tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54362857444097409582024-03-20T01:24:17.805+05:00Samosa FreakMaryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-10034123324883179292021-01-01T00:51:00.003+05:002021-01-01T01:05:56.465+05:00Bridgerton<p>It’s been a long time since a show caught my fancy on
Netflix- as it is I haven’t watched it in ages since LUMS started. But I have
to say that it’s a show that swept me away with the grandeur of the Elizabethan
era, reminiscent of the time when I used to devour Jane Eyre novels with a
voracious appetite.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bridgerton is set in 1813, and is about the eponymously
named Bridgerton family. Amusingly, the children are eight in number and drolly
named alphabetically. This particular season is based on Daphne, and her coming
out in London. She is considered to be the Diamond of the Water and according
to a gossip paper by the authoress Lady Whistledown, the most sought after
belle in the ton.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Enter the Duke, a tall, dark, handsome guy with a brooding
countenance and a darkened demeanour. We learn that the Duke has had an unhappy
childhood and he has sworn not to marry. Inevitably, he is the one that all the
girls are drooling over when he arrives in London and all the Ambitious Mamas
are eyeing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Daphne is a typical Victorian era girl- she wants to get
married and have children of her own. For some inexplicable reason she is
unable to get adequate attention from suitors. And so she and the Duke make up
a ruse and deceive the whole ton- they act as if they are courting so that
Daphne can get attention and the Duke shall be spared of women swooning over
him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The show did justice to heritage by having a good mix of
blacks and whites. What really struck my fancy were the steamy scenes that peppered
the episodes in the latter half of the season. Even though it was a nineteenth
century tale, it had some very modern touches such as that of contemporary
music. Also, there were some very novel ideas that the show touched upon. For
instance Daphne often speaks about the plight of women, that she has no choice
but to marry and have children. She is juxtaposed by her sister Eloise who is
somewhat of an intellectual with her nose always buried in a book and abhors
the idea of marriage and her impending coming out. Another point of note was
how the show talked about sexuality- the Duke asks Daphne if she has ever
touched herself, and I found that pleasingly shocking to be spoken about in a
setting that is normally so prim and proper and all etiquette. The subsequent
scenes of lovemaking were lurid and not much to think about- too much moaning
and groaning and who the fuck actually orgasms as fast as the Duke does? I mean
women lament that men get done quickly all the time, but for Daphne to also
orgasm that fast is a miracle in itself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All in all, not a bad Christmas treat. I’ve started on the
novel by Judy Quinn now, so let’s see how that goes.<o:p></o:p></p>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-64303500980833557802012-12-08T21:32:00.001+05:002012-12-08T21:39:59.835+05:0050 Shades of Grey (‘s Anatomy)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the very first line I wish to clarify that I am so not
going to pen down 50 reasons why Grey’s Anatomy sucks because seriously who
would have the patience to read through a 50 bullet point list? Plus I’d run
out of reasons and the bullets would peter down to ‘just because.’ So for the
sake of avoiding redundancy and lame ‘Ten Reasons Why I’ (yes Express Tribune
I’m talking about your blogs), I present the reasons I <i>do</i> have. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVG0QH7ywjKjNu52QZB2BJfDh8zNbKIiUHKCibHET34C7RdIKzD5haA0ycQIT6c08PDm2_rW4avpRF7w-snFoKD6mrYW8yfr-KXMVlTgCTvjT1FLGgztYcmgwLxFoOZxU2VFDauIo5JSg/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVG0QH7ywjKjNu52QZB2BJfDh8zNbKIiUHKCibHET34C7RdIKzD5haA0ycQIT6c08PDm2_rW4avpRF7w-snFoKD6mrYW8yfr-KXMVlTgCTvjT1FLGgztYcmgwLxFoOZxU2VFDauIo5JSg/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a>On the outset, Grey’s Anatomy is intriguing to say the
least. A story about a couple of doctors working their way up at Seattle Grace
Hospital. Each episode is loosely structured on a theme and how that is subtly
reflected in the actions and dialogues of the characters. But seriously, why is
Meredith the protagonist? For starters, she isn’t even that hot compared to the
other girls. At least one season goes by and Meredith is only whining about her
at the beginning and end of each episode and has her lips pursed up like a
prune’s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPhfapH7Mh8u1qNYQcOi0tOSqEUmeY_KWVu48E75nNHHvk0pL7bGepCDSCgNGyAjiOxSCxpmMsbFz3Ze-SYPBSY_W3_A9cArki48j3hi3ebqQhiXkMQIiUut_g5cq1Cp9R_UN5hRHIKk/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPhfapH7Mh8u1qNYQcOi0tOSqEUmeY_KWVu48E75nNHHvk0pL7bGepCDSCgNGyAjiOxSCxpmMsbFz3Ze-SYPBSY_W3_A9cArki48j3hi3ebqQhiXkMQIiUut_g5cq1Cp9R_UN5hRHIKk/s1600/2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most astonishing part about Grey’s however is the
uncanny resemblance to an IBA environment, especially during the good old days
when 300 people were admitted each year and everyone knew everything about
everybody. The entire hospital knows that the Chief of Surgery is splitting up
with his wife and he goes around whining to his subordinates about how lonely
he is? How lame is that. Plus how does Bailey manage to boss him around all the
time when clearly <i>he</i> is the boss? In
an alternate universe called reality or even Wonderland he would’ve asked for
her head to be chopped off. And really, isn’t it unprofessional to go around
spouting secrets about each other in the OR in front of nurses and other
doctors, and creating scenes in the hospital waiting rooms? Aren’t hospitals
supposed to be quiet? Why does everyone have personal issues cropping up at
work? Not like relatives and exes storm into waiting areas in corporations. So
totally unbelievable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigE_CDZ-m5IMY5Ts99N8aXxpZr3dpeNH4tVrr_hGeP_HmBgSyN6bnwkRcaiSbrNYvj9-_5cxWfo804bq2AWlUKdQ86x7gN_HZZUlMHRPPekdCtlN5FFgfCZ2_VoCPKmN3Pu9cmjVF3eo/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigE_CDZ-m5IMY5Ts99N8aXxpZr3dpeNH4tVrr_hGeP_HmBgSyN6bnwkRcaiSbrNYvj9-_5cxWfo804bq2AWlUKdQ86x7gN_HZZUlMHRPPekdCtlN5FFgfCZ2_VoCPKmN3Pu9cmjVF3eo/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a>If that doesn’t top the list of the lameness, then this
definitely does. Shepherd, Addison and Sloan
ALL want a break and move to Seattle although I always feel that Shepherd took
the initiative and the other two followed suit. Addison doesn’t even seem to
grieve much over her divorce and wants to be with Sloan soon. I mean hello,
didn’t that ruin her marriage and who would want to be reminded of that by
dating him? Plus Shepherd and Sloam both need brain surgery since as soon as
Addison conveniently leaves the hospital, they go back to being best buddies
like none of it ever happened. That’s not even lame. That’s like….memory loss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burke and Christina are hands down the oddest couple in the
show. Firstly, they have ZERO chemistry. Plus why the hell did Burke tolerate a
woman who’s only obsessed with scrubbing in on cardio surgeries and has the
least interest in her own <i>shadi</i>? If I
were him I would’ve thrown a cake at her face instead of asking her to taste a
variety for the wedding. And really, how robotic of her to be okay after Burke
ditched her at the altar. SO ABNORMAL.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Personally, the biggest downer for me was the way they
ruined the sanctity of Izzie and George’s friendship. BLEGH. Clearly, George
had been friend zoned since episode one of the show. But just when they
couldn’t think of any more plausible (not) storylines, the writers amped it up.
Izzie magically gets over a dead patient she almost married and falls in love
with George on the rebound. They’ve practically been like brother and sister,
so ew. Also, Izzieis so perfect. Tall, blonde, beautiful AND she gets to eat as
much as she wants without putting on any weight. How galling is that?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The astounding part in this all is that In spite of the
abovementioned, I still enjoy the show. And will probably continue to do so
until I keep on finding more lame things to say about it.</div>
</div>
Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-435432811636288972011-03-30T04:02:00.001+05:002011-03-31T01:41:55.931+05:00:@<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">A red miasma swirled in front of my eyes. I inhaled and zeroed in on what had happened just seconds ago.<br />
<br />
Incessant dialing. My digits hurt from the repetitive punching in of numbers on my cell phone, and the bleeping dial tone soon seemed like the only sound left in the universe. I bit back a frustrated cry. And then he picked up.<br />
<br />
It had been 8 days since then. Had he known? Had he even been counting?<br />
<br />
‘I’m out, busy. What happened?’ he sounded, befuddled.<br />
<br />
A red-hot flame flickered inside of me. ‘What happened? Don’t you know what’s happened?! When am I supposed to tell you about it, during all the time we spend together every day?’ I muttered an exclamation of disgust and jabbed the red button.<br />
<br />
As much as I tried to calm myself, the conflagration in my chest would not subside. Rage fuelled it, and it ascended to further heights. The anger suffused each pore of my being, until I could feel it along every fissure of my spine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm43CXy4MsfX_B0JCFrISLCoMTmiG8uPJEI8zO1Lr87hfGhAz2P07sp-Lj1h-eMttikacCi8xrdEz7zRQVp8SUO8FREOGWg-bzykK6WogmVH8j1UDrE_-CAOBT4-PhNSW2Ii8x7KvefJ4/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm43CXy4MsfX_B0JCFrISLCoMTmiG8uPJEI8zO1Lr87hfGhAz2P07sp-Lj1h-eMttikacCi8xrdEz7zRQVp8SUO8FREOGWg-bzykK6WogmVH8j1UDrE_-CAOBT4-PhNSW2Ii8x7KvefJ4/s400/2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I hated him so much then. If thought would kill, a mere fragment of an intention could have sufficed, he would have been dead by then.<br />
<br />
I detested the fact that he held so much sway over me. Regret, there never was. I had thought everything through, and had always wanted whatever I had done. Yet, it all seemed like some gross miscalculation. As if the very heavens had conspired against me, out to prove me wrong.<br />
<br />
Each particle of me exuded the angst that eons of neglect had caused. One blow after another. And then another. For how long was I supposed to pretend that I was made out of rock? Regardless, that rock had now been eroded by the waters of penitence and hurt that had been inflicted on it.<br />
<br />
That was how I saw it. The feeling itself was a peculiar, pungent hatred. As much as I tried to get rid of it, it seeped into my bones and clung to me like an intangible wraith. <br />
<br />
My temples throbbed, my brain pulsated like some live creature. I knew that soon enough, this anger would dissipate. And the next time I would see him, it would have effervesced to a dull depression. It was difficult staying away from him. What was worse, was seeing him happy and content without me. To hear him laugh in the strange rigmarole of false friends and phony emotions.<br />
<br />
I clenched my fist, gritted my teeth, and waited for the anger to abate.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-62848956719549928782011-03-06T20:33:00.000+05:002011-03-06T20:33:05.346+05:00Doubt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplIEC89lkrqArXnClVhIhxXUgI1xoBf4-KTAAYt32AzBeliU81jtHSLM29Dcgco3MhKcZHQ1wL8S5vQxK2w4D77UA1hQC87hf8lY_r8rU3f5Nai72m5sIc-pfYG2qETFAXkoUP1noSCA/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="361" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplIEC89lkrqArXnClVhIhxXUgI1xoBf4-KTAAYt32AzBeliU81jtHSLM29Dcgco3MhKcZHQ1wL8S5vQxK2w4D77UA1hQC87hf8lY_r8rU3f5Nai72m5sIc-pfYG2qETFAXkoUP1noSCA/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>It was always the same story, only enacted in a different way every time. Outside the window, the sun shone relentlessly as if to mock my state of mind. Nimbus clouds scurried past as if scorched by the intensity of the heat. Muted chattering and shouts rang out. It was strange to see how smoothly things could function in spite of the turmoil within me. I stared absently at my reflection in the window pane and hated myself for it. Stringy hair, sunken eye sockets. Shadows of grey beneath my eyes. I looked and seemed hollow- a mere shell of my former self. <br />
<br />
<br />
Spring had settled in, and verdant grass sprung up wherever it could catch the scattered rays of the sun. He sat opposite me. Not him, but someone else who had asked.<br />
<br />
I sniffed a bit and gulped the lump in my throat.<br />
<br />
He had asked why I couldn’t just let go of him.<br />
<br />
I wrung my hands helplessly and managed a hollow, mocking laugh. It seemed like a rhetorical question by now. Did he think that I’d never mused about it myself? That this was not something I would mull over incessantly and berate myself for?<br />
<br />
A thought surfaced in my dulled brain. Like a bubble emerging from the depths of murky water. Maybe I’m so used to him being around that the thought of his absence terrifies me. Maybe it’s because he is a microcosm of poignant failure in my life, I thought listlessly. I looked over and debated whether I should tell him everything that had ensued. But what would this perfect stranger, this person who had absolutely no idea of my suffering, be able to understand?<br />
<br />
I didn’t think I could have risked it. Not when another person was giving me an opportunity to start over. I hated for him to see how I was stuck in this rut. Above all, I didn’t know if I could trust him. Didn’t know if I even wanted to trust him. I couldn’t muster the effort to try. To open up a chasm of invulnerability would be fatal. Human weakness, exposed in its fragile, most pitiful form.<br />
<br />
I laughed. It rang out in my ears as one intermittent, sonorous peal. Something inside me shrank at the fakeness of it. He gave me a quizzical, amused look, but said nothing.<br />
<br />
Nobody likes a quitter, I had told myself a million times. Try, try, try again. Try until you die, I thought miserably. But wasn’t it important to know when to quit? I exhaled sharply, clenching the edge of the table until my palms hurt. I hated it. I hated it all. Maybe I just didn’t know when to lay down my arms and declare defeat.<br />
<br />
It’s like cutting myself with a knife, I thought bleakly, trying to piece it together. What would a manic-depressant feel? The act of cutting, the rush of blood, the relentless mode of exhilaration. But it hurt. It hurt all the same.<br />
<br />
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.<br />
<br />
I grimaced and looked away. I shrank away from the warmth outside, preferring the cold of my Gollum-like retreat.<br />
<br />
Outside, a faint yellow blot stood in place of the morning sun, only minutes ago. A striated grey matted the entire horizon. I got up and pushed open the window. The air was static, as if all the elements had conspired to create the effect of stillness. The amber skies had given way to ochre ones; pearly rain fell at random intervals and imbued the ground with the smell of wet earth.<br />
<br />
Just then, the door swung open, and he walked in. I flinched, and tried to make myself as invisible. His very aura was enough to transfuse those pangs of pain. Like a stagnant ripple in a pond that had been put into motion.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwkB4bf6U-_Ku3EqGebI9GBRh3ZBxrh3kDCptLnnPCgbukiiPPw6jozk44_FsfKC_ebA-wMS4Mg_NtU1dJNTLYQuyL0Tmjqk7z5U9GU2NOVK2Lz3JcQ5sQ6c8RMcZ1pgNcriUKq2omX8/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwkB4bf6U-_Ku3EqGebI9GBRh3ZBxrh3kDCptLnnPCgbukiiPPw6jozk44_FsfKC_ebA-wMS4Mg_NtU1dJNTLYQuyL0Tmjqk7z5U9GU2NOVK2Lz3JcQ5sQ6c8RMcZ1pgNcriUKq2omX8/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And I knew then. I couldn’t bear the fact that he was so happy without me. And I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t see how miserable I was. A darkness lurked in a corner of my heart. It was as if the Loch Ness Monster of misery had permanently occupied a space in the deep recesses of my soul. And I hated him so much for doing this to me. For permanently blotting out my sun.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-51884572197914501152011-01-09T20:52:00.002+05:002011-01-09T23:28:18.870+05:00RemorseHow would you feel if you were constantly thinking about someone, and he materialized, as if out of thin air? <br />
<br />
It was as if my very thoughts had lent the crisp air a shimmery aura and shaped it to behold his form.<br />
<br />
I wanted to smile at him, but it froze before it could form on my lips.<br />
<br />
The air broke out into a volley of greetings and high fives. My heart hammered in my chest, and I panicked. I felt torn. Part of me wanted to go up to him and say something. Act normal, act normal, I repeated to myself like some kind of mantra. I chided myself for the jitteriness, reminding myself that if I had had the guts to do that in the first place, none of this havoc would have ensued.<br />
<br />
The rest of me skulked in the shadows, and hid its face in shame. With the horror of realizing the degree of effort it had taken over the past few days. Weeks maybe. This being tugged at the other half and pulled it down into the depths of misery.<br />
<br />
I sat on the cold steps, frozen like a statue, head bent in abject wretchedness. The cold that had already seeped into my bones had nothing to do with the icy draft wafting over us. It had already chilled me and frozen over.<br />
<br />
I wanted him to come over and talk to me. I mentally willed him to. And he did.<br />
<br />
A pale moon floated low in a purple sky. Some light from it revealed a crescent-shaped glint; a hint of a smile. A shadow moved; the dark of his jacket. He came and sat next to me. My mind went into overdrive, digging at every nook and cranny for a thread to start the conversation. A fucking word, for Godsakes. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqbh4VxY995x9NAlTRRwAfU7TTHya4Fs4DA3RIc69Bg-7NKTqv5ieDbtg1706f1-vAMmALnzGPPuE68KGiHr226aTkpj8hUY_rQuyql744s2LDTatMtr0A-BzoD7BKoN9QXZxMcBkavs/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqbh4VxY995x9NAlTRRwAfU7TTHya4Fs4DA3RIc69Bg-7NKTqv5ieDbtg1706f1-vAMmALnzGPPuE68KGiHr226aTkpj8hUY_rQuyql744s2LDTatMtr0A-BzoD7BKoN9QXZxMcBkavs/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I came up with nothing. I berated the helpless me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He said something inconsequential. Whatever it was, I snatched at it like a hungry animal and blabbered something equally ridiculous. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Deep throated laughter. Matched by a high pitched, nervous one that could only be mine.</div><br />
Fresh waves of shame engulfed me. I remembered, ashen faced, the last time we had had a conversation. Eyes downcast, afraid to meet his. Even if there was no accusation in his, there was blatant regret in mine. <br />
<br />
I hated myself for it. And I hated him for having that placid calm all about him. Because when he had that, I couldn’t figure him out. I couldn’t read him. There was nothing in his eyes I could decipher, because even if I had bolstered enough courage to look up, the turmoil within me would have left me perpetually harried.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I wanted to shake him, punch him, kick him. Or all three. Anything that’d result in a nosebleed perhaps.<br />
<br />
But I was too tired, too weary for any of that. The fight had left me, and only despair steeped in my marrow, chilling it more than the cold wind did. I stared at the criss-cross of black and grey shadows that changed form on the ground as he gestured in emphasis.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Confusion suffused my being. What the hell were we doing? Was this worse, this forced cordiality, this block of time where we were forced to pretend that we didn’t hate each other. Correction: I didn’t hate him, but I wasn’t ready to love him either. Forgive him? Maybe never. What good would forgiveness be if it didn’t make things better? Would never make things better?</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I had tried my best to fix it. People said that it was ok to try, because even if things didn’t work out in the end, I could be happy that I had tried my best. The thought had comforted me a bit. The notion promised peace at the end, didn’t it? But as with all other things, the theory rebounded and impinged on to everything around me.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The shame burned through me and heated my skin, washing over me in waves. What was this, after all? A mockery? What was worse, salvaging the remnants of a camaraderie that once evoked notably fond memories, or this, this, wretched caricature of drawn out civility? A meeting. An obligation that had to be fulfilled in body if not in spirit. What did he think of it? For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Whatever it was, then, that nameless miasma that swarmed about us- I hated it, I liked it. It comforted me, yet I dreaded it. But above all, I wanted it to be there. And some miniscule part of me regretted it when it was time to leave. When it dispelled itself and let time flow uninterrupted.</div><br />
How far should one go to save oneself from the perils of regret?<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I had no answer for that. I had already transcended everything I thought I was capable of. </div><br />
The cold swept in and filled in the void between us.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRHbwHA-glIJsAyGMqWeSVxn0Oy5bqJhFuRKUL54VA3txw_3-BBiSEJZcnKT-Y6dLHvxBVZMdyh9wQ80E84DYg_6MKPMY7IdloTSVO-Olb10si07lYGDgZlABpJaQcJkxnBJ91AjJXqdY/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRHbwHA-glIJsAyGMqWeSVxn0Oy5bqJhFuRKUL54VA3txw_3-BBiSEJZcnKT-Y6dLHvxBVZMdyh9wQ80E84DYg_6MKPMY7IdloTSVO-Olb10si07lYGDgZlABpJaQcJkxnBJ91AjJXqdY/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I looked up in surprise, not having picked up the end of the conversation. That meaningless, yet meaningful string of words we had carried forth. He looked up in that instant too, an instant where I had caught him off guard.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As much as I wanted to believe in what I saw then- that wide-eyed, hopeful, remorseful look- I told myself that I’d imagined it. And looked away.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-19121460448199185062010-12-28T00:27:00.000+05:002010-12-28T00:27:39.680+05:00The AH Chronicles Resume: Back To WorkAfter a long hiatus, I finally called up my boss. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, he went like, ‘So, what’s the plan now?’ <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I thought, er, I didn’t call you to just update you with mundane details of my university life, you know.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘Um, I want to join again!’ I piped up in my best enthusiastic voice.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I guess he bought that, because I was told that I could join straightaway.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I was all pumped up on the following Tuesday. To say that I was in the seventh heaven of delight would be an exaggeration. No, I was more than elated at the prospect of lukewarm green tea (just because Miss chai nahin peeteen), a tiled floor that would make me slip no matter what sandals I wore, and hordes of weirdos who would offend me with their grammar as much as their greasy hair.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As I stepped in, an echo of greetings surrounded me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fyS1eWwD8RllIDcUqEi4XtpdndSaxGUgy-4akkENDYi6YEG0M3JPN40kLOd7h9SZLkF0h3ZstwtN8yoUCDiY2ZvKy1r0Aw-lKMihSEJbty0hMM7O0_TIAssLfVB_trVxH1fy9hyf710/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fyS1eWwD8RllIDcUqEi4XtpdndSaxGUgy-4akkENDYi6YEG0M3JPN40kLOd7h9SZLkF0h3ZstwtN8yoUCDiY2ZvKy1r0Aw-lKMihSEJbty0hMM7O0_TIAssLfVB_trVxH1fy9hyf710/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I closed my eyes and braced myself for the warm, halo-like feeling to envelop me.<br />
<br />
It never came. <br />
<br />
The background sound effect of blowing streamers died down in my head.<br />
<br />
Apparently Sir had forgotten to tell them that I’d be coming back. Hmph.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The people at the reception looked at me confusedly. A kind of ‘yes we are happy that you are here but why’ kind of confused. Some asked my sis in hushed tones ‘Why is she here today?’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I rolled my eyes. So much for the cake, gazillion candles, and welcome back banner I was expecting. Just a ‘surprise!’, and that too, on their part. I cleared my throat and declared pompously. ‘I’ll be coming regularly from now on.’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">They smiled in recognition as it finally dawned upon them.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">How anticlimactic. Sniff.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My bitchy teacher radar seemed to not function for a number of classes. I guess my elated self was so busy savouring the usual sights (men with hairy legs) and smells ( cheap perfume and rancid ones emanating from food stains on shirts) that I conveniently ignored the dumb grammatical interpretations of some students. Apart from this one student. Who I wouldn’t have barked at, except that he had a test the very next day.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">IN LESS THAN TWENTY FOUR HOURS.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Whenever we start off with basic grammar, I always drill two things into my students’ heads. Identify the subject first. And then the verb. Sometimes you can use the verb to figure out the subject too.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This kid winced in concentration. After an eternity of letting these two statements swish around in his head, he finally grunted ‘What?’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I ground my teeth in agitation. ‘You figure out what the subject is. Do you know what a subject is?’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘Um, yeah....’ he fumbled, staring at the sentence as if the subject would pop up and hit him in the eye.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Unfortunately, we don’t use pop-up books to teach kids, which is like, so kindergarden-ish.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘A subject is a noun,’ I offered , wavering in a moment of pity. A rare moment of pity.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘Oh yes, a noun,’ he smiled weakly. But I wasn’t about to let him go that easily.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘Yes, so what’s a noun then?’ I pressed smoothly, splaying my fingers on the table. Just so that he could see my razor sharp fingernails.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>He gulped. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and threatened to trickle down.<br />
<br />
‘Name, Place, Animal, Thing!’ I fumed. ‘Haven’t you ever played that?’<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I think I’m the only nerdy person ever to have recognized that that game we used to play during classes in school was actually a learning technique, aimed at increasing our ability to recall nouns.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘Oh yes, I remember,’ he squeaked, and scanned the sentence hurriedly. He identified the subject correctly then.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Little did he know that I was just warming up.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘What’s a verb?’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There was dead silence.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The other students were looking over to see if he would recognize the verb, or bear the fury of my Wolverine-ish nails. The fact that I had around fifteen people as spectators to witness this spectacle drove terror into the poor kid’s heart.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘It’s....it’s....it’s a word that can be used in place of a noun,’ he blurted out, in a span of less than three seconds.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">No, dude. After two handouts and a gazillion questions of Usage and Sentence Correction, you do not parrot things that you learnt in a stupid tenth grade English class. And that too, the wrong definition.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I raised an eyebrow. ‘No. That’s a PRONOUN.’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The onlookers watched with bated breath.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQmSB2N5nIcwh7NJw2zPFrT9DiGqSGDGaKV6dmWKnPXiwWM7RixAHFxyae86RfH4CeHDT9-8oSsDgGA8tdjXXMoQry87MumFER-ZaUw8ttp9ocPZiIYVx_fmQTp93Tbl-gCqPm2KKTas/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQmSB2N5nIcwh7NJw2zPFrT9DiGqSGDGaKV6dmWKnPXiwWM7RixAHFxyae86RfH4CeHDT9-8oSsDgGA8tdjXXMoQry87MumFER-ZaUw8ttp9ocPZiIYVx_fmQTp93Tbl-gCqPm2KKTas/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a>Incidentally, I decided to be as anticlimactic as my reception half an hour ago and muttered dully ‘It’s the action being performed by the subject, kid. How many times do I have to tell you?’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He sighed, and a tremor of ease spread into my little audience.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘So, now that you know what a verb is, what’s the verb in this sentence?’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The words hung tremulously in the air. The audience let out audible gasps.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The kid squirmed. No matter how many times he pored over the sentence, scrunched up his eyes or rotated the sheet of paper to see if it made sense upside down, he could not figure out the verb.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I ran my nails down the pencil I was holding. Curly shavings of wood peeled away from it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And then finally, with some sudden burst of epiphany, he figured out the answer.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘It’s this!’ he cried out triumphantly, jabbing at the verb with his pencil.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The audience broke out into smiles and applause.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I scowled. ‘Good. Now remember that for the next twenty-four hours.’</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I shot him one last look of pure venom and stalked off haughtily. After that, I’m pretty sure that he’s never going to forget the difference between a noun and a verb. Mission accomplished, the bitchy way.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">COMING NEXT:</span></strong> THE AH CHRONICLES RESUME: THE SHADI AND THE TEDDY. STAY TUNED!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-72414807679041333492010-11-22T12:14:00.000+05:002010-11-22T12:14:15.763+05:00Torn<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WRHtSe0767SIaI8zGkyfl9uAAP41azMgBTE_dRqqg9o0IsGBTcg2_1oqRBulfZeHfdM2y5DAJHn4j3kxDLVogsTYQWzF0somOI6tdyMFGRPGVcOGV07K62gz08389F-e4P9YqiZhjRs/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WRHtSe0767SIaI8zGkyfl9uAAP41azMgBTE_dRqqg9o0IsGBTcg2_1oqRBulfZeHfdM2y5DAJHn4j3kxDLVogsTYQWzF0somOI6tdyMFGRPGVcOGV07K62gz08389F-e4P9YqiZhjRs/s400/1.jpg" width="300" /></a>Dusk was approaching rapidly. It was just after the <em>Maghrib</em> azaan. The sky was lit up in pale blues and mauves. I walked across the parking lot alone. Cold and solitary, like my thoughts. Twilight descended down on the treetops in long, spooky shadows. Purple patches ominously stretched along the rocky asphalt. I weaved my way through the throng, thinking about him. Always thinking about him. I didn't even know what classes he had then. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Tall, willowy, he was standing right in my line of sight. My heart lurched guiltily.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">JM was standing in front of him. 'Hey! Long time! How are you?' she chirped happily.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Grateful for the distraction, I plastered a smile on my face and exchanged pleasantries. He was busy talking to two other people. Half of me wanted him to look over and wave. Come over and talk to me. The other half squirmed awkwardly and wished it could vapourize instantly, there and then.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I stepped away. He hollered my name. Two syllables that made me cringe. The half that hadn't wanted him to notice me contemplated whether to stay there or move away. But by that time, he had already initiated a conversation.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Hey! How have you been? How come you're here? Long time!'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Major understatement, I thought ruefully. I didn't even remember if there had even been a last time. I'd almost forgotten his face- well, almost.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'I have this class right now,' I replied, trying to sound natural. I felt extremely awkward. I gulped a few dozen times, and blinked rapidly in my nervousness.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He addressed the other two who were lounging about, talking about courses. Teachers.The needle in my brain that had stuck and made it freeze started whirring all of a sudden. I remembered that I had to be somewhere and excused myself.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I felt agitated when I got home. Forced myself to get distracted. Weakness got the better of me. I picked up my cell phone and punched in digits that seemed to have been etched into my memory. Stared at the little screen, willing it to change from 'Dialling' to 'Connected.' <br />
<br />
Seconds ticked by like eons of eternity. <br />
<br />
And then, with one last surge of indignation and contempt, I furiously jabbed at the little red button on the screen and flung the cell phone away.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-5277021270305913312010-11-11T05:15:00.000+05:002010-11-11T05:15:34.493+05:00Welcome Party<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Ever since my sister joined IBA (note: encourage your siblings to have divergent academic interests from an early age to avoid public embarrassment later), all party evenings are marked by my sister barging into our room and whining 'I don't have ANY clothes! BOOHOO!'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Technically, that can never be true, since one always has the clothes on one's back. Just saying.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This was no unusual evening, and as usual, I continued reading the notes I was perusing and said absent mindedly 'You can wear the top you bought from XYZ (read really expensive) place, and those pair of jeans.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">That settled the havoc. For the next five minutes. The rest of her time was spent shrieking over not finding matching jewellery/ shoes/ or anything else that could possibly match her attire. Thankfully, my cat is a shade of brown. If my sis could overcome her hatred of her, she would've paraded her about like Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde with her pet poodle. More on that later.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The last cry of agony was heard at 9 sharp. The light had just gone out, and she regretted not having straightened her hair for the hundredth time.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We piled up into a friend's car and sped off. The moment we landed, I spied a number of aunties dressed to the hilt in shararas and ghararas. Unfortunately for me, the aunties looked old enough to be MBA students, and I panicked.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sis grabbed my arm. 'The dress code was formal, right?'</div><br />
I gritted my teeth. 'Yeah, that's what I heard.'<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">She thought that I was blind. I am, but only sometimes. 'Some people here are wearing fancy shalwar kameezes!' she wailed, stamping her feet.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Maybe we should go home and change,' I mused out loud.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Trust her to take me literally. 'How are we going to get home? Our ride just left!' she wailed.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After much debate, dodging of valet-driven cars and ogling of aunties in hideous green clothes, we decided that one of our friends (who had dressed formally) should go ahead and check out the scene ahead of us.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Formal Friend haughtily sauntered up ahead and out of sight.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">She didn't come back for ten minutes.</div><br />
We, the irate trio, decided to go ahead ourselves, only to realize that FF had been peering through the doorway like some James Bond heroine -NOT.<br />
<br />
'People are dressed both formally and casually!' she piped up cheefully.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I rolled my eyes and sallied forth.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Groups of people were huddled together across the wide expanse of the floor. The music was deafening and no one I knew was in sight. Thanks to this stupid jammer, I had to wend my way through the throng of chattering seniors and excited freshies to get to the other end where I could catch a signal.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCdzA6QmHmNBgaZeRu9NKPWVdF-tIMvG0bY78jXZrmc-OytZi68plx4gYBiySvlN_wXgygk_o6SLzcxI1NO-jyLlJa6_qjWL7QA_ZanArAPUwU069DpKtDgsh7tTYtRrPNH4-qx-IeC8/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCdzA6QmHmNBgaZeRu9NKPWVdF-tIMvG0bY78jXZrmc-OytZi68plx4gYBiySvlN_wXgygk_o6SLzcxI1NO-jyLlJa6_qjWL7QA_ZanArAPUwU069DpKtDgsh7tTYtRrPNH4-qx-IeC8/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a>Replying to my text, a friend replied that they were 'on their way'. When someone usually writes that, I interpret that as:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">a) the person has left his/her house</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">b) is driving/ is on the road</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">c) is hastily giving their keys to the valet outside and is in the process of scurrying inside before they have to incur more of my wrath.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">However, what this has ended up being a euphemism for is that:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">a) the person yawned, checked his watch and decided that it was the right time to arrive fashionably late</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">b) stood honking outside a house while another friend spent eternity slathering on makeup</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">c) picked up a gazillion people 'on the way'.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It turned out that I was right, and all three situations had actually taken place. Hmph.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Not wanting to look like a loser with nothing to do, I went over to where a couple of my other friends were busy chomping on a burger. Yes, that's all you get if you enroll in a fancy shmancy business school- a burger that took ages to finish, a handful of flaccid fries and Pepsi.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Underage Senior and the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001009441808&ref=ts#!/Claritykikhoj">Chai Chor</a> were having an argument.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'The food is awful!' US wailed, as usual. 'I don't like it.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>CC chewed his burger thoughtfully and gave his verdict. 'Um, the burger's actually not that bad, my patty is ok, and the whole thing is warm.'<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'My burger is awful!' repeated US, even more loudly for emphasis.</div><br />
Picture this: if everyone is shouting to be heard above the din of raucous music, does it really mean that they are shouting if they can’t hear each other? <br />
<br />
Guess what? YES, because we all had to repeat ourselves a gazillion times.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I looked back and forth from US to the CC and held up a hand. 'Ok, I'll go and get mine to decide for myself.'<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6g-Ao55Dc0I4Ys5gWfJg2Y74dMsILyy-Bnl6itP7HnXcSI-N5LQJnqi_fFO8G9vn1b91DZaq3UT81RUd8n4Zs9dM1jxtjP1gnT2aGQ7HdR2aLUdeHLp1u_zt5bWxiq_Ak6ffFSwbpnsc/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6g-Ao55Dc0I4Ys5gWfJg2Y74dMsILyy-Bnl6itP7HnXcSI-N5LQJnqi_fFO8G9vn1b91DZaq3UT81RUd8n4Zs9dM1jxtjP1gnT2aGQ7HdR2aLUdeHLp1u_zt5bWxiq_Ak6ffFSwbpnsc/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a>CC was so wrong. US was wrong-er. The burger wasn't awful, it was BLEGH. </div><br />
Things perked up a bit when I decided to go ice skating with some other friends. I must say it’s great fun to see people teetering on roller blades and falling down with a wallop- making asses of themselves by literally falling on their asses. I half wanted to push some people I particularly detested, but people were watching. And, er, it would have been mean. So I didn't.<br />
<br />
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, said someone I seriously wish would die already. Ok, maybe he already has. Some people decided that if life means having music blasting from every nook and cranny possible, then you make a dance floor. Sure enough, two skinny guys (yes I looked, and did not think they were hot) were trying to vow the ladies by a series of quirky dance steps that honestly looked like they were having a seizure each. Or were performing bad imitations of Step Up movies' moves. Not surprisingly, the only audience around them comprised of wimpy looking guys who looked on in jaw-dropping admiration.<br />
<br />
When I came back, I discovered that the accursed friends were busy staring at scantily clad girls. Since now there was nothing else to do, we put on our bored, cool, 'been there done that' looks and took our seats above the mini-golf area. The friends (why am I even calling them friends, I should've disowned them by now) proceeded to stalk two guys and pronounced them to be gay. All they were doing were shaking hands, and smiling at each other, which is so NOT gay. The rest of us weren’t amused. Like duh.<br />
<br />
Did I mention the stupid jammer? Well, it turned out to be even stupid-er in the end. I spent ages rounding up people when it was time to go home. The ride home was a treat, with a noisy Hobbit sitting next to me and Sis who wouldn't stop saying the most insane things.<br />
<br />
*beep beep*<br />
<br />
I just censored those insane things.<br />
<br />
The car pulled away, and I was left standing in the rain with an Energizer Bunny-ized sister. It was indeed the anticlimactic finish to the evening, since I was the one who had to tolerate her babble all the way home. Up to our room. Until she fell asleep exhausted.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_V2oHWz4llA2vMuLq_5YLw_E7ZPpfydh06WibjqPHt7TcgLwWTgxG0sfKHLelg_55ymHKYtTH2-NQiN9LnCgJLmsvLmo_wA78XGxH5Kol2y48DV84s6LhHDbXrNtK-GCG7IDgqrsQB8/s1600/3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_V2oHWz4llA2vMuLq_5YLw_E7ZPpfydh06WibjqPHt7TcgLwWTgxG0sfKHLelg_55ymHKYtTH2-NQiN9LnCgJLmsvLmo_wA78XGxH5Kol2y48DV84s6LhHDbXrNtK-GCG7IDgqrsQB8/s320/3.png" width="320" /></a></div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-67680241131977101262010-11-07T03:29:00.000+05:002010-11-07T03:34:14.806+05:00Birthday BoohooSurprises of surprises. This week, I am in an especially cowed down mood, and my hatred for nerds has once again taken a backseat. However, something came up, and while I usually don't blog if I don't have to talk about samosas, nerds, and uber-nerds, I felt it imperative to write about this. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The only other most talked about word, apart from 'recession' and 'Megan Fox' lately has been the word 'extremist. Let's not call them that- like one would call the physically handicapped 'disabled', for want of a better word- rather, they shall be addressed as the over-zealously religious ones. An image that pops up in my mind is of shuttlecock burqa clad women skirting about nervously and bearded men wielding Klashnikovs. But many of them breed among us. They sprout up as if from cracks in the pavement and become part of the milling crowd. They attend elite institutes and compete with the not-so-religious ones. They believe that there is no point in studying since it is the Hereafter that matters. And yes, some of them, in their disdain for all things Western/Indian, heretical and irreligious, denounce the celebration of birthdays.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A friend of mine had her birthday today. Since it was Facebook, and everyone out there usually strives to come up with the wittiest status updates and garner the maximum number of 'likes', this one came as a surprise. It said that she was sad because the birthday meant that her life had become a year shorter.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyFokmtnV9maeJQ8IZpLYVsMEtjvbQnKLLtxGAXlsc-4tYKMYMczuo185R_rPvoAX3biUDRwX-iI7usI_JD3z99yCUHE765eF2LTMXt02o9EI5u7jhnzZFoqyo6NLquaysw6YoGzsGu0/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyFokmtnV9maeJQ8IZpLYVsMEtjvbQnKLLtxGAXlsc-4tYKMYMczuo185R_rPvoAX3biUDRwX-iI7usI_JD3z99yCUHE765eF2LTMXt02o9EI5u7jhnzZFoqyo6NLquaysw6YoGzsGu0/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a>I think the post was pessimistic, to say the least. Nothing extremist, so far. What followed was an unprecedented flurry of messages- the religious ones immediately sought to capitalize on this opportunity and swooped down like eagles on fresh carcasses. The initial ones were a bit solemn, reflecting upon the impermanence of life. Nothing Keats or Shelley wouldn't have said.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But then there were others, that were obviously riled up by the ones pacifying the aggrieved birthday girl and wishing her a happy birthday. They promptly unleashed words of vengeance on the infidels (us, I believe) and copy pasted a number of Quranic verse translations in the comment box. This certainly impresses me in two ways- their ability to get worked up by something as innocent as a status update, and their ability to copy paste stuff from Google in a matter of minutes.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Please note that the birthday girl applauded one of those who had posted an extremist comment.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A friend of mine, who had been emphasizing on being positive, politely backed out of the convo. But I picked up where she'd left. My little brother passed by my computer screen and admired how there were already a number of likes on my short comments, while the dude with the quotations had none. <em>'Kisi nae itna lamba parha bhi nahin ho ga</em> (No one must've bothered to read such a lengthy post),' he told me decidedly.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Before you guys start rolling your eyes and prepare yourself for an anti-religious sermon, let me clarify- I don't remember quotations from the Quran, so I'm not going to type out any verses indicating the incurrence of Allah's wrath on those who celebrated birthdays. And I don't remember any evidence of the Holy Prophet admonishing anyone that a gazillion years from now on, birthday celebrations will be rampant and should be regarded as the work of Satan. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKO7y8g2TwfntBf59cG4Aiuwl8WyQRSB03cF4OBc-Ty6acdACIFYiub4pPusYYvwRWQTuRa5iCUZNaioBT-YIhcATHX_DKe9tS-6X8Lb1F3lCzTm5tNjLI7gPFA7-4Astl05o17we_L0/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKO7y8g2TwfntBf59cG4Aiuwl8WyQRSB03cF4OBc-Ty6acdACIFYiub4pPusYYvwRWQTuRa5iCUZNaioBT-YIhcATHX_DKe9tS-6X8Lb1F3lCzTm5tNjLI7gPFA7-4Astl05o17we_L0/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I remember watching this movie called <em>Khuda Kae Liye</em>, and this one scene where Shan tells someone that that's all extremists do- brand every fun activity as un-Islamic. Back to the birthday status- someone commented 'What is there to celebrate?'<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Isn't the enjoyment of life, i.e. a gift from Allah, something to be celebrated and cherished? I believe that rather than sit down and lament over the loss of a year of life, we should reflect upon it and cherish the fond memories it has generated. I believe that only those who have spent all their life fretting about enjoying what Allah has generously given us are the only ones who would have no reason to be happy. And even then, wouldn't someone be happy to come to the end of such a miserable existence? The blowing out of candles on a cake seems to be symbolic of the snuffing out of one's flame of existence. How morbid could one be?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">No one is telling you to go and get drunk or get high just because it's your birthday. But it makes no sense that the Almighty would want you to be unhappy over something you have no control over- the inevitable passing of time. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9efedwPowXKv0FODan-TUsRWOstN4pLNu0MjJHaUxR_-SGhG82o3UEePgf7EhHU0chlOCWXUFywrix56SZW86KP4t_sEqMt0apck2mc3HoFdyigD_eRuaGrokLPtFMJf2jvEOJA_JjY/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9efedwPowXKv0FODan-TUsRWOstN4pLNu0MjJHaUxR_-SGhG82o3UEePgf7EhHU0chlOCWXUFywrix56SZW86KP4t_sEqMt0apck2mc3HoFdyigD_eRuaGrokLPtFMJf2jvEOJA_JjY/s320/4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And indeed, if death only brings us closer to Allah, that very aspect is meant to be celebrated.</div><img height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKGEwZNFhzSKTgAFF_Xfk4PTg2vhjRolc_uw2-RyGQWB1I3Ni9klbTZcGU6_20CHM7vkuNevQsp6ffiIgJwDsojwrywCQ-f9GGr_p9WVfGPH030jqO4Xbl7R2sAZ05CG7OGTCk_h1cr8/s200/3.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 577px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 159px; visibility: hidden;" width="96" />Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-36246254630722368342010-10-29T03:52:00.000+05:002010-10-29T03:52:35.608+05:00Post-ExamsStupid hourlies have finally come to an end. Yay. As usual, this week of prolonged academic horror gave me more material for nerd-bashing. So here goes.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyBrNM7MCdvNSjI8xCqoSmtT_9gEOVfzWhplCchEAjrSRrNCUXJEWPKU62P7Viis03DxaQ5M88u6y243WHxst1PGp7-t8MjZcBrZbtQsHZskAQ-ykyKztj9XTBliooT5kf9IjUATxhH4/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyBrNM7MCdvNSjI8xCqoSmtT_9gEOVfzWhplCchEAjrSRrNCUXJEWPKU62P7Viis03DxaQ5M88u6y243WHxst1PGp7-t8MjZcBrZbtQsHZskAQ-ykyKztj9XTBliooT5kf9IjUATxhH4/s320/3.jpg" width="316" /></a>About two weeks before the hourlies, I came across this one nerd who was freaking out about one of our Finance courses. 'Hourlies are in two weeks!' she exclaimed, even before I had the chance to say hi or hello. 'Did you know that?'</div><br />
'Yeah,' I said, acting like the cool person I am. So yeah.<br />
<br />
'I have to go to a <em>shadi</em> tonight, and a birthday party tomorrow. I so have to start studying. Have you started studying?'<br />
<br />
'Me? <em>Abhi sae? </em>No,' I shook my head, thinking of how to steer the conversation away from such nerdy issues. Nerd- talk gives me hives. No, seriously.<br />
<br />
'Have you bought the book for the course?' she continued to pester me. Maybe that's one part of the cerebrum rote learning fails to develop - the ability to pick up hints.<br />
<br />
'No, I'm going to do my notes,' I told her.<br />
<br />
Her forehead creased with worry. 'Do you think we should get the book?'<br />
<br />
'I'm not going to get it. Our teacher didn't say he would be giving stuff from it.'<br />
<br />
'So you're not getting it?'<br />
<br />
'NO.'<br />
<br />
That finally shut her up. For ten minutes max.<br />
<br />
As the week of the hourlies drew closer, it led to greater procrastination on my end and an increasing sense of trepidation on the part of the nerds. Hordes of them clustered around the printers in the library lab, which were spewing out reams and reams of slide printouts. If any non-nerd even dared to approach any one of the printers, a look of vile nerd venom was shot in his/ her direction. That would leave said non-nerd in a dazed state for the next half hour or so.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9tP6vZlqfGRj8tcT8y-56ha_b52a1U4jM4BSPua6TAff8nP1vUb630DZsV7ZI3QDnJme4ngNgfq0OCyb3KInargjFCzpvAuG_Z9ikGvqic6zW7AvQcoD7_vqzHzQKltBO-EowPcxTSM/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9tP6vZlqfGRj8tcT8y-56ha_b52a1U4jM4BSPua6TAff8nP1vUb630DZsV7ZI3QDnJme4ngNgfq0OCyb3KInargjFCzpvAuG_Z9ikGvqic6zW7AvQcoD7_vqzHzQKltBO-EowPcxTSM/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Don't you DARE approach this printer, or else.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>The facebook statuses followed soon after. The annoying part wasn't simply the fact that they were nerdy. For some time, they were quite bearable. When a nerd puts up a status that says 'KSL is studying Corporate Law' (read: is <em>rattofying </em>all the handouts back to back until they can narrate them in their sleep), all I can do is roll my eyes and ignore it. It's when the nerds think that their creative juices have begun flowing and use them to concoct statuses that make me hurl. Needless to say, I did not take kindly to statuses that suggested that<br />
<br />
a) Security Analysis was creating 'insecurity' amongst the student population<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">b) Ethics had forced them to resort to 'unethical' means, </div><br />
or that....well, you get the drift.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It is amazing to see how people unite in the face of a national crisis, or rather a university-wide one. Nerds and non-nerds alike festoon the tables in the library where they pore over the aforementioned printouts. These pre-hourly sessions of cramming ultimately take the form of picture albums titled 'Semester Madness/ Mayhem'or something equally riduculous that would suggest madness in the form of a wild party with a pinata. The pictures, however, would display nerds in all their dark-circled glory hunched over a stack of notes. Any other pictures would be close-ups of pages in textbooks where they'd have drawn stick figures or circled some word with a double meaning. After the hourlies, a further examination of '10 new photos added' is bound to reveal close-ups of each paper with marks of at least 18 and above (out of 20').</div><br />
Note: If a nerd only puts up five close-ups instead of six, he/she got bad marks in that paper for sure. Something like a 17.9.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfuQ9xnh6uFpc6PnNzkH0eKnA8m3SIuy-yRq6rhMcxRR_ct_nPlQzEiCYafhKIZv_8XSQER8kXg9gl7G0GXU4uAS7PuGG2OIJXG2oqcmPpngYfN4lLUw-vNtqtFUJrNHzH90twYQFvKM/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfuQ9xnh6uFpc6PnNzkH0eKnA8m3SIuy-yRq6rhMcxRR_ct_nPlQzEiCYafhKIZv_8XSQER8kXg9gl7G0GXU4uAS7PuGG2OIJXG2oqcmPpngYfN4lLUw-vNtqtFUJrNHzH90twYQFvKM/s200/2.jpg" width="200" /></a>The irony here is that the moment one's hourlies come to an end, people start putting up statuses like 'Finally! FREE! EEE!' No one could have guessed that this happiness is short-lived, and that in about fifteen hours we will have dragged ourselved back to university and will be slumbering over early morning lectures on brands and capitalization of assets. </div><br />
Blegh. <br />
<br />
Which is precisely why I never indulge in putting up an EEE!-ing status.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-60322164396520927162010-10-11T03:27:00.000+05:002010-10-11T03:27:56.808+05:00Elections! Whoopee!!!<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Once again, for the gazillionth time (ok, the fourth time) since I've started university, the start of the term was marked by the one event that is remotely interesting for some, and a matter of life and death for many. Like Jedi warriors, hordes of students battle furiously as interglalactic (read: inter-campus) forces of good and evil. However, instead of lightsabers, they sport- nothing. Blegh. It's just a battle of good old bitching and backstabbing- 'games', they call them.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGNEuGvQ7ZyxyXa2EmUFwbA3ag55zKURRuei4mNFkgZebax9hOwZEU2zHnleX4EydRbE-OWxT33zvuQ7-nxLv7C0u_I4L4B82bP1scH9805b96mHmDCVfAsje7GOxaq8xtafJ0_VmA9w/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGNEuGvQ7ZyxyXa2EmUFwbA3ag55zKURRuei4mNFkgZebax9hOwZEU2zHnleX4EydRbE-OWxT33zvuQ7-nxLv7C0u_I4L4B82bP1scH9805b96mHmDCVfAsje7GOxaq8xtafJ0_VmA9w/s320/2.jpg" width="283" /></a> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Elections. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For those of you who don't know much about them, elections are monumental. The end of elections marks the beginning of the reign of people who rule university throughout the academic year, occassionally stealing money out of uni funds to get a headstart on the car they want to get once they graduate. It may be because one wants to get back at a political rival/ be an attention-seeker to the max/ brag about how he's going to work at PnG <em>and </em>be be the VP of such a prestigious university. Nevertheless, there are many who aspire to be in the thick of planning and plotting, have slumber parties at the boys hostel, make ridiculous freshies swoon (when are our election candidates ever really hot?) and eventually win the the most coveted posts.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This semester, I have an awesome timetable. It allows me to sleep through three hours of classes on four days, and sleep at home for the remaining two days. So this time, I was mercifully oblivious to most of the election proceedings. Even then, a number of irksome incidents took place, and of course, I absolutely must talk about them.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
For freshies and juniors, elections are a novelty. After days of mugging up for A levels/ Inter exams, Anees Hussain-ing/ IBA Grad-ing, and getting bored during the summer vacations, they crowd around election candidates like bright-eyed kids in a candy shop, ooh-ing and aah-ing at all the 'leadership' spiel being dished out. Our new VP was certainly in his element, with loads of ex-students from Anees Hussain hanging on to every word of his. Some juniors were misled into believing that they were his core campaigners, and went about ensuring that everyone else felt so.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">On Saturday, as I wended my way through the throng of people milling about in the corridor, I was ambushed my a number of campaigners. Absolutely everyone who's best friend/ boy friend was standing up had lined up, beseeching me 'Please vote for Shahzeb/ Daniah/ Ali Abbas/ XYZ'. Worse were the candidates themselves 'Please vote for meeeee.....Please vote for meeee......you're voting for me right?' like the annoying ancient <em>zamanay kae </em>songs my dad plays on repeat in the car and I can't shake out of my head. Right in front of the library, my way was blocked by this junior.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Maryam, please vote for Saad Khaleel, please,' she pleaded. 'You're voting for Saad Khaleel right?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
My eyebrows shot up. I mean hello, this junior, this JUNIOR, was asking ME, to vote for Saad Khaleel. I've known Teddy really well for three years, so I immediately thought of saying 'Excuse me! I think I know who to vote for, and considering it's him you're asking me to select!' But the nice person that I am, I bit back all the bitchy remarks that broiled in my head and just nodded.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">She looked relieved. 'Oh really, thank you,' she chirped gratefully, as if I'd done her a huge favour. As if I had decided to vote for Teddy just because <em>she</em> had asked me to. Two minutes before I was about to cast my vote.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Let me mention that this particular junior is of the attention-seeking variety. Sadly, some lame juniors like her jump onto the campaigning bandwagon and forget who they're talking to.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
Come senior year, and some embittered souls decide that it's finally time that they act all knowledgeable about election candidates. They will promptly launch into speeches about how so and so candidate has mauled, molested, and threatened them for the last three years, and that it is imperative that they bring about his downfall this year. Which is why they bitch like embittered old women, dying to hog all the glory and saying 'I made him lose.' Like Overexcited Classmate.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A loserly tent had been set up near the admin office. As I stood in line, an Overexcited Classmate and a Bored Guy took their places behind me. Under the watchful eye of one of the guards, the line shuffled forward at a snail's pace. I winced in the glare of the sun, feeling more bored by the minute.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>A voice hissed 'Boy, who are you voting for?' It was OC.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>BG yawned and answered 'Of course, Teddy. Why? You're voting for the opposition, right?'<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">OC was obviously high on something. He hopped around like a nervous bunny. 'BOY! Don't vote for Teddy. Has he ever really spoken to you? <em>Kabhi</em> Teddy Bear<em> ban jatay hai aur kabhi </em>Panda. He's not reliable!' </div><br />
Apparently someone on an overdose of PLE (Philosophy, Logic and Ethics).<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The line moved forward. BG looked annoyed. 'Whatever, man! Does it really matter? These guys don't have much power now! And anyway, I'm voting for Teddy.'</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_yL7QixKWQD86qjpQSJrXw-Hf1ANABXfsUYhUU44wI0YVlKyk7yxvVy522OFMQVxJ5lst-YovdQuodU7a3KScOBByh__emz5bnuJpJY97n3qSFJK3nGZmUHHRTMI6AzyoOCwVWXPXBQ/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_yL7QixKWQD86qjpQSJrXw-Hf1ANABXfsUYhUU44wI0YVlKyk7yxvVy522OFMQVxJ5lst-YovdQuodU7a3KScOBByh__emz5bnuJpJY97n3qSFJK3nGZmUHHRTMI6AzyoOCwVWXPXBQ/s320/1.jpg" width="257" /></a>'<em>Na kar yaar!' </em>OC wailed, hoping to get a convert out of him. 'Vote for the opposition! Vote for the opposition!' he chanted, like an ominous mantra.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Whoever said that repetition drilled ideas into your head was obviously mistaken. Sometimes, it annoys the hell out of people. BG squinted at the shining sun, shifted his feet impatiently and burst out '<em>Kya hai yaar! Mujhay nahin karna </em>vote<em>! </em>I'm going home. I think the point's here.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">OC was apalled. '<em>Yaar ruk! Vote to kar kae ja!' </em>he pleaded, as if addressing a <em>naraaz</em> lover. But BG paid no heed and happily scampered over to Gate 1, out of sight.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The most annoying person, however, was somebody my sister came across. She was at the LearnFest being held at Sheraton when a text bubbled up on her screen. It was Psychotic Senior.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Oh hey, I was just wondering, who are you voting for in the elections?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Haha, why? Who do you want me to vote for? :P' asked my sister.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Me? No, I was just asking because I've been out of touch with the election scene lately, and I don't knoq <em>anyone </em>who's in it this time. Are ABC and XYZ standing up for anything?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'ABC is, I don't know who XYZ is. And it's ok, you can tell me who you're campaigning for.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Me? I'm not campaigning for anyone. And it's ok, I got my answer. You're a bad liar. Tee hee.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">PS is one of the very few girls who keep tabs on minute-by-minute election proceedings. Right then, she also sounded like a girl who had become delusional and demented because of that.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My sis scowled. 'Lying?! You're the one who's a bad campaigner!' she texted furiously.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'I wonder why you're lying about this, when you don't even have a big stake in this,' PS shot back. Apparently, she was just high on retardedness.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My sister ignored a text, and PS started bombarding her with them. What then ensued was bitchy bantering between the two, which grew more heated by the minute.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Finally, when PS was done with her retarded rampage, she texted 'Dude, I just wanted to know who you were voting for. So I just texted all my friends.'</div><br />
My sister and PS are so not friends. They've hardly ever spoken to each other, and we later found out that she had gotten my sister's number just then from another friend.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">People like PS really top the list of annoying people. They are mostly ex-veterans who campaigned vigorously for someone the preceding year, can't bear the idea of being ignored this year, and are mistaken in believing that they can act like a current candidate's secret weapon. Unfortunately, the only place they end up being mentioned is on a blog. Like mine.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijX4COfVoFHZOQV2XvL_wUyHAfqPVNfHtO7sP2miQ128HirEwkO9tKJz0lGj0j9q6PQ9v6B_kakFpPqOI2DHNIMKlVEhv_aBdnISXmy57RFhjFCK6ObqCKBh7nsSVtnicg9vwv_tIAvTU/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijX4COfVoFHZOQV2XvL_wUyHAfqPVNfHtO7sP2miQ128HirEwkO9tKJz0lGj0j9q6PQ9v6B_kakFpPqOI2DHNIMKlVEhv_aBdnISXmy57RFhjFCK6ObqCKBh7nsSVtnicg9vwv_tIAvTU/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-32015713026712202262010-09-24T23:50:00.000+05:002010-09-24T23:51:45.660+05:00Nosy SpyThe following is a conversation that I just had with a Nosy Spy:<br />
<br />
NS: Hey there Maryam<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Maryam Khan: Hey</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>NS: I just read your blog post, and I can kinda guess who PN is. And it's not that unobvious.<br />
<br />
MK: Lol, haha. Who?<br />
<br />
NS: JSJDKF?<br />
<br />
MK: Blegh, no. I got scared for a minute there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfU-dV_fLKBIOHcdLUoOVG5PxE6Z1NDRrNtqgD1YdGzrS7RzAddRXRKbTlx3gwKkr7lyz54S3UpIqE3OFAMEun7H_pvCLdgGBtB4ZO3DqCicyhcXErBXPGc67raJ73yiiAtsNdjsz9_fI/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfU-dV_fLKBIOHcdLUoOVG5PxE6Z1NDRrNtqgD1YdGzrS7RzAddRXRKbTlx3gwKkr7lyz54S3UpIqE3OFAMEun7H_pvCLdgGBtB4ZO3DqCicyhcXErBXPGc67raJ73yiiAtsNdjsz9_fI/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">NS: Haha, I know it is. <em>Khair</em>, keep pouring it out. Better out than in.</div><br />
MK: No it isn't. I hardly travel home with her. And the purpose of the blog is not to target specific individuals, rather what they do. Btw JSJDKF is not the only nerd in our batch.<br />
<br />
NS: True. But who can be fat? Lol, and <em>paindu</em>. According to you that is (notice the emphasis on my understanding of the definition)<br />
<br />
MK: Haha, NS, that was an exaggeration, because I was stuffed in the car with four people. It might have been SJDL for all anyone knows. And there are lots more <em>paindu</em> girls as well.<br />
<br />
NS: Good, what do you mean by <em>paindu</em> in that case (maybe she thought I meant her?)<br />
<br />
MK: The way people talk, you know. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">NS: In your area, there aren't too many. HHSK, ALD, WSKL to name a few. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">MK: I didn't even say that I was passing through my area. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">NS: Whateverrrr....let our imagination wander :D (notice the use of the smiley to show that she was ok with it. When she was apparently perturbed at the fact that I hadn't told her.)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">MK: Haha, yeah.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For everyone who personally takes delight in the fact that I bash people they know here....please feel delighted in your own personal space. While I make no pretense of liking people I hate, I prefer <em>bitching</em> here. Not <em>backbiting</em>, which are two different things. Also, I make no claims that all stories are a hundred percent true. For all you know, I could've been in a truck, on my way to Bahamas, squashed amidst thirty people in <a href="http://samosafreak.blogspot.com/2010/09/why-i-hate-nerds-part-ii.html">the last blog post</a>. So duh, I make up a lot of details. Don't pride yourself into thinking that you know everyone I talk about.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Because you so don't. Keep on guessing.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-78810912539314352552010-09-24T12:33:00.000+05:002010-09-24T12:33:43.581+05:00Why I Hate Nerds- Part IISince I'm just warming up on the subject of nerds, it's tough to sift through memories of all of my encounters with them. Tougher to come up with the retardest ones. Anyway, another reason why I hate nerds will be illustrated by the following story:<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was a fine February morning, and the weather of Karachi was crisp and cold. Our last exam had ended, and a friend of mine was giving me a ride back home. Friend and her Mom were in front; Friend's Mom was driving. The car swished through the dry air, and I clutched at the car seat uncomfortably. The reason for my discomfort was the fact that I wasn't alone in the back of the car- I was smushed together with three other people. Little Nerd, Paindu Nerd and Non-nerdy Guy.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Paindu</em> is a difficult word to describe. For me, it just doesn't stand for someone who wears loud colours or has a retarded fashion sense. Rather, it denotes an unrefined way of life, attitude and mannerisms. In that twenty minute car ride, Paindu Nerd pretty much summed herself as all of the abovementioned characteristics.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPrm3ymd5SX8lBMG2WDUaeLeMDcoQ9y3ttxPZH8JjoaZLM7AF1nBYRwFqg5uwtHSk_ouejps1EehTYQLO8s_zXU5lFtDbzWtxcf5UU63mzKtBENXUade0ht7m2iE9_BskAIFbEGcsnms/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPrm3ymd5SX8lBMG2WDUaeLeMDcoQ9y3ttxPZH8JjoaZLM7AF1nBYRwFqg5uwtHSk_ouejps1EehTYQLO8s_zXU5lFtDbzWtxcf5UU63mzKtBENXUade0ht7m2iE9_BskAIFbEGcsnms/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">PN, like Uber Nerd, also has a tremendously high GPA, <em>Mashallah</em> <em>sae</em>. However, it is sad to see that this high GPA has not translated itself from grades to 'education', for want of a better word. PN was high after having aced the exam (in her opinion) and couldn't stop blabbering about it. Her incessant stream of blathering had commenced from the lobby, till the parking lot, getting seated in the car, and was still on.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'LN, what did you write for the answers to Questions 1 and 2?' piped up PN in an extra high-pitched voice. That's another annoying thing about nerds- they like to recite each and every word they've penned down in an exam. Like people dissecting every detail of a cricket match after the game, multiplied by a million times mundane.</div><br />
'I wrote about the Utilitarian Theory, the Rights Theory and the Justice Theory,' LN announced triumphantly.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>PN, not wanting to be outdone, spoke up again 'Oh, but I also wrote about the Care Theory,' and beamed around as if expecting us to applause.<br />
<br />
LN looked downcast. I was least bothered, since I didn't have the same teacher as they did, and yawned. Non-nerdy Guy, obviously bored, looked out of the window.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">However, PN would not settle for being ignored. No sirree. I think she knows that I hate her, and that I would've bitchslapped her to the other end of the world if she had tried to engage me in a conversation. So she paused briefly and targeted the only other polite person in the backseat- NG.</div><br />
'NG, what did you write for those two questions?'<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The car careened over a winding bridge. Did I mention that PN is obnoxiously fat, and was the main reason why I wasn't sitting comfortably in the car? Apparently she was so busy nailing down all those Ethics theories that she had never bothered to learn basic stuff. Like sitting in a car, for starters.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">NG cleared his throat and decided to be polite. 'Um, I wrote more or less the same stuff,' he drawled casually.</div><br />
If he was hoping that that would shut up PN, he was sadly mistaken. Because this was PN, who is like, the grand-daddy of all nerds. Grand-mummy. Or whatever.<br />
<br />
'Oh, but did you put in examples?' she trilled in a tone that made me cringe.<br />
<br />
NG smiled ruefully. 'Nope.' And he went back to staring out of the window.<br />
<br />
LN squirmed uncomfortably, and said 'I didn't either. I didn't think it was that important.'<br />
<br />
At that moment, I so hated LN that I would've strangled her alive. Overlooking my pact not to harm harm-less nerds.<br />
<br />
That was the moment PN had been waiting for. She aahed and oohed, and preened in all her <em>paindu</em> glory.<br />
<br />
'But the instructions in the beginning <em>explicitly</em> stated that you had to put in examples,' she argued. <br />
<br />
Since PN was sitting right behind me, her gravelly voice made me wince.<br />
<br />
Nobody had taught LN to shut up at the right time either. 'But the instructions said "use examples where possible". So I think that doesn't make it compulsory.'<br />
<br />
PN huffed and puffed like a disgruntled elephant. 'But-'<br />
<br />
Friend's Mom, who had so far been trying to ignore PN's racuous voice chimed in 'Where do I have to drop you, PN?'<br />
<br />
'No LN, you're wrong. Those two questions said "illustrate with examples", and there were a lot of examples that were applicable.' PN bellowed, totally ignoring Friend's Mom. Which was downright rude of her. Any rational, normal, non-nerd, would have known that. But no, not PN. When she gets down to embarassing herself, she does it thoroughly.<br />
<br />
So, PN decided to outdo that level of rudeness and take it up another notch. I saw Friend's Mom visibly stiffen up, and reiterate 'PN, where do I have to drop you?'<br />
<br />
PN shamelessly continued with her tirade. 'There was this example about the care theory that I wrote-'<br />
<br />
Friend twisted around in her seat and directly addressed her. 'PN, where do we have to stop for you?'<br />
<br />
PN gasped for breath like an oxygen starved fish, and continued blathering.<br />
<br />
Friend's Mom cut in again, irritated like hell. 'WHERE DO I HAVE TO DROP YOU?'<br />
<br />
PN opened her mouth like a gaping fish again, and said firmly 'EK MINUTE!' (Just a sec)<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNQBhaXCzarl35-wWqLMr78O6he5RlO17R2i7B3SNxtoVFSdueIqS5s1BFtPV-8xbSuqu_kmOAfaF4R8-drICh6edLZNF0Dc1pzPeLaT3CDXmsO3tl6nk5NGcgYjEr1X5jd_93OlXznI/s1600/2009_funny_people_020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNQBhaXCzarl35-wWqLMr78O6he5RlO17R2i7B3SNxtoVFSdueIqS5s1BFtPV-8xbSuqu_kmOAfaF4R8-drICh6edLZNF0Dc1pzPeLaT3CDXmsO3tl6nk5NGcgYjEr1X5jd_93OlXznI/s320/2009_funny_people_020.jpg" width="320" /></a>*dramatic music*</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">*dramatic music on repeat*</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Friend's Mom was shell-shocked. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I bit back a cry of 'EW!!!!'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">PN's spittle had landed on the back of my neck. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> I wiped it off with the edge of my dupatta. And never wore that dupatta ever ever again.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">PN rambled on in that raspy voice of hers. 'Yeah, so I hope he approves of all my examples. Because if he doesn't, I might end up getting an-' Hushed voice. '-A minus.'<br />
<br />
PN paused for dramatic effect. NG had long stopped paying attention, and LN had her head bowed in defeat, as if in acknowledgement of the superior nerdiness of PN. <br />
<br />
I was disgusted beyond comparison. PAINDU. NERD. SPITTLE. ON THE BACK OF MY NECK.<br />
<br />
PN bristled like a stout hen (yes, she does resemble a number of creatures depending upon the occasion) and finally burst out her address.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
I felt more spittle spray on to the back of my neck. I think the second time it even caught some of my hair.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-27800170159575021412010-09-20T20:54:00.000+05:002010-09-20T22:34:03.114+05:00Why I Hate Nerds- Part IOnce upon a time, like some ten years ago, I was destined to become a nerd. After I got my O level results, I think it had pretty much been written down in blood. However, I soon realized that I needed a life more than I needed straight As, and so thankfully, I was spared of the ordeal.<br />
<br />
I don't hate nerds because they are more motivated, disciplined or focused than me. Those are all admirable traits. I hate nerds simply because they are bloody annoying.<br />
<br />
Nerds love to cry over marks. Crying over a dead kitten, or flood relief victims, or even clothes that the tailor ruined is understandable. Crying over one mark is not. I should elaborate that by crying I mean<br />
a) wailing like a banshee, incensed at the audacity of the teacher to mess with their marks<br />
b) yelling like a three year old baby high on crystal meth<br />
c) smudging the ink on their papers with tears that spout from a fountain rivalled only by those of women in Star Plus soaps<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLlPeVscBvbASSLMZxwY8oht9ePl4kZSIRIYZGJYwHrgpryDdM1NvjK9KqaK7UE8FIL1wJZT8j3zRs4ITMmAiFyabPn1usYphpxXo6dRTSG1dj1MDR5aonzBimSLtAF0tQpRPYIJsirc/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLlPeVscBvbASSLMZxwY8oht9ePl4kZSIRIYZGJYwHrgpryDdM1NvjK9KqaK7UE8FIL1wJZT8j3zRs4ITMmAiFyabPn1usYphpxXo6dRTSG1dj1MDR5aonzBimSLtAF0tQpRPYIJsirc/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There have been numerous instances, but I will recount just one. In my first year of university, there was this girl in my batch- still is- let's call her Uber Nerd. The first time the hourlies rolled by, and the results came out, I spotted a destitute and forlorn UN leaning against a pillar, bawling her lungs out, surrounded by two friends who were busy consoling her. I interrupted one of the friends to inquire why (I wasn't sympathetic, I was just curious) and asked her what had happened.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'UN got bad marks in an hourly,' Equally Nerdy friend gestured empatically.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I didn't bat an eyelash. 'So?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'She's afraid that she'll get kicked out of IBA,' the friend elaborated, probably expecting me to make an equally miserable face and commiserate with UN. Which was <em>so</em> not happening. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>'</em>How much did she get?' I asked, not really interested now that I knew that she hadn't been struck by lightening or had had a meteorite crash into her home.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Eighteen,' the friend hung her head sadly.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I moved away before I laughed myself to death. Hiccupped myself to death, to be more accurate.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Hourlies are out of 20. T-W-E-N-T-Y. Maybe I should've spelled it out for UN.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Right now, Uber Nerd has one of the highest GPAs in our batch and has made it to the Dean's list.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-1736902984427012162010-09-17T05:57:00.000+05:002010-09-17T05:58:22.185+05:00Frustrating AuntyIf you're playing poker, deftly winning one hand after another, there will soon be a time when luck will desert you and you will start losing badly. If you've been getting a superbly high GPA in your previous semesters, there may soon come a time when it plummets to shockingly low levels (sound effect: nerds gasping in horror). When <a href="http://samosafreak.blogspot.com/2010/06/bitchy-teacher.html">Headband</a> retired to God knows what forsaken corner of the world, I heaved a sigh of relief. I expected things to go smoothly for a while, but like all good things come to an end, so did this interval of peace. <br />
<br />
Yesterday, Bilal and I were teaching the students as usual when Frustrating Aunty walked in. I hardly looked up, but she made a beeline towards him and started explaining something in an embarassed manner. Minutes later, Bilal scooted over to where I was busy mulling over fake compounds and modifiers.<br />
<br />
'She's an old student of ours....has studied for four months and STILL hasn't given the GRE," Bilal rolled his eyes.<br />
<br />
I just shrugged and made my way over to the table where she was sitting. Not that I was bothered- not giving the GRE as planned wasn't really a crime. <br />
<br />
Plain looking, clad in a black <em>abaya, </em>she looked like a serious student. After introducing myself, I casually asked her why she hadn't given the GRE last time.<br />
<br />
She looked at me attentively and heaved a sigh of despondence. 'Miss, <em>ab kya bataon </em>(yes, it is freaky when a woman ten years older than you calls you Miss), I was teaching at that time, and I wasn't able to devote as much time to prep. But now I've left the job, I colleague of mine has taken over, and here I am. Oh and I just have till October 7 to give the paper,' she beamed happily.<br />
<br />
I gave her a faltering smile, all the while thinking <em>er, there's no need to get so happy about that. </em>Freaky over-enthusiastic lady.<br />
<br />
'That's hardly three weeks from now,' I frowned. ' You need to be done with Math and English by then.'<br />
<br />
The ridiculously huge smile on FA's face wobbled. Just a teeny weeny bit.<br />
<br />
'But I remember all the words,' she perked up. 'I just completed a test right now, and I got 18 out of 20 right!'<br />
<br />
Apparently Frustrating Aunties think that knowing the meanings of eighteen words out of twenty merits them a Nobel Prize. For Synonym Guessing.<br />
<br />
If only over-enthusiastic aunty had given me something to be enthusiastic about in return. But my hopes were soon to be dashed. Like a body flung over the side of a cliff, battered into a gazillion bloody pieces.<br />
<br />
Frustrating Aunty began reading a Reading Comprehension passage. Ten minutes elapsed. My pencil impatiently beat a staccato on the wooden table. Ultimately, we started on the questions.<br />
<br />
'Read the question, and then revert back to that particular section of the passage,' I suggested, as she skimmed through the whole of it with a panicked expression.<br />
<br />
Eons passed. I looked at the walls. I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the seconds hand merrily ticking away in the wall clock. I scowled at Bilal shooting me sympathetic glances over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
Just when I was about to die from extreme boredom, FA motioned me over. Exhaling sharply, I hunched over her book and asked 'Yes?'<br />
<br />
She looked at me as if the question she was about to ask me posed one of the most riddling dilemmas known to mankind. 'Should I read the question before I read the concerned paragraph or vice versa?'<br />
<br />
I looked upwards, hoping something would come down and smite me there and then. A piece of yellowed plaster hung precariously from the ceiling, but decided to stay put. No such luck.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Erm, you can't know what paragraph the question is referring to unless you read the latter first, right?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">FA stared at me with big, black, beady eyes and then averted her gaze back to the book.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Two minutes later, she beckoned to me. 'I don't know the answer to the first question.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I rephrased the question for her. 'It says "From paragraph 1, what can you deduce about bla bla bla....?' I hinted. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">FA stared back at me blankly. Apparently FA's don't deserve hints.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'That's it,' I pointed to a line in the text that had been copied word for word as one of the answer choices. FA nodded contentedly and began poring over the passage again.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Five minutes later, she lifted her head. 'Miss, I don't know what the answer to the second question is.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I hated the way she kept on calling me 'miss' in that wheedling tone of hers. By then, her voice was wreaking havoc on my nerves.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Ok, let's go over the comprehension again,' I suggested before she could get another one of her whiny 'miss's in.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">FA began reading the passage. Haltingly, with the utmost concentration. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Within two minutes, I wasn't sure whether she was reciting the text in Greek or French or Gobbledygook.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVp5oFeDRvebLW9RzlbUIwBlBL1Zs6jaJ6HUewXlQALyVSd5yn_KJbsBeSMAIuiLo_W8ykItO3KepSF1hNj_zjAU0wjfBtVbiXmxcpDW11FWNYv65ZVm4Mx52K56pRamGWuOKjho4Gpk/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVp5oFeDRvebLW9RzlbUIwBlBL1Zs6jaJ6HUewXlQALyVSd5yn_KJbsBeSMAIuiLo_W8ykItO3KepSF1hNj_zjAU0wjfBtVbiXmxcpDW11FWNYv65ZVm4Mx52K56pRamGWuOKjho4Gpk/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I decided to spare my ears, as well as those of all the other students in the room, and read the passage aloud myself.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm pretty sure class had never been that long before. FA interrupted me at regular intervals to ask me the meaning of every word in the comprehension. For someone who had memorized the entire word list, she was surely coming across as an enigma.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Bilal looked annoyed by the end of class. 'She can't solve even a single Math question!' He hissed exasperatedly. 'She's forgotten everything!'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I sighed, rubbing the heels of my palm against my forehead to get rid of the Frustrating Aunty headache. 'Tell me about it. She doesn't know how to pronounce "archaeological".'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Bilal wasn't surprised even a little bit. <em>'Tumhay pata hai inhon nae kya kia hai</em>?' (Do you know what her qualifications are?)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'<em>Kya</em>?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'A Masters in Economics. She used to teach MA Economics in KU.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I snorted. 'She needs to go back to sixth grade and study Junior English first.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We cracked up. I winced. My headache hurt. <em>I'll get back at you for this, Frustrating Aunty, </em>I thought ruefully.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Luckily for me, <a href="http://samosafreak.blogspot.com/2010/08/nerdville.html">Mr. Extra Super Nerd</a> (who substitutes for me) will be handling FA for the next three weeks while I'm on break. Muhahahaha.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-27372188114488173222010-09-12T08:06:00.000+05:002010-09-12T08:14:18.422+05:00Ramazan MayhemMy internship has finally come to an end. Six weeks of 8 am-ing to 7 pm-ing are over! And so it's back to sleepless nights and teaching at the prep center once again.<br />
<br />
It was with an odd mixture of trepidation and relief that I surveyed the reception area once more. For one thing, I'd really missed coming here. Sure, I'd been coming on Saturdays, but that had hardly felt like the usual routine. And what with Ramazan coming by, classes have become really dull. The students are awfully quiet, and I keep on looking at the clock, waiting for the hours to tick by. However, I must say that it feels lovely to come to work where your boss will chat you up for ten minutes, inquiring about your internship and cursing your bitchy ex-boss. And I need not state that I don't miss spending time stalking bitchy peons and intimidating them just so that I can get coffee.<br />
<br />
It was just another regular coffee-less afternoon (because of Ramazan) when I ducked out of class to get some handouts. I trudged past a group of sullen looking kids. The Head Receptionist was talking to this guy with a very grim expression on his face, while two other girls looked on resignedly. Maybe they're getting told off for disrupting class, I thought sympathetically.<br />
<br />
About ten minutes later, I walked into the reception area and stopped short. The boy was arguing with the HR, face flushed. One of the two girls was whimpering, and kept on repeating 'I won't go home, I won't go home!' Now <em>that </em>really piqued my curiosity. And so once the trio was out of earshot, I made my way to the HR and asked him about it.<br />
<br />
The HR grinned a smile full of yellow teeth. '<em>Jee</em>?'<br />
<br />
I lowered my voice conspiratorially, keeping an eye on the weepy maiden and the freaky adolescent. 'What happened? Why's she crying?'<br />
<br />
The HR's smile waned. 'Miss <em>ab kya bataen</em>. These kids are up to their <em>khel kood</em>. Even in class, tch tch.'<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The dumb retard that I am, I had to wince and repeat <em>'Khel kood</em>?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The HR grimaced and said <em>'Aapas mein khel kood'</em>. (They were playing games amongst themselves).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I stared at him and only one syllable came out of my mouth. 'Oh.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I kept on racking my brains thinking what the hell two girls and a guy were doing in a dark classroom after class. All sorts of cheap thoughts flitted across my mind, each one more repugnant than the other. But for the life of me I couldn't figure it out- the guy and the Weepy Maiden were making out, but what was the other girl doing in the room with them?! I surveyed the guy. Ok looking, average teenager with raging hormones. WM was kinda pretty- or probably was, it was hard to tell with all the smudged eyeliner around her red-rimmed eyes. The other girl was a plain looking one wearing a hijab. I mulled over all the possibilities over and over. I could understand why the gawky kid would be making out with WM, but the other one too, at the same time? EW.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJr_4uCaOS0t8LuhQwzqHpC8pefEesY3XgeyC6Xa5CMdN0x9X_dPMivGpak4IVDyStyqphZgUXzZDrUPNykMRnmKOAEXkJw6ZYVZbgPaYOaXua-fThOM2vUm_qrm4CF2LM5xd8G_5To8/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJr_4uCaOS0t8LuhQwzqHpC8pefEesY3XgeyC6Xa5CMdN0x9X_dPMivGpak4IVDyStyqphZgUXzZDrUPNykMRnmKOAEXkJw6ZYVZbgPaYOaXua-fThOM2vUm_qrm4CF2LM5xd8G_5To8/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a>Rather than prove my stupidity further, I made my best 'oh-I-understand' face and shut up. HR exhaled and continued, glad that I had finally caught his drift.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'I caught them in class, and I told them I'd be calling up their parents. The guy just balled up his fists and stood mutinously, while WM threw a tantrum and kept on saying that she couldn't go home, her parents would kill her. So I told them "Why do you guys do such things then? And that too in Ramazan. Tch tch." Then they all started crying (how gay on the guy's part, I thought), so I let them go with a warning.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He shoved a piece of paper towards me. Apparently he had tried to extract an apology from the guy. This is all that the scrap of paper read:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'I am sorry for talking to my friends in class.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Signed by all three.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I snorted. What had the HR expected, that they'd write 'we apologize for making out at the prep center, and that too just because we got caught'?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Weird desperate kids. Rather stupid desperate kids. Not that it was any of my business whether they were making out or not (that too in Ramazan! Courtesy: the HR), but why do that in a public place? A prep center classroom of all places.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Later when I recounted the story to my sister, she turned to me impatiently and said exasperatedly 'Maryam! How stupid could you be?! Of course the girl in the hijab was on the lookout for any people passing by!'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I don't know how my sister always knows things like these, and I never do.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I huffed. 'Whatever. Needless to say, she did a terrible job.'</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-32625503422774107852010-08-22T16:03:00.000+05:002010-08-22T16:03:58.701+05:00RoboCorpsIt's almost the end of my six week internship at a certain multinational bank. As it so happens whenever a certain chapter of our lives draws to a close, I find myself reflecting upon the entire internship and what aspects of it I'll miss when I'm back to eat-sleep-eat-repeat mode.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRHCBGTD3ekyHOqt-BC8o_cWgcQlVtdVAZoEiKwuKYOIsIdP1oaSt2epo_mvFS_ocbHfgNf0xHv2KqSSdOimL2IdnHD1fWiIwhHCgQyXNr8nTBvamFjii16z2hC8l0oxOgIooX08zV3Go/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRHCBGTD3ekyHOqt-BC8o_cWgcQlVtdVAZoEiKwuKYOIsIdP1oaSt2epo_mvFS_ocbHfgNf0xHv2KqSSdOimL2IdnHD1fWiIwhHCgQyXNr8nTBvamFjii16z2hC8l0oxOgIooX08zV3Go/s320/3.jpg" width="216" /></a>The most uncanny thing about interning here has undoubtedly been the kind of devotion that employees show towards work. Hence the term RoboCorp (short for Corporate. Yes I know I'm very smart to have coined that term). The first day that I entered the department I had been assigned to, I chose to be the Extra Preppy Internee and went around introducing myself to everyone there. The head of the department was effusive and cheerful enough. So was my supervisor, who was quietly surveying me and wondering if he would regret volunteering to be my supervisor over the next six weeks. I strode over to the other employees, especially one who hadn't even participated in the conversation I was having with the others and was staring at his computer screen with alarming attention. Not blinking. Clack clack clack, went his fingers on the keyboard. Eyes affixed to the screen. Silent and motionless, otherwise.</div><br />
'Hey, I'm the new internee,' I chirped happily, trying not to get freaked out by the zombie-like behaviour.<br />
<br />
'Yes, I know.' He replied shortly. Without even looking away from the computer screen. The keys on the black keyboard continued the staccato.<br />
<br />
I shrugged off this incident, unnerved by his brusque behaviour. However, as I later found out, I had misinterpreted his abrupt manner. It wasn't just him, it was everyone. And that's when I realized that two years at this bank had transformed them all into RoboCorps.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Each morning, they would all troop in silently. Like missionaries on a secret vigil. They'd plop themselves into their identical swivel chairs, switch on their systems, and whoosh. What then ensued was a mindless marathon of never ending work- poring over spreadsheets spreading over so many columns that I never even know MS Excel could hold, devouring financial frameworks like teenage girls over the Twilight series, and matching figures from ledgers like mathematical superheroes. Of course, mindless would be the wrong adjective to use in this case. All of this work required immense concentration and dexterity. And undoubtedly resulted in heavy salaries.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJC80-zGaOgWYA2oEAv27EziWf0uiDL3LmraFyR3AZ4uKv2XXrErtrjbRN1U5nhc5x6BOe_yZgcqsu9voJcga3z05PrZjUWNtzWKWUtf8r3QWqKLsxy0ahcRM-NZ5__q3eM_5SFQw5Dc/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJC80-zGaOgWYA2oEAv27EziWf0uiDL3LmraFyR3AZ4uKv2XXrErtrjbRN1U5nhc5x6BOe_yZgcqsu9voJcga3z05PrZjUWNtzWKWUtf8r3QWqKLsxy0ahcRM-NZ5__q3eM_5SFQw5Dc/s320/4.jpg" width="320" /></a>Nevertheless, it was freaky. Every morning, I'd be forcing my bleary eyelids open just so that I could wrap my head around the rows and rows of figures splayed on the screen. All around me, these mathematical maestros were in their element, engrossed in their work. The only sound in the room was that of six pairs of hands going clickety clack, clickety clack. Morning passed into afternoon, past twilight and into the late hours of the night. And still, the clicking and clacking went on relentlessly, like the harbinger of some kind of impending doom.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I felt like going up to them and shaking them. Unplugging their computers and scattering all their papers everywhere. The monotony was dreadful.Yes, there were pockets of laughter where they would crack jokes, pick on each other or have a rare conversation, but this mirth was seldom to be experienced.<br />
<br />
It would be hours before any of them would even look away from their screens. Most of them arrived promptly at 9, or even before that at times. Instantaneously, they'd morph into RoboCorps and start working. Most of them didn't even go for lunch, and merely subsisted on the chai that the Bitchy Peon brought in twice a day. Nowadays, they even have aftari in the office. It's a wonder that their families haven't disowned them yet.<br />
<br />
Their robotic indifference to everything around them was perturbing. As mentioned in my previous post, a number of employees in Business Planning & Analytics and Commercial Banking have had babies every week. Each time anyone in my department received an email, or was greeted by a peon bearing the glad tidings and mithai, someone would comment nonchalantly 'Guys, Zubair/ Hamza/Taha has had a baby.'<br />
<br />
Awkward silence. The spell of the sinister staccato had been dispelled, painfully cleaving the air into half.<br />
<br />
'Oh,' someone would finally say. 'I didn't know his wife was expecting.'<br />
<br />
And that was it. The ceaseless agony of the keyboards would start again.<br />
The day the AirBlue crash took place, someone piped up 'There's been a terrible crash in Islamabad. Over a hundred people were in it.'<br />
<br />
A weighty silence pressed down upon us all. Then another whispered solemnly 'Mr. XYZ's wife was in the crash too. I just got an email.'<br />
<br />
And then they all went back to the clickety clacking.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the day that the ANP member was killed. 'Some political person been killed,' someone spoke up all of a sudden. 'There are riots everywhere. You should go home,' he advised an employee who lived in Johar.<br />
<br />
The employee's' eyes briefly moved away from the screen. 'Yeah,' he finally blurted out after much thought, and went back to his keyboard. He finally managed to pull himself away from his seat after half an hour. Maybe that's how long panic sets into a RoboCorp, I thought.<br />
<br />
The other day, a fire drill was being conducted in the office. My heart leapt at the sound of the low, repetitive siren blaring throughout the office. Yes! Finally a chance to get a break and stretch my legs. I surveyed the people around me, waiting for any of them to make a move.<br />
<br />
Nobody did.<br />
<br />
The employee mentioned in the beginning of the post motioned me to come over and started explaining what I had to do with the file I was poring over.<br />
<br />
I was stunned. Were these people deaf?<br />
<br />
Finally, some female barged into our department, apparently out of breath. 'Get up you guys, it's a fire drill!' she hissed viciously and ran out.<br />
<br />
These guys looked at each other and grinned amusedly. A slow smile flickered across their faces as they contemplated whether to participate in a silly fire drill or continue with their RoboCorp-ing.<br />
<br />
Then someone finally pulled back his chair and ordered everyone to lock their systems.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtgoeu5r4Ik-sQvZwK5DbCaz3PVhqGitXS-GCYxIYTVVN7PXJRP2JZ2FcKj2mP3riyW8E1yS7m-3e6d8rEFoHTDL2jVE__cRfGeSuxoOGtnUOhBbhER9zhk7p-i1Tz-w0JKR6wo2NcNMc/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtgoeu5r4Ik-sQvZwK5DbCaz3PVhqGitXS-GCYxIYTVVN7PXJRP2JZ2FcKj2mP3riyW8E1yS7m-3e6d8rEFoHTDL2jVE__cRfGeSuxoOGtnUOhBbhER9zhk7p-i1Tz-w0JKR6wo2NcNMc/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a>I skipped down the stairs of the emergency exit and out behind the Branch Operations area. People were milling about and talking to each other; the diversion seemed to have been quite a welcome one. A much needed one, I might add. I hung around with my other internee friends for half an hour after that, and when I finally trooped into my department, bracing myself for those wretched keyboards, a calm silence descended upon me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There was no one in the entire department.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Apparently that was the only time that the RoboCorps decided to get a life. I sighed, grateful to know that these guys were human too.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-31127260309748253972010-08-09T16:10:00.000+05:002010-08-09T16:11:03.548+05:00The Baby BoomFor all those who are interested (and even those who aren't), my internship is <em>Mashallah sae</em> going great. Not only do I have a very chill boss, but the only hot guy in the entire place is on my floor - EEEEE! :D <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7vcsmO_Og3ywiWFR1QUlvvLvaSMo2pGPD4T2lQD5RImiFpkcZfQTeUyUyp6V6EKVhoMkuwxR-ITNRXjzTlqDqPmCl0McseW-sU4VMV_E-gZbXHUlHm9qEVlWvA8LvJ-a9DRw0fGzoLs/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7vcsmO_Og3ywiWFR1QUlvvLvaSMo2pGPD4T2lQD5RImiFpkcZfQTeUyUyp6V6EKVhoMkuwxR-ITNRXjzTlqDqPmCl0McseW-sU4VMV_E-gZbXHUlHm9qEVlWvA8LvJ-a9DRw0fGzoLs/s200/1.jpg" width="200" /></a>There is this one particular department on my floor where the employees are always having babies. No, I don't mean to say that the employees are giving birth <em>in </em>the department, during office hours. But seriously. So far, during the three weeks that I've been here, there have already been at least three babies whose births have brought glad tidings into this world and sentenced their parents to years of Pamper-ing (the brand, not the verb) and putting wailing tomato-faced cherubs to sleep. To celebrate the occasion, boxes of greasy <em>mithai </em>(sweetmeats) promptly arrived, carried in by peons who were by then tired of distributing them to everyone in the entire office.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I don't really like <em>mithai. </em>Gulab jamuns maybe, but nothing else. So every time a wimped out peon would offer me some from a box, I'd disdainfully survey the<em> </em>globs of <em>mithai</em> swimming in <em>sheer </em>(syrup) and politely decline. My friend Emma interns in another department, and time and again she's been boasting about boxes of Lindt and other chocolates that have been coming to her office and how successfully she's managed to swipe a number of them. So my interest in these babies eventually declined.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZttV3u-A0E7D-upBWMxArnj1JOtM0RiUm9Gtb2i451nxJv2XpJFNeLJ69cBjI8P-BoJvtYkGleFGKn_onJhw2KtSpYOne-OqFaOvwlimkhZH_F9XcwjlFGWUOvbevlqmeEML_LG1qvI/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZttV3u-A0E7D-upBWMxArnj1JOtM0RiUm9Gtb2i451nxJv2XpJFNeLJ69cBjI8P-BoJvtYkGleFGKn_onJhw2KtSpYOne-OqFaOvwlimkhZH_F9XcwjlFGWUOvbevlqmeEML_LG1qvI/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a>But today, an employee in Emma's (fellow intern) department has had a son. And Emma has promised to pester him until he gets chocolates to distribute in the office. Let's call this employee Daddy. Apparently, Daddy had told everyone that his wife was expecting, and since he's new, this kind of stayed in everyone's minds. It's hardly been two weeks since Daddy has joined, but he's been trying to be popular. While this is an insanely joyous occasion for him, it does have a downside. He now has a new nickname - Daddy- and whenever anyone calls him that, he pouts like a petulant five year old and childishly admonishes 'I'm not a daddy. No, I'm not.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>My friends and I have immediately labelled Daddy as a wannabe. I also feel sorry for the day old baby whose dad is denying his very existence in an attempt to be cool and sustain the non-existent interest that females here have in him. Tch tch. But our interest in getting our hands on those chocolates has still not subsided.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-67530110565504731092010-08-03T13:47:00.000+05:002010-09-12T08:19:40.280+05:00NerdvilleMy boss has been away for <em>umra</em> for the past two weeks. A day before he left, he called me up and told me that this new kid would be coming in to teach SAT/GRE/GMAT. 'At the moment, he's being trained for both Math and English, so please help him out with anything related to English. He's very bright,' Boss vouched. 'He was a student with us last year and scored a 2300 something in his SAT. AND he's topped the IBA test this year.'<br />
<br />
Any new addition to the prep center's staff is always looked forward to, and a smarty-pants would be all the more interesting. But when I finally met the alleged the IBA test topper, it turned out to be totally unclimactic.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I was sitting in the reception area talking to Sohaib (another teacher and one of my seniors at university) when Smarty-Pants strolled in.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sohaib had just been praising him <em>'Yaar</em> he has a great SAT score too.' I rolled my eyes inwardly- coming from KGS, SAT scores fail to astound me anymore. 'Hey, what was your score in the IBA test?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Smarty-Pants adjusted his askew glasses. 'Um, I got a 345 out of 400,' he muttered in an embarassed tone.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I looked on impassively, unaffected. I mean hello, I've never even bothered to ask about my IBA test score in the past three years.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>'So? That's good!' Sohaib chirped, noticing how downcast he looked.<br />
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'Not really,' mumbled Smarty-Pants, shifting from one foot to another. 'I could've gotten a better score, it's just that the Math section was really tough.'<br />
<br />
Sohaib cocked an eyebrow. 'Dude, you topped the test. What else do you want?'<br />
<br />
His tone immediately got Smarty-Pants all flustered. 'No, I just meant that it could've been better,' he finished lamely.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXiMPArz6X8NPnTQNiaO01x6YJc6P1aBB0KBikOwmM6Onhsc6D3hU3qhwJdfA8zsUPDKIJ8KiWeNDRyUpOM18pECxygTtDH6e-c9ni-zYWhyLvDqq6PmvysI_hbQMsG33fTzkBAzevx4/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXiMPArz6X8NPnTQNiaO01x6YJc6P1aBB0KBikOwmM6Onhsc6D3hU3qhwJdfA8zsUPDKIJ8KiWeNDRyUpOM18pECxygTtDH6e-c9ni-zYWhyLvDqq6PmvysI_hbQMsG33fTzkBAzevx4/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a>That very instant, Smarty-Pants' past and future flashed before my eyes. I saw him getting mini awards for coming first in primary school, mugging up stuff from exercise books and crying if he didn't get a full on a test. Getting a world distinction in Add Maths and cursing himself for not getting them in a couple of other subjects as well. I envisioned him having a heart attack on getting a GPA of 3.99 in his first semester at IBA.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>What a wimp.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-59830613079067475382010-07-25T21:00:00.000+05:002010-07-26T08:37:18.275+05:00No Anees Hussain-ingNOTE: Everyone who hasn't been able to comment on my blog lately- please use the 'Name/URL' option from now on. <br />
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Saturday is one of the days I really look forward to now. Ever since my summer internship programme began last week, I haven't been able to take my regular classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So after a hectic work week, I look forward to four hours of AH. Some of the things that I have really been missing for the past ten days are:<br />
<br />
1. Screaming at the reception <i>walay </i>to get me a pencil. Then shouting at them again to get me sharpened ones.<br />
<br />
2. Looking out for Headband and thinking up of new subtle lines to insult him.<br />
<br />
3. Looking out for new hot guys.<br />
<br />
4. Green tea brought in by the reception <i>walay</i>. Especially since my encounter with <a href="http://samosafreak.blogspot.com/2010/07/coffee-freak-and-bitchy-peon.html">the Bitchy Peon</a>.<br />
<br />
5. Muneeb-ur-Rehman's lame excuses for missing class.<br />
<br />
6. This group of kids who used to explain FIFA to my sport-retarded self, and told me about Paul the Octopus.<br />
<br />
So I was terribly terribly disappointed when some losers burnt up places in Gulistan-e-Johar and <i>haalaat </i>were kharaab. AH was closed for the day. Sniff.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-49570842908840006112010-07-22T01:06:00.000+05:002010-07-22T01:06:47.691+05:00The Coffee Freak and The Bitchy PeonYes, I know what you all must be thinking. Samosa Freak meets Coffee Freak? What an uncanny turn of events! However, I regret to say that this was a so-not-exciting and rather annoying encounter with an individual who has made me suffer terribly.<br />
<br />
I have always been proud of the kind of stamina I have. Even after a gruelling day of uni and fours hours of Anees Hussain-ing, I've been able to go out with friends or even study. When others complain about how dead tired they are after a 9-6 internship, I hide the smirk on my face since I can never empathize with these people.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.saratoga.com/horse-racing-blog/Coffee!.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" hw="true" src="http://www.saratoga.com/horse-racing-blog/Coffee!.bmp" width="135" /></a>I have always been most pleased with the fact that I am not addicted to either tea or coffee, and a good night's sleep is more than sufficient for me. But since I happen to be human, I did realize that long internship hours were extremely tiring. Thankfully, this really nice peon on the first floor used to bring me coffee twice a day, and so I spent the first three days sitting with my friend Amal and having the most scintillating conversations ever. The fact that coffee perks me up like an Energizer bunny probably helped too.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When I finally managed to transfer to the department of my choice, I was ecstatic. But as the old adage goes- there's always some bad with the good. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5IKfXc_H1LT9mCDqJltwQ_TseOHScHxHeGo_Cb7hx0w-sWPwc_LEK4ZKPyWkt5DI5Abqxt_jypzjD0BktAsQD1f-Bbwi9K6XTK3vlqdlzQVU_6Yj810BRitRRRTtRJIR1PwbDk6j4kE/s1600/Pic+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5IKfXc_H1LT9mCDqJltwQ_TseOHScHxHeGo_Cb7hx0w-sWPwc_LEK4ZKPyWkt5DI5Abqxt_jypzjD0BktAsQD1f-Bbwi9K6XTK3vlqdlzQVU_6Yj810BRitRRRTtRJIR1PwbDk6j4kE/s320/Pic+1.jpg" width="320" /></a>The first day in the new department was terribly hectic. By 11 0' clock, I was absolutely dying for my daily dose of coffee. I stared at the computer screen with bleary eyes and willed myself to focus. <em>Treasury Operations......Export Refinance Loans...... BIA............................. ICOFR....zzzzzzzz...... </em>Sitting in a chair all day doesn't help either, and it took me every ounce of energy to keep my face from falling flat on to the keyboard. I didn't think I'd have fancied QWERTY stamped across my face, and that thought kept me awake.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Tea was served around that time. In my dazed state, I failed to notice the peon who brought in <em>chai</em>. So when he entered the office a second time, I got up hurriedly and asked him to get me some coffee. Little had I known that he was no ordinary peon. He was a Bitchy Peon. THE Bitchy Peon.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>'Humen sirf </em>boss <em>aur</em> visitors <em>ko</em> <em>coffee daenay kae</em> orders <em>hain</em>,' (We're only allowed to serve coffee to the boss and to visitors) he apprised me in a very superior tone.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>'Mujhay hamesha neechay sae coffee miltee hai</em>,' (I always get coffee from downstairs) I whined beseechingly. Yes, I was whining, I was that desperate. Anyone would be, if they couldn't even keep their eyelids open. I felt like a ragged, starved and lowly <em>fakeer</em> (beggar) begging for a morsel of food, just to have the king's minions ridicule me. <em>Jaisay</em> coffee <em>nahin caviar ho gai</em>.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Bitchy Peon finally came to his senses and suddenly realized that being diplomatic was the only way he could shrug me off. <em>'Main dekhta hun</em>,' ('I'll see, but I'm not making any promises,) he finally muttered and scurried away.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As expected the coffee never came. But the Bitchy Peon did. He reappeared with <em>chai</em> several times during the day- rather an extra number of times that particular day- just so that he could rub in his superiority and <em>jala-ofy</em> me. My friend Saira Hassan, who works in another department on the same floor, had been disdainfully informed by the Bitchy Peon that 'interns don't get coffee'. I spent all of that day with bloodshot eyes, cursing the Bitchy Peon to death. Little had I known that my cursing was misplaced.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This morning, I trooped into the reception area to see Omer Mukhtar and another intern aka the Coffee Freak chatting. <em>'Yaar</em> how in the world can I get coffee on this floor?!' I groaned wearily.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Coffee Freak laughed. 'Interns aren't allowed coffee, but I manage to drink several cups during the day. I even made him [The Bitchy Peon] some coffee the other day.' He chuckled. 'It's because of me that he stopped giving the interns coffee.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Now THAT got my blood boiling. Not only was this particular person enjoying a gazillion cups of coffee every day, but he was The Bitchy Peon's new BFF! The word COFFEE was bleeping in my head like a huge pink neon sign, and this person had not only had A cup, but rather CUPS of coffee! Argh!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I mentally argh-ed to myself some more and mustered up a smile which was crappy at it's best, what with no coffee and all. 'Oh that's nice,' I finally managed to say. 'Could you try to wheedle him into getting me some too?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>The Coffee Freak pacified me with false hopes too. Like a defeated warrior, I slumped back into my seat, vowing to seek vengeance on The Bitchy Peon and the Coffee Freak. Time to chalk out a battle plan.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-24454703527615946642010-07-18T13:41:00.000+05:002010-07-18T17:41:54.962+05:00Of Internships and Attention-SeekingLately, my newsfeed has been peppered with statuses that rant, whine or boast about internships. So I thought I'd use this space to brag about mine. As if. Rather, I'm going to elaborate on how internships have conveniently divided people into lame categories. <br />
<br />
Before this semester actually came to an end, people had started putting up statuses like 'Citibank or SBP?' or 'Sanofi or PnG?' These poor confused individuals were really meant to be sympathized with. Not only were these (un)lucky people getting more internship offers than they could keep track of, but they absolutely needed all one thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two people in their Facebook friends' list to advise them. What ensued (for obvious reasons) was a long list of notifications where half the people would have posted random comments ( <em>Yaar kaisay ho tum, itnay time sae milay nahin</em>) and cracked lame jokes, (<em>Yaar! Kitni jaga pae pawwa hai tumhara?!)</em> but not offered any suggestions. Nevertheless, the Confused Retard would track the number of not-so-helpful recommendations using a tally chart and then generate a bar chart on MS- Excel for the most popular bank/company (ratings would be high for places with the highest number of hot female employees people knew of). Where they finally decided to go is still a mystery (no attention seeking status followed), causing many to wonder whether the multiple internship offers had even been received at all.<br />
<br />
Once the term ended, my batch had to attend a compulsory MBR conference. This presented many with the opportunty to whine incessantly about how ''My internship starts this week/ JUST A DAY after the exams!'' While this resulted in a lot of petting and clucking about the misfortunate people who had to work <em>abhi sae</em>, the woeful whiners secretly revelled in the prospects of how they would be done early and would feel sorry for those who would be slaving away in Ramazan. Little did they know that internees ( at least I) will get off at 3 then. Tch tch.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWK1lpjx_N2WCL6p_yoAwOcHY8qXYZWYXOmVXkfnjqRbkbGal4bvEJ8RkNWAYsq-tAo7XqpAUxs6oB5wY-KiAHFR1hHQfByjbpORJWH2vuqSLUMqKDDG_VoNKPSpFCWg3OrfS4OEDhzCs/s1600/8_raina6_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWK1lpjx_N2WCL6p_yoAwOcHY8qXYZWYXOmVXkfnjqRbkbGal4bvEJ8RkNWAYsq-tAo7XqpAUxs6oB5wY-KiAHFR1hHQfByjbpORJWH2vuqSLUMqKDDG_VoNKPSpFCWg3OrfS4OEDhzCs/s320/8_raina6_large.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This retardedness did not quell once the first week of vacations started. The I-Work-Harder-Than-Thou Competition began. This loser in my class bragged about how three of his ideas had already been approved for future financial products, and that he would be getting a stipend of Rs. 12,000 PKR. Since this is a paltry amount compared to what I earn at AH in a month, I remained unimpressed. Also, hardly anyone would believe that an internee would receive double the regular stipend. People who make up lies should at least make up believable ones.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">People can be so ridiculous. This one guy I know ditched a fairly good internship because 'they were making me do such a big project and the stipend was so low!' He promptly ditched a good opportunity to learn in favour of a lousy internship with is more of a summer camp, with free food as the only consolance. A regular query seems to be 'How much are they paying you?' Yes, I totally understand how everyone needs money to fill the empty stomachs of their five hungry children. But I fail to understand how a stipend that is Rs. 500 less than anyone else's will make a dent in your pocket.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
This is also the time of the year when fashion freaks like my sister have a chance to shine, or rather whine. She spent endless days poring over the multitude of dresses in our wardrobe, complained that she had 'nothing to wear' and ended up flooding our already crammed wardrobe. The Summer Internship Collection rage has caught on now. And yes, we won't be needing to make her a bridal trousseau anymore.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Lastly, there are those who feel that it is their duty to inform us of what they have been having for lunch. Internship pictures are being used to convey the exact degree of oil in each company cafetaria's biryani so that we can create a benchmark for the biryani in the IBA cafetaria. Albums also contain close-ups of the insides of ice-cream cups so that everyone can gauge the amount and colour of ice-cream being doled out (and feel sad about having to pay for their food. Namely me).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The only thing I WILL brag about is the access card I received on Thursday. Because not only does it have a decent picture on it, it opens up doors too.</div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-34879431409675709112010-07-08T14:09:00.000+05:002010-07-08T14:09:24.892+05:00Retard-estSometimes it's not only the students who make me feel like banging my head against a wall, but also some of the teachers. One of my classmates from IBA, Muneeb-ur-Rehman recently joined AH to teach IELTS. The other day, it was raining heavily and so none of his students turned up. Instead of going home, Muneeb whined about having to cancell class- whined to the reception <em>walay, </em> to Sir Irfan, and to everyone in the vicinity- and occupied a chair. I just rolled my eyes and thought dude, go home!<br />
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An African guy and his sister were sitting in the reception when I ducked out of class to get some handouts. Apparently no one at the reception could understand a word of what he was saying- he didn't seem to know any Urdu- so Sir Irfan was called for.<br />
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The African guy mumbled something and Sir reiterated 'What? You want to sell us books?'<br />
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'No! I give books,' he repeated adamantly. 'For Computer Studies.'<br />
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After ten minutes, Sir finally figured out that he was not a salesman. 'Do you want to study here?' he asked, slowly enunciating each word.<br />
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'Me not study, my sister,' he pointed to the <em>hijabi </em>girl sitting on his right. 'Maths.'<br />
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Sir sighed. 'That will be a problem for us, because there will be a communication gap,' he motioned between the two of them, saying 'communication' as if he was breaking up a word for a child.<br />
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'Why? <em>You</em> teach,' insisted the African guy. Tch tch. Poor Sir.<br />
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Sir held up his hands. 'Sorry, I don't teach.' Haha. Yeah right, Sir.<br />
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'What has she done so far?' Sir questioned, but was unable to be understood.<br />
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Muneeb-ur-Rehman, who couldn't stand staying out of the conversation any longer, got up and plopped into the chair next to African Guy and his sister. 'What has she <em>studied</em> so far?'<br />
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African Guy managed to convey that she had completed high school back at home, and wanted to apply for Computer Studies at Sindh University. (Yes, everyday I get to know about universities I never knew existed). That took another ten minutes.<br />
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'Ok, you bring your books, I'll teach. Come on Friday, I have class from 7-9,' volunteered Muneeb-ur-Rehman. It turned out that the books were for prep and not for Computer Studies.<br />
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Sir Irfan chuckled. <em>'Arey, tum parhao gaey kya ussay?' </em>(Will you teach him)<br />
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Muneeb-ur-Rehman shrugged. 'Sure. Bring your books, we'll see.'<br />
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Apparently, he had agreed to teach the girl Math, when he's a teacher for English. During a time slot when he would be conducting an IELTS class. I guess the African guy really took a warming to Muneeb-ur-Rehman, because he asked me to call him from Sir Irfan's office a couple of minutes later. <br />
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'Please call, <em>the</em> guy,' he requested, as if Muneeb-ur-Rehman was THE GUY. When he came out from the office, he asked him to repeat everything he had just been told for the past half hour. Haha.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DmX2SYK8PHO7GSP0oZjXwKP0Zlhmg2PPYWK9JajtxFu1EINYo7XXb9bv_SwOfgeEpbowPYHPBVuzlvrrdzFVMPC6BgbO9wDKMOyEs7t4Oo3MGwfATezTTsbCHs1dGsLs3YNQjcCQpo0/s1600/1276097261388_f_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DmX2SYK8PHO7GSP0oZjXwKP0Zlhmg2PPYWK9JajtxFu1EINYo7XXb9bv_SwOfgeEpbowPYHPBVuzlvrrdzFVMPC6BgbO9wDKMOyEs7t4Oo3MGwfATezTTsbCHs1dGsLs3YNQjcCQpo0/s320/1276097261388_f_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-90271880030523663322010-07-07T04:38:00.000+05:002010-07-07T04:39:20.130+05:00Retard and retard-erTeaching at a test prep center sometimes feels like volunteering at an instituition for underprivileged children. Not only do you get to feel sorry for kids who are absolutely pathetic at Math or English, but you also feel tremendously blessed that you went to good instituitions/ are skilled enough/ are just plain smart (if you really have that inflated a head).<br />
<br />
I don't mean to sound discriminatory or snotty, but some of the things people say or write are absolutely apalling, and makes you marvel at their creativity. The end of IBA test prep was also the day that teacher evaluations were conducted. One of my friends got the following comment 'Sir Bilal comes in runningly, teaches runningly, and runs out runningly. He is always in a hurry.'<br />
<br />
Even if the student aptly managed to describe the pace of Bilal's going-abouts, I would've slapped the kid for such apalling grammar. That too, after taking English classes for three months, and just ONE DAY before the IBA test. If I had been his English teacher, I would've had a heart attack there and then.<br />
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Then there's Headband, who is turning out to be the bane of my existence. The other day I asked him if he had completed the handout on Sentence Correction and the review test at the end. Headband sheepishly scratched his headband-y head and muttered 'Yeah, I did. But I got 10 questions right out of 50.' (Read that with a wannabe American accent, rolling your 'r's like a retard).<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> If only imaginary sparks emanating from me could set fire to his hair. 'Ok fine, what exercises do you have a problem with?' And I flipped his handout to check out his answers. After answering a couple of his questions, I interjected snidely 'You told me that you thought this was easy....?'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Headband made a pathetically confused expression. 'Er, yeah, but I don't know what's wrong. I get the concepts, but I don't get the questions.'</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After suppressing all the insults and abuses I could muster from my limited vocabulary, I just blurted out 'Well, your English is pathetic, and if you want to improve, then you need to spend more time on this than whing about Math.' Ok I didn't say 'whining', but still.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> He continued asking me the dumbest questions ever, right after affirming that he had understood every bit of the preceding exercise. Anyway, I didn't mind since that's my job, duh. At least I had forced him to study my subject during class and not blabber about how bad he was at Math and needed Bilal.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Headband skipped class today. Bilal thinks that he's scared of me. And I think it's high time I give him a better reason to feel that way.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcENhxgyi2hF-i19fC1q57sdBSKkGQLDzJrA11A2flWbmPw6f7g3f3gLv8Ml1ckUh6LLzpwUUXGl-0MpCCFOANq1BQTcMx6WggDWJ2d2VAPQyTyfxcLQKzmufbdY9-0xBDAThZF_U1cY/s1600/20080918135618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcENhxgyi2hF-i19fC1q57sdBSKkGQLDzJrA11A2flWbmPw6f7g3f3gLv8Ml1ckUh6LLzpwUUXGl-0MpCCFOANq1BQTcMx6WggDWJ2d2VAPQyTyfxcLQKzmufbdY9-0xBDAThZF_U1cY/s320/20080918135618.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5436285744409740958.post-5324368402636712222010-07-04T05:02:00.000+05:002010-07-05T03:56:18.162+05:00Struggles Of A Wannabe Chartered Financial AnalystStudying CFA is kind of invigorating -as long as I don't think about how daunting it is to give an exam which has a 33% pass rate *gulp*. Finishing <em>one</em> of these gargantuan tomes fills me with an immense sense of pride, haha. Normally, I am awful at remembering quotes, but this Chinese saying has left an indelible impact on my mind- 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' And so, I remind myself of this adage and toil on, much like the pilgrims in Paul Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, waiting for the day my heavy burden tumbles off and set me free. However, there are five more books to go and loads of questions to solve for practice. I really really really want to clear this, more than anything else in the world *crossed fingers*. <br />
This journey of five months and seventeen hours began with an important discovery- how to use a financial calculator. It was akin to writing with a pen for the first time, and I experienced the same sense of awe and wonder and grown-up-ness as I dusted off the calculator, coughed, and slid back the cover with a satisfying click. <br />
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I was poring over the FRA book, looking at a solved example on how to calculate the present value of a bond. Try as I may, I just couldn't figure out how in the world that stupid bulky montrosity of a calculator could help me obtain PMT. I furiously jabbed the PMT button a number of times (the manual did mention durable keys), but to no avail. I texted a couple of friends, whose instructions weren't of much help. I entered various values, and then realized that the values had to be entered first, and then the related buttons had to be punched in. I was making some progress, yay! I alternately punched in the CMPT button and the PMT button, but to no avail. So much for trying to follow instructions from SchweserNotes, I thought bitterly. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qqMyGnDi4451AlcPUWDtC2n-RBCbpV0OCgsCW56ZKBwkakkJh07sOHS4jQvGjOBwqgaAO1pmWH9iJmICZn1zkMSb5F4XGJ-4FK6Ib8czf7ONWFPbt7JkAd1EZDqqQfRIOdL2OxTg0Pg/s1600/DSC01434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qqMyGnDi4451AlcPUWDtC2n-RBCbpV0OCgsCW56ZKBwkakkJh07sOHS4jQvGjOBwqgaAO1pmWH9iJmICZn1zkMSb5F4XGJ-4FK6Ib8czf7ONWFPbt7JkAd1EZDqqQfRIOdL2OxTg0Pg/s320/DSC01434.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Suddenly, a random combination of button-pressing produced the right answer. My pulse quickened. I rapidly tried to conjure up the same number on the screen trying to remember what I had pressed. And I realized that it wasn't the FRA book that was dumb. It had been me all along</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I had thought pressing either CMPT or PMT would give me the answer. Little had I thought that CMPT meant COMPUTE, and was not an alternative name for PAYMENT or PMT. And that was exactly what the FRA book had been urging me to do by stating that CMPT -> PMT. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>This was my moment of epiphany, the golden hour when I was meant to shout Eureka and prance about the room as if I was high on Red Bull. However, my happiness was short-lived. After tackling a bunch of questions dealing with present value, I realized that I also needed to know how to calculate IRR for a series of cashflows. Using the darned financial calculator. Blegh. So much for pretending that figuring out the financial calculator was like getting neuroscience.Maryamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01751671814976589234noreply@blogger.com9