ShutUpWillYou?

So much for us holding MUNs, so much for me idolising United Nations as the 'guardian angel,' the 'white knight'.
They keep their quiet when our people and our men and our children get killed and as soon as we hang 6 terrorists, SIX CONVICTED AND PROVEN GUILTY CRIMINALS Mr Ban KI-Moon tells us to call off capital punishment.
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Hanooz Delhi Durast

Your indifference appals me,
For isn't there so much to do already
If we are to keep this country steady
The noose is tightening that will spell our death,
But have you prepared to fight it off as yet?

I see not
For you are as jingoistic as your fathers,
Proud -and stubborn
with their Chagatai chadars.

You think it's far away-the danger's not near,
But let me assure you otherwise my dear.
Do you remember the tale of the drunken Sultan of Delhi,
When he cried Hanooz Delhi Dur Ast*
And went on with his cup of wine.

But they did not spare him did they,
Not even the deers in his courtyard-
leaving a mountain of decapitated bodies to decay

So take heed and pull a fast one,
For time and tide waits for none.

*Muhammad Shah Rangeela was the Sultan of Delhi who was completely enamoured with drink, music and women to notice that the once powerful Mughal empire was crumbling around him.
 He was drunk to his gills, in the Diwane Khas in Delhi, when a courtier arrived and told him that Nadir Shah of Persia had set out to invade India . From the haze Rangeela was in, he muttered, "Hanooz Delhi Dur Ast".’Delhi is still far away’.
 When his courtiers told him that the Persian army had reached the borders, he replied "Hanooz Delhi Dur Ast". When the Persian army reached the castle gates, the courtiers once again brought it to his notice, to which he again repeated "Hanooz Delhi Dur Ast" and went on drinking until the army entered the castle itself, looted the royal treasury, killed a hundred thousand people and built a mountain out of skulls.

Amreeka

 You want to go, live, make your life, settle down there.

So go.

Go and live your life in a country where you'll always be a second-class citizen
Go and make your home -a place, where you'll always be the consignee of Paki slurs.
Go and pay taxes to a government who'll squander it on military jaunts -Vietnam, Bosnia, Lebanon, Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan to quote a few.

Go and work for a country, whose red and blue flag continues to encroach upon our green and white one.

So go and you have my wishes. But let me tell you I've met people who went there to score the American dream but ended up at doggie parlours or wiping dishes at country restaurants.

Dancing girl

I've never seen the red light area, nor have heard any accounts of it. What I wrote below is purely from my imagination.  A short story written on a deadline for a competition. Didn't win anything though.

 

 

I scan the crowd. There is not a single young man in sight.  The youngest you would find here would be a 35 year old.
They are all rich men, corporate bastards, my stage manager likes to call them, with bratty wives who control their lives, women whose social obligations donot allow them to give their husbands any time.
As a result most of them turn up here, in the slums of Lahore, to sate their hunger.

I stand on the stage, waiting for the lights to dim. I wear a fitted red bodice which flares at the waist and stops just above my knees. Bright orange stockings make my legs stand out. My hair are put in elaborate curls and silver bangles dangle from my arms. From the kajol in my eyes to the Ghungrus,which jingle at the slightest movement, on  my anklet, my manager makes sure I look as provocative as possible.

The song starts. It's a slow melody by Reshma Ji. I raise my toes and begin. My arms lift and my waist bends in well practised moves. Now and then, someone steps forward and showers money at my feet. Tens and Twenties. Sometimes someone more generous, or more intoxicated, throw hundreds.

My six minutes are over. I climb off stage and head towards the left side of the room where we are required to sit until the show is over. I make my way through the nearly packed room when a man, well above 50 with a paunchy belly and a balding forehead, stops me.
"Care for a muffin,Chanda?" he asks coyly.
"Too much sugar Sahib,"I joke.
We've been instructed not to accept any eatable from customers after an incident two years ago when a man fell madly in love with a girl on stage, after he realised he couldn't marry her, he poisoned her through a glass of milk.

I sit down against a wall and watch the others perform. Occasionally someone from the crowd would offer me an inviting smile. I seldom smile back.
Through my peripheral vision, I spot the man who approached me earlier, talking to my manager.He keeps gesturing towards me.
I have successfully sold myself for the night.

 

Prophecy

Wrote this for my English teacher last summer. A short story about castle politics set in 17th century Spain. A young princess forced to leave, her curse comes true 30 years later.

"You are playing on dangerous waters Miss Izzie."

his tone was patronizing but the message he carried was clear. Elizabeth Marrie Stevenson spun round and took three  measured steps forward. The  leaves crunched under her feet on the forest floor.

"I plan with the precision of a fox, the cunning of a leopard, the shrewdness of an owl. Rest assure no harm may befall you."

The chamberlain adjusted the  reins on his horse and rode away. He would not be seen for the  next 4 days and in the circumstances he would  reappear, the situation would be entirely different.

 

"But mama ,I am just like you," the child whimpered, on the verge of tears ."Don't send me away," she tottered forward and burrowed her face in Izzie's lap. The sobs quickly turned into hysteria.
"I will act normal, I  promise," her four years old mind could not comprehend what she had done wrong.
Two days ago they had presented her in front of the king. she was amazed at the complaints of her behaviour, the courtiers and her mother had made to her father.  Still she thought, as she fingered the unfamiliar badge on the lapel of her coat 'Asylum patient no.24,' that if it was her mother saying all this then she may have done something wrong, unknowingly so. She loved her mother with a love that a sheep may have for the butcher.

Anabella Clarke Stevenson was the only child of the king of  Spain and the  potential heir to the throne. It  was widely believed that the queen, the king's second wife,  despised the young princess and lived in eternal fear of the day she would ascend the throne. The only people unaware of the castle politics were the king and perhaps the little girl herself.

"An Asylum is no place for a child!" The king had protested on hearing the Queen's suggestion.

"The castle is no place for a mentally unfit princess , imagine what the consequences would be for your country," the Queen had retorted.
This did it. Everybody knew the king was a man of principles. His chief concern was that he be able to carry out his duties properly and that nothing should harm the country's prospects. He gave in.

 

Anabella looked up. The chamberlain had entered through the double doors with three guards at his heels. She was led through the castle, two small suitcases in both hands. As she looked at the  tapestries, the plush carpeting, the french windows through which the afternoon sun beat down, she wondered when she  would walk these corridors again. Her mind was yet too simple to conceive the notion that she might never be returning again.
She entered the courtyard, past the king who stood motionless, a man caught between loyalty and love, and the queen who carried her son Patrius on her hip, her chin arched upwards.

 

 And then everything happened at once. The princess's body went rigid .The guard slackened his grip on her wrist in surprise. She turned a full circle and her eyes zeroed in on the queen. Her jaws hardened and her face became a taut mask and she began,
"Never will the oppressors be the successors,
nor shall they live in peace.                                                                                                                             
Tit for tat,
revenge will be taken,
they shall be amongst the severely diseased."
According to old legends the night before Patrius was to be sworn in as the  king, he and his mother, the aging Queen Elizabeth, took a trip to the capital. On their way back their carriage slipped on ice and skidded off the side of the mountain. Patrius died and never became the king. The queen became paralyzed from the neck down. Three decades later the 'Prophecy' had come true. Coincidently this was the day princess Anabella Clarke Stevenson died in the dungeons of the chamberlain's private facility for the mentally unstable. She was driven to insanity by the sheer loneliness that surrounded her.

 

Conquering the crippling devil(Stage Fright)

I remember back in eighth grade...the nausea, the dizziness, the shaking legs.....like any other preteen out there...I had a case of stage fright. ...a very bad case.
I never had confidence issues. ..I'd tell people I had stage fright, they never believed  me.Truth was it was the mic that did somethingt to me...I would be okay talking to people but when the spotlight shone on me....I just couldn't take it.

Fast forward two years..and you'll see a confident girl as comfortable with a mic in her hand as she would be chatting away her friends at the canteen with thirty ke fries and twenty wali coke.
;-)
what brought about this change, you might wonder?
I wouldn't get into the story right now but the point I am trying to make here is, everyone experiences stage fright. EVERYONE. Even long after they've chummed up with the mic and the stage. It happens every single time. And it's supposed to.
If we look at the science of it,it's a chemical reaction in your brain brought about by the hypothalamus which triggers the pituitary gland which in turn releases the ACTH hormone. What we experience is a fight or flight response.You go on the stage, you fear the audience and this makes you want to run away but when you are unable to,your body reacts the other way...throat tightens...heart starts pounding....butterflies in your stomach..all of that which is completely normal. It's just that some people are more prone to feeling afraid than others.
So how do you fight against an organ of your body which is switched to auto pilot?
You take care of the things you have control over.Practice. Familiarising yourself with the content of your speech and the environment in which you are going to speak will help your brain relax.

No.1) Write it.What you are going to speak.Again and again and again.This would help you memorise it.
No.2) Close your eyes and repeat your debate to yourself a couple of times a day(note: never try this infront of a mirror.It would unnerve you. Trust me.)
No.3) When you feel ready, perform it out infront of friends, classmates, siblings anyone and everyone who is willing to listen.
Now comes the final part.The most important bit.
Stage fright tends to hit hardest right before you climb on the stage.
Now's the time to trick your brain. Relax and stretch your arms outwards.This way your brain will be involved in a relaxation process and will be distracted.:-D
Another thing that works is inhale, hold your breath for a few seconds and then exhale through your mouth.Repeat.
Hope this was helpful. :-)
Now go tell the world off =P