Sarzameena, the festering, bloated, infected existence!

•January 9, 2017 • Leave a Comment


Toxic, yes Sarzameena’s existence was toxic; festering, bloated and oozing puss. The moral bridges hiding in her bosom told her about the length of her shalwars, the colour of her abayas and the God she could worship. No questions were ever raised because “buri baat hai”
How do you tell someone that they are dying? I decided to sit down and have a conversation with my beloved Sarzameena.
I was sitting in my living room when “Sarzameena” barged in; no chador on her head. I guessed she must have forgotten it at Chaienia’s place. She would often spend nights there with him. Their illicit relationship was talk of the town but nothing stopped her from shamelessly confessing her love for him. He was just another male chauvinist; sexist, objectified women, went to karaoke bars and worshipped some Khuda called “Mau Zaza Dingdong”. He was your typical kafir, atheist ,agnostic, drunkard “Kanjar”.
I told sarzameena that I’ve got some news. Sensing the worst, she tried ignoring me, but I held her by the arm and made her sit down right in front of me. She was very opinionated and strong willed. I would watch her telling her younger sister “Afjanie” what to do. She bossed her ruthlessly and would laugh mercilessly at her polio stricken limbs. Afjanie took it like a very mature girl and would happily clean up after Sarzameena would soil the carpets with her regular bouts of diarrhoea. Eventually she got sick and tired of her sister’s sleazy antics as Sarzameena would often invite Chaineia over and he’d soak her rag-dolls in a warm shower of piss and cheap Chaynese alcohol.
I told Sarzameena that I’d require her full attention for the next hour or so. A tear drop rolled down her cheek; clenching her fists, she tried holding them back. I told her to let them flow. I could clearly see shame in those jaundiced eyes. She was eager to get out of this whole situation but I held her arm tight and firm. I was sure not to let her escape. She tried hard not to let me steer the conversation. but I was blunt and to the point with my sentences. I told her there is nothing more revolting  and horrible than having to witness a loved one take that final choking gasp before they finally pass away. I told her not to expect any deathbed visitations. She won’t be having any excited or animated conversations with her dead peers or the founding fathers. Death is never pleasant but her existence was diseased. Her final moments will be full of rattling, gurgling, moaning and rasping. She was vile and evil to people who looked up to her. She aborted her friend “Shieismi’s baby by hitting her in the pelvis. She even strangled her own half sister Kidyenki with “Sippie’s (her best friend) dupatta.
I told her that her brain would try seeking out those last bursts of oxygen. Her breathing would get deeper and faster, but it will also get shallower until it stops altogether. It will be this very moment that she will cease to exist.
She won’t be able to parade her vulgarity and bring a bad name to us respectable citizens of this Islamic country. ShukerAllah!
She ran out of the room, screaming, wailing, crying, never to return. Her last words were “Allah, buri baat hai”.
Picture credits :

Completely broken!

•April 11, 2016 • Leave a Comment


The moistness of her intoxicated existence captivated the audience. She was clearly annoyed; the gluttonous mortals devoured even the last thread of her chunni; they were always hungry for more izzat (honour)

“ What do you want?” she hissed at them, the louder she screamed, the more deafening their laughter became.

She was trying to preserve the last few drops of her liquor, balancing them on the tenderness of her bosom when suddenly her dried up mind forced her to bring it closer to her lips and gulp it down and smash the vessel into a thousand pieces; each a reflection of her own shattered existence.

Broken glass didn’t stop her from swaying and swinging; she bled profusely, blood was flowing down the softness of her body, but she refused an early exit. She would stay there, and tell the world that she is a thousand pieces, a broken reality and a blurred, bloodied existence.

The wicked laughter only added to her misery and there was no way she would be able to escape it ever. Her only choice was to let them consume her, engulf her…. And they did….

They teased her by feeling her through the thinness of her bodice. The feeling of vulnerability overwhelmed her and she decided to join them in this animated display of laughter. Hers was the loudest and it was no nervous laughter. There was pain in her laughter as it came from a place of darkness. This fearless entertainer was drowning her essence in her grief.

They all had circled her around what seemed to the abandoned part of the stage. “Rise” They whispered! “Fly” they commanded! She begged them for a few more drops of the holy intoxicant so she could obediently fulfil their commands, but they were brutal; they responded with a hit so powerful that it threw her off the stage.

Was she finally free?

She could escape but she became a slave to her own sorrows and decided to crawl back onto the stage. Her body hurt and tears kept rolling down the cheeks but she wanted to show to the world that there’s more to her than the sheerness of her costume and the thousand broken pieces that still lay on the stage.

She licked each one of the thousand fragments, hoping to find some solace after enduring such hardship. She was wrong, as she failed to surrender her lustful desires or the hunger for power, her only escape was to find some spiritual peace but that even failed to materialise as the beasts started circling her again; this time more venomously and aggressively.

She begged them to leave her but they refused and the last few words she screamed were:

“Tooti, saari ki saari mein” (Ive completely broken)


Picture credits:



Confessions of a Pakistani (bigot)

•October 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Indians are bigots, India is a bully; a nation full of intolerant Hindu fundamentalists who are adamant that all Muslims are secretly Pakistanis and all Pakistanis are secretly Muslims. Hindus are worse than Nazis. They should be eliminated. I cannot stand them; I cannot even stand PM Modi. I think he’s a bigot, an Islamophobe who feeds on blood of innocent pubescent Muslim girls

Bloody vampire……

I suffer from bouts of selective amnesia and conveniently forget that only a few years ago, 8 innocent Christians were lynched in Gorja. Oh and I also forget burning down of a whole Christian neighbourhood in Lahore. Did I mention that I even forget mentioning the Christian couple that was burnt alive by a halal Muslim mob? Also I always forget about Sabeen Mahmud, Rimsha Masih , Shahbaz bhatti, 70 kafirs who were killed in the Peshawar Church attack and countless poor innocent “infidels” killed across land of the pure; Its not halal to be impure in the land of the pure. I also secretly forget to recall what happened to Mughess and Muneeb butt in Sialkot or teachers, Scholars , muftis, activists in various cities.Oh dear, it’s just hard for my tiny brain to remember everything.

Ah, it’s been a rough day. Watching Muslims being lynched and killed in India makes my heart bleed and my skin crawl. I want to go there and save my Muslim brethren. It makes me so happy to see Ghazi Mumtaz Qardi being idolized and worshipped. He saved our deen by killing the bloody kafir Taseer man who had the audacity to question our laws. Did I tell you how beautifully he recites the Quran; it is so soothing. I’ve decided to name my son after him. I wish he were released soon so I can go and meet him.

How can those filthy Indian Hindus just falsely accuse an innocent Muslim man of consuming beef and beat him to death. Atleast in Pakistan, we let them recite the shahdah and then shoot them. Bloody Hindus I swear.

Ahamadis and Shias are an exception because they are kafirs. Did I tell you they are secretly Hindus? I am so glad Dr Salam’s tombstone doesn’t say first “Muslim” noble laureate anymore. My deen was saved once again. Those bloody Indian Hindus are polluting our genes and marrying our people. In Pakistan we only threaten them to convert or get abducted or killed. People have a choice in this free country. Bloody filthy Indians I swear…..

I cant thank god enough for giving us the opportunity to declare Ahamadi Muslims kafir. Religious diversity… huh what? Sorry. Let me first thank my people for saving my deen yet again. Those bloody Indian Hindus want to contaminate our religion. They ought to know the difference between halal and haram Muslims; they can always hire our fatwa brigades for those technicalities.

My heart aches when I read about religious and ethnic riots happening in the kafir neighbour country. I am so glad that we don’t let intolerance engulf our souls or hatred penetrate us in this country; its haram. Our goal is only to let deen conquer every heart and soul; equality? Yes it comes with rejecting religious pluralism. Equality means uniformity. Don’t question me now. What you read in school was utter nonsense. Those filthy Indian Hindus want to harm us. Stay away, stay away.

Alhamdulilah, we are so much better than those fundo Indian Hindus. We respect and value all our people; obviously in a hierarchal order. Muslims at the top and rest at the bottom. I judge you by the length of your beard and venom that you can spew against other religions and of course Indians, Hindus, everyone (read EVERYONE).

Image credits :

The Chador woman of Quetta

•October 10, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Why not worship you?

You instil fear in my heart, your toxicity is repulsive and only you know what upsets you……

It was a sea of humanity, all worshipping the same power, all flaunting their exquisite silk robes. She wet her palms with sputum and reached for her hair. The hot, dry desert air had damaged her curly luscious locks. She had lost her only chador when a group of Bedouins attacked and assaulted her for fetching water from the nearby well. The event left her a bit shaken but she was from Quetta and women from that part of land of the pure are heroic and courageous.

She let them take the chador, she would buy a new one when she goes back to Quetta.

It was a hot day and her parched lips longed for water to quench her thirst. She was surrounded by a million saddened souls, all-waiting for their return to their creator, wanting to die in the promised land, chanting hymnes and praying.

She had gotten married to the soldier from Quetta in December last year and as a honeymoon present, he had promised to make her mother to his kids. She found the idea beautiful and couldn’t wait to raise her own family. Unfortunately, he couldn’t join her on this sacred journey, as he had to go and fight infidels to protect the borders of the land of the pure

She was alone, vulnerable but unfazed. She would attack anyone who tired to approach her to ask if she was on this journey all by herself.

She was alone and he was fighting the unbelievers. The scared journey was a long and tiring 20-day expedition from Quetta to the promised land.

A million souls and she were alone, until she saw him. He was a shy Caucasian with defined jawline and sinister eyes. He talked her into swimming in a nearby lake with snakes slithering in the nearby bushes. His charm and bulging veins in those hands made her heart skip a beat. Quetta was distant memory now, a place so alien to her, so new…..

Caucasian didn’t say a word, he pushed her into the water; he fumbled a bit, spreading his legs to cover more ground so not to fall into the water.

She felt warm and protected. The humid and sweltering intensity of the day slowly transformed into waves slapping across her exposed petite frame. She felt euphoric and un-shackled. It was surreal and he also slowly submerged himself into the blessed water. A moment later she felt the stiffness of his chest against her back. He wrapped his hands around her neck really tight. She made noises that could be confused between shrieks of helplessness and wails of weakness.

He did let go of her, but only once she had stopped resisting. He didn’t let her come to the shore; he didn’t let her find the chador. He apologized, but she didn’t respond, only made a slight obscene motion of her bosom. She refused to speak to him.

He was remorseful but there was nothing he could do. As he started swimming back to the surface, she hissed…


Photo credits:

The Courtyard

•June 28, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Muslikem couldn’t contain his happiness; after all he could now flaunt his vibrancy and glow publicly. The imagination, beauty and freshness of conception never appealed to him.

He painted his existence with a riot of colours and carved minute details of reality and character on his body with vividness that pointed towards his elevated morality.


Yes, he was a fine gentleman, always spending his nights in the lord’s house; away from the sins that engulfed his mortal associates. He never raised his head during those blessed nights when he would only weep and seek forgiveness.

For what?

Muslikem always began his prayer by putting all his strength into his soul, body and mind to focus on the great Lord…. He made sure nothing distracted him, not even the scent of that beautiful Hijaban who swept the courtyard daily after men were done worshipping and connecting to the lord. Her concealed reality angered him. He wanted to see more; but she was there to make the lord happy and not men. She shrieked when they made contact with her, barked when she saw them peeling down their threads.

She never ran away…. Never…. Her job was to clean once they finished….

Muslikem would stand up, stretch, prostrate, sit and do everything he could to please the holy Lord. He would wrap his mounds of flesh into layers of chadors and never raised his head. He saw the Hijaban do that when her friends would come to visit her every few months. She fascinated him; aroused his curiosity but his duty towards the great Lord compelled him to never leave his prayer mat. His mortal associates laughed at his helplessness but he knew this was temporary. Permanent was what he was yet to experience…

It was a new dawn, or was it just another day when sky was a bit clear and things didn’t seem that blurred? He blamed it on stints involving extreme pleasures of the carnal nature. On one holy occasion he ended up indulging in a notorious debauchery and had to face the wrath of his Lord. It was a night of all vices, flattery, avarice, arrogance, deceit, gluttony and treachery. He wasn’t happy with himself but he knew holy spirits are kind. Hijaban told him they are…

It was his last day there and he wanted to make contact with her but she couldn’t be seen anywhere. The courtyard was empty and there were no other worshippers praying or devotees swaying and tripping. The courtyard was covered in a thick layer of dust and someone had to sweep it before all those pious people started thronging the lord’s house for the sunset service.

He ran away… eloped with his malignant spirit.

Image credits :

The Temple Goer – buying spirituality

•June 25, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Tarapith, India

a piece by Taskeen Zahra

They weren’t dizygotic twins. Or even twins. Let alone siblings, yet they were so alike. But how could it be? Their birth was separated by 1,860 days. Maybe, they were an extension of one another.

She sat across the table from him, with a hot cup of hazelnut cappuccino that she gripped with both her hands as she saw his smile belie his mood. But there was something about that very smile. Or maybe it was less about him than it was about her. It was the magic that transpired in her mind as she engaged in a quotidian conversation, eyeing that jovial smile on his face. But she frequently found herself questioning whether the smile across his face was truly because of her, or did she fit into the air-tight compartment of those he lied to.

They often said the same things at the same time, and believed that it was an inevitable consequence of their constant ‘togetherness’, not meaning anything more or less. She often found herself wondering whether what she truly saw in him was what existed, or was it a simple reflection of her own soul; till the day the ringing of their laughter beautifully amalgamated in the eerie silence of that coffee shop. They laughed so well together.

It was a regular day, or what had seemed so at the beginning, as they traveled together to a temple near the Chakwal District. It was the historic building of Katas Raj Mandir; a colossal temple that had been neglected by the government, in desperate need of conservation as part of the heritage of the country. As he looked at the temple, all he could see was an abandoned building , that still stood with an air of grandeur and resplendence, invincible to its obliteration at the hands of time. That, was less reflective of what he saw, and maybe more of how he saw himself against the world. But for her, the temple was even more beautiful now that it was so close to being obsolete. Maybe the idea that old places have souls made her see the building as more majestic than it was. Again, her perspective was laden with how she pictured the world – painted with hues of perseverance and the beauty of destruction.

She had seen him change in the course of a few months, while she watched as a helpless bystander, unable to extricate him of the demons and the shackles of misery that had tethered him to his union with darkness. But, this temple was to serve as a getaway from all that was reflective of what he had lost. The lake,in close proximity to the building, was almost surreal. She remarked how ‘blue the water was’; a remark that bothered him because he was adamant that water was colourless. He chuckled as he explained to her the three properties of water : it was odourless, colourless, and tasteless.

As she sat along the steps of the temple, with her feet soaking in the lukewarm water of the lake, he made his way to the centre of it and then let himself go. With a loud thud, he was submerged into the water causing a splash that reached the corner where she sat, watching him play with his demons. Every drop of that splash seemed to tug at her soul to save him; him who was more her than she was herself. Hoping he would soon resurface, struggling to breathe, she sat there, gaping at the spot where he had let himself go. The pull, of what seemed to connect the two souls by an invisible rope, grew stronger, forcing her to stride ahead and salvage the other half of herself. Unable to swim properly, lamenting herself for all those swimming lessons at school that she had refused to attend, she managed to reach him. She watched the life escape his eyes as she struggled to take him to the shore or in this case, the concrete steps of the temple. While she struggled to save him, she realised what it felt like to hurt watching someone hurt.

Did she manage to save him? His bodily existence, yes. But his soul seemed to have been left behind at that lake. Though they left that day, without his soul, she sits at the steps of the temple, all day, from dawn to dusk to dawn again, dredging the waters for his (in most ways her own) core and essence that it purloined.

“Her own grief devastated her. But his destroyed her.”

Image Credits:

Goodbye Dad…

•April 7, 2015 • 1 Comment


“Zain why my heart beat is going up”?

Everything is fine, don’t worry , you are getting better. 
Doctors asked me to run to the pharmacy and fetch medicines. I did , only to come back and find him lying still, motionless , doctors carrying out CPR. 
Within 10 minutes I lost my dad
A smile decorating his beautiful face. He passed away peacefully. I am sad because his last living moments were surrounded by tubes and an oxygen mask. When I try recalling his smile, I see him lying there content that he played his part and provided for us in all possible ways. 
Losing a parent is an event hard to fathom. It was shocking and heartbreaking. I think of my father every minute but my grief keeps changing shape. At times it causes intense pain, there are moments when I sit and think about banter we shared and giggled. His laughter was contagious. There are times when I recall the way he devoured desi food and chai. I would ask him why no burgers or pasta and he would say “beta this is the real food” 
He was a vicious workaholic. Would live off assignments, traveling and keeping us happy. Never once said no to anything that I demanded. I called him my daddy bank and he would jokingly call me a spoiled brat. 
I never saw him angry or upset , people at his work can vouch for his positivity and vibrancy. He was animated and optimistic. 
The whole process of preparing the hospital bag, rushing with him to the emergency when he complained of chest pain and seeing him stabilise only to leave us suddenly causes heartache and grief. He never had a dull moment in his life. Coming from a really humble background , he knew that survival is all about struggle. He struggled but left us quickly with a house full of people coming for condolences. 
Do I need sympathy ? No . Do I need them to tell me what a great man he was ? No. I only need some silence so I can mourn him alone. I don’t want people to tell me what a massive loss I’ve suffered. I know , I’m never getting him back , but I want to preserve his last moments in my
I know he is happy up there. I just know ~