25 Things About Yours Truly

Amrita tagged me. I always find it hard to talk about myself when people may or may not want to know. Twenty-five seems a big number right now :-).
I shall keep it fairly basic:
1. I am Muslim Pakistani (and I take pride in that).
2. I love to write and photograph.
3. Books are the most valuable things to me.
4. I find it interesting that I am able to enjoy almost all types of music.
5. I am ambidextrous.
6. I was born on the cusp of Pisces and Aries.
7. I eat ketchup with almost everything (except desserts).
8. I am in love.
9. I like short hair (at least for myself)
10. I enjoy fragrances.
11. I can get very moody and a total pain at times.
12. I love to dance.
13. I am a hopeless romantic.
14. I can rap.
15. I love America. I think God blessed me to live in a wonderful place and be a part of the ever so diverse society.
16. I love learning about different people and I am always wondering why people do the things they do, why they think a certain way. Its the endless quest of knowing the unknowable.
17. When it comes to celebrities, I think Will Smith, Sushmita Sen and Alyssa Milano are the best.
18. I am a city girl. Totally.
19. I am in love with the color red. If I had my way, I would dye my hair red! :-)
20. I don’t do numbers. No counting. No Money. Highly mathematically challenged. Hate numbers.
21. I am quite intense and passionate.
22. I hold my values dear to my heart.
23. I am independent. I do my own thing.
24. When I am upset I get angry instead of crying. (Very unhealthy, I know)
25. I love Urdu—the national language of Pakistan. I think it is the most beautiful language. :-)
I hope I didn't bore you out of your mind.

My Funny Valentine

I find it interesting how differently we all celebrate Valentine's Day. For some this holiday of love means spending a quiet evening at home with a soul mate, a bottle of wine, a bearskin rug, and the comforting warmth of everlasting love. For others it entails spending a quiet evening at home alone with a bottle of Aristocrat vodka, a loaded handgun, a picture of their ex and tears streaming down their face. But to each his own.

I think that Valentine’s Day is a terrible holiday for guys because they couldn’t care less about it. And their apathy wouldn’t be a problem except that women view this holiday as their Super Bowl. Think about it: romance, flowers, teddy bears, love letters...all that cutesy things girls cherish. And it’s the guy’s job to make it look like they care about this stuff. It’s not enough for women if the guys just get them the flowers and the card and leave it at that. They can’t simply walk in, throw the stuff on the table, and go, “Here. Ya happy? Don’t ever say I never did nothin’ for ya.” They can’t do that. They have to convince the girl that the teddy bear is important to them, that it plays an integral role in their life, that they sat in the store for a half hour trying to figure out which teddy bear they had an emotional attachment with. That’s what has to happen to achieve a successful Valentine’s Day.

One of my friends always screws up being romantic. One year he bought his girlfriend a really nice jewelry box from that store called “Things Remembered.” Guys, here’s a tip: never buy your girl a jewelry box because there’s nothing worse than watching the disappointment in her eyes when she opens the box expecting jewelry. No girl ever thinks the box is the gift. They’re just dying to see what’s inside the box. Plus, buying a girl a jewelry box is basically like saying, “Hey, I got the box. Now you go buy all the expensive stuff to fill it up. I’m only willing to get you the container.” And it didn’t help that that is exactly what he got engraved on the box.

Pleasing a woman is hard, I’d tell you that especially when you are not really in love with her… and love in itself is a very complicated emotion to deal with. Reminds me of what Woody Allen said: To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness.
I hope you're getting this down :-)

Stay?

That type of thing doesn't happen around here.
She must like it if she stays.
Some women like to stir up trouble.

Domestic violence is a subject engulfed with myths.
The reality is often quite different.

Why doesn't she just leave?
It's the first question people ask.

She stays because she hopes it will get better. Maybe they can get help. Maybe she will make him happy again. Maybe it will stop.

She stays because she is ashamed that they have come to this, that she has allowed him to treat her this way, that she has taken him back so many times before.

She stays because she doesn't have enough money to start all over again. She hasn't held a job before, or she doesn't earn enough to support herself and the kids. She's scared to try to make it alone.

She stays because she is afraid. He has told her that she had better never try to leave him. He says that he will find her no matter where she goes. He says that he'll take the kids and run. He says he will track her down and kill her. She knows that he means it.

Think.

One of the four photos I took-- chosen for V-day Art Exhibition at my University. View the rest HERE

Scarred

I am ugly. I am disfigured. I have multiple scars of all kinds. Late at night when I strip myself of clothes and look in the mirror, I see all sorts of scars. I have multiple cuts on my legs, a big bruise on my thigh, various burned marks on my upper arms, a few lashes on my back and countless cuts all over. I have a broken rib too that no one knows about. It funny how whenever I examine myself I find a new scar. There had been so many incidents; I can’t remember which one caused which scar. Sometimes I look at one and try to remember if it was the blade, or the belt. I don’t remember if it was a cigarette burn or an iron. The memories are blurred but the pain remains.

I cover myself, as much as I can. So that people don’t see these scars—the scars that don’t seem to fade away. Because when they see, they ask about them and I have to make up stories to tell them. And after a while I even forget which story I made up to go with what scar.

You wonder why I always keep my hair down? I am hiding the bit marks on my neck. That night, I remember he almost pulled my hair out of my head and the next morning he woke up and said, “I don’t remember what happened.”

I remember those nights when I’d run. I would run and hide under the closets, under beds, even under the house. I'd cover my ears while silently screaming my prayers. Sometimes I would get lucky and he would forget all about me. Other times he would find me then I’d be in more trouble. So it was an all or nothing sort of a risk I would take.

The problem is, I can hide some scars, but some, I just can’t. Every time I look at the mirror I see the cut mark on my forehead. I still don’t know what it was that he hit me with that night. I blacked out before I could find out.
And then I see those burnt marks on my hands. I still don’t understand why he put his cigarette on my hand. I was so young back then, what could I have possibly done to be punished like that.

I wanted to run away. I wanted to run away but I couldn’t. I was too small, and he was too big. He could scare anyone. I was too ashamed and too scared.

But I am ok now. We left eventually. He would have killed us if we hadn’t left. I am all better now. But I don’t really know how to get rid of these scars. They stay. Usually I ignore them and go on. That’s how it is. I cover them up. I ignore them. And when I need to know just how human I am, I touch them. I look at them. I remember. And if I remember enough, I cry. Then I ignore them again and go on being happy.