off.

 

I love you. I think the force of this moment alone could propel us through a lifetime. I love you.

hello world

its been so long that i don’t remember anymore.

can’t remember what its like to write.

to actually put that inner voice into words.

 

i so badly wanted to initially. then like any other addiction, it becomes a dull ache after awhile, like a musty whiff of dry alcohol out of an unused liquor cabinet.

 

like wanting chilli chips from a long gone canteen from a long gone break time.

 

like looking at a blank cream white canvas and seeing lines burn across it like an afterimage on an inner eye aching to carve out chalk onto paper.

 

i’m good at ignoring the important addictions. its the minor ones like caffeine i can’t kick.

 

what would i want to be? a mathematician. an artist. a writer. an event manager. interior designer. restaurant owner. book shop owner. art gallery owner. house wife. socialite. alcoholic.

 

i need to numb the images in my brain. i need to focus, i need to think of what i really want to be. i need to go through the process four year olds go through when writing an essay in class 1.

 

(ironically in my essay i said i wanted to be a mummy, just like mine. i even drew a picture of her. i loved essay writing always. i got a star because i was the only girl in class who didn’t want to be a fairy or a princess when they grew up)

 

someone wiser once said: to be or not to be. that is the question.

 

unfortunately he didn’t come up with a direct answer.