Archive for December, 2010



Written – Summer of 2007

Karachi – Procter and Gamble Internship Program.

U – Unaiza. K – Kamil


U: Do you write?

K: Yes occasionally when the need arises. You can read them on my deviant art journal. The rest are on my PC at home and my old diaries.

U: You take pictures too? i didn’t know that.

K: Don’t call them pictures. Its photography.

U: Why don’t  you like the term “pictures”?

K: because it sounds so inconsequential.

U: Do your pictures have consequences?

K: To me? Yes. To the rest of the world. I frankly don’t care what they think. But it would be good to think that it makes some impact other then mere aesthetics.

U: They are mere aesthetics. That’s what art is no?

K: Yes among other things. But i don’t take pictures or paint a canvas so it looks on my mantle piece or sell it to some moron with money who thinks it looks good above his bed while he’s seducing some woman.

U: Then why do you do all that?

K: Self expression. Talking with my pictures or canvas as i do with my words.

U:You said u didn’t like the term pictures.

K: yes i said it for your sake.

U: U do things for other peoples sake?

K: No. People annoy me.

U: Do all people annoy you?

K: Yes. Em searching for Atlantis.

U: What is Atlantis?

K: A Place Where Only Heroes. because they carry the essence of Life within them.

U: who are heroes?

K: People who are original.

U: Is God Original?

K: No. They say He made man in his own image. I think he did a terrible job at it. Left us with the crap, and kept the good stuff for Angels.

U: Your envious of Angels?

K: Yes, they have wings. But we built planes.

U: Which would u rather have? Wings or Planes?

K: Wings. I wouldn’t be left at the mercy of other peoples whims.

U: Do you paint?

K: Yes, oil on canvas.

U: I didn’t take you for the artistic type.

K: I don’t like stereotypes.

Foot-Note: Thank you Uniaza for inspiring me to write my first dialogue 🙂

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He sat in a dark room. Brooding, while staring blankly at the wall. Had you seen him, you would have imagined him dead. But he was far from it. His mind was browsing through the filing cabinets in his head.

Let me explain: memories we have collected are all filed away in a room, behind a walnut door, with a engraving that reads ‘Records keeping’. Knock gently, there’s an old woman there who files away everything. She’s a light sleeper. The room itself is small, but sufficient. She cleans it when her frail old frame allows it. But there are those dark dusty  corners like every room with cabinets long forgotten. No one bothers about them, so the old keeper doesn’t waste her limited energy. Most days, she just sits there, waiting for the minions to come carrying a new file to stow away. Everything is neatly organized though. Each file is marked clearly and the relevant details filled out. This is not a perfect system. But for our dark brooding young man, this is what works.

So the man sat there, still as stone, browsing his memories. They were not really happy memories, or sad memories. Just moments. Short sparks that had the potential for something, but they burnt out too fast.

Meanwhile the old lady in the ‘records keeping’ room, behind the walnut door was limping towards a cabinet. It was a new cabinet , just put there. It was marked ’25th Year of Existence’. There was just one file, marked ’15/12/2010′. She grabbed the file. It was dog eared or worn out. This was new, and even shinny if she dare say so. She limped towards the walnut door, and handed it to the gentleman outside. He seemed familiar , like the other gentleman who visited often, the same features, just a tad old. The old keeper didn’t give the fleeting thought a second glance. She went back to her desk and soon dozed off into a short nap.

The brooding man in the room finally remembered what he was trying to conjure up in his mind. His birthday. His 25th birthday just a couple of hours ago.  Yes, it was a good day. Then why did he feel so lonely now? Wasn’t he amongst friends? The friends he had, the close friends he had in this alien city? He was, but yet for some reason he couldnt fanthom, he felt alone. Terribly alone. He poured himself some water, lit a cigarette and laid back in his red reading chair, and closed his eyes.

Yes, she came. Of course she did.

‘Wait’ – he said out loud.

Why was he thinking about her, when he was already in a relationship. or was trying hard to be in one.

Someone spoke ‘ Because you fool, you want the easy way out’.

Yes, the easy way out. The relationship he was trying hard to maintain, was a long distance thing. He longed for her, even that night, even at dinner. He longed for her perhaps because it would make the pain go away. But she looked so beautiful. She talked to much, and everytime she talked, he felt the urge to kiss her. She had held his hand once, and the warmth of her skin, against his never really left his fingers.

He sat there, blowing spirals of grey smoke against the light. He watched the smoke rise and smoldering roll in b/w his fingers.

– Kamil

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