April 14th

I am not sure what to say about today. It is Monday again. It was Monday too, nine years ago on this date. The most wretched day of my life: Sun glared, our classes finished, the afternoon at the Hostel#4... I wonder how many people went back to that plot of land in that corner of your city. We were all there. All of your friends... It was good knowing you.

Waqar Bashir

It is fair to say that I tried to recall all the days we spent in our undergraduate school. I did it many times. It's not pretty. It wasn't. I am sick and tired of remembering you. But I love you. If you were alive I might not have cared what you were up to right at this moment. But you live in so many memories. Now. I am thinking about you right now.

The Waste Land - V

V. What the Thunder said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountain
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Three shots of Jameson

didn't mess up my system last night. Lindsey and Dana wanted to be at HG. It was quiet on the street and inside at the bar. There was a talk of going to the beach and Israel's unique theological problem of not letting the Sinai become geographically obsolete for say, maritime purposes. Murtaza called from the other side, on his way to work. He thought I was lonely. Dard now works in Islamabad. He didn't know which Waqar was I talking about. I don't think anyone of us who were present on that brightly fucked-up spring day have gone back to say 'Hi' to Waqar. Or perhaps that's not surprising given what stuff (Dain wanted to know the word for stuff in Urdu @ the bar: tough question) happened right in front of us which brought on that morning like a bright, fucked-up, tragic in a big way kind of day. It is a shame.