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The 4th issue of the quarterly emagazine Reality Romanticez, by Ideas Evolved. Featuring poetry, prose and digital art
Citation preview
by Naiha Raza
Featuring
Strokes from Within
33 Strokes from
within
5 The first word
Contents...
9 Emotions
Translated
17 Flowing Ink
45 Book
Review
Contents...
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From institutes in Pakistan and abroad!
The growing network of Ambassadors,
From institutes in Pakistan and abroad!
HR MANAGER
Amal Javed Dar NATIONAL AMBASSADORS Air University - Muhammad Ali Kamran
Aitchison College – Ahmad Tabassum
Bahauddin Zakaria University - Iram Shah
Beaconhouse ALGC – Usman Mahmood
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BNU - Omar Mushtaq
Beaconhouse Newlands – Saniya Jilani
CMH Medical College - Afra Aslam
Dawood Public School - Anamta Rafiq
FC College – Muhammad Omer Imran
Iqra University Islamabad - Sadia Sohail
IoBM Karachi - Syed Bilal Safdar
Insitute of Management Sciences, Peshawar - Salman Anwar
International Islamic University - Rabeea Amjad
Kinnaird College For Women - Maheer Anum
Kinnaird College For Women - Noor Rehman
Kinnaird College for Women - Hina Khurshid
Lahore College for Women - Rabia Waqar
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By Maryam Miirza | Editor
Poetry becomes that one thing that can make you see what you never even imagined. And the highest sen-timents can be made insignificant and the lowest can be held into the greater light. And fiction shows you perspectives, many, of a single thing. It takes you to different eras, different cultures. You experience what you never might in real life.
And so we celebrate both, giving you the many valuable pieces that are sent by our contributors. And along with these we also show you the colors that fill into your life. But this time we’ll show you a dark-er side of things. Quite a few of our additions this time are inspired by the gothic literature of yore. And the artwork by Naiha Raza also dwells
in a different realm. So huddle into a corner and immerse in the issue of strange, dark fantasies. I would also like to introduce to you the two newest members of our team. Aniqa Mumtaz has now joined us as our junior editor and Ayesha Raees will be helping us with the design. The entire poetry section has been made by her. I wish both of them the best of luck and many years with Reality Ro-manticized!
5
Aspiring novelist, not-really-a-closet poet, blogger; Maryam is a freshman at Kinnaird majoring in Media Studies. She is forever ‘adopting’ words that have been forgotten (current word: Traboccant, meaning supera-bundant).
She hates being told that she should be study-
ing Literature.
Poetry becomes that one thing that can make you see what you never even imagined. And the highest sen-timents can be made insignificant and the lowest can be held into the greater light. And fiction shows you perspectives, many, of a single thing. It takes you to different eras, different cultures. You experience what you never might in real life.
And so we celebrate both, giving you the many valuable pieces that are sent by our contributors. And along with these we also show you the colors that fill into your life. But this time we’ll show you a dark-er side of things. Quite a few of our additions this time are inspired by the gothic literature of yore. And the artwork by Naiha Raza also dwells
in a different realm. So huddle into a corner and immerse in the issue of strange, dark fantasies. I would also like to introduce to you the two newest members of our team. Aniqa Mumtaz has now joined us as our junior editor and Ayesha Raees will be helping us with the design. The entire poetry section has been made by her. I wish both of them the best of luck and many years with Reality Ro-manticized!
6
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9|To Have and to Hold by Hina Khurshid
11| Wicked by Mehreen Mujeeb
11| The Murdered Girls by Maryam Mirza
12| Death Said by Ayesha Raees
13| Another Slash at my Skin by Ali Hassan
9
10
Section Designs by Ayesha Raees
The blazing sun blinds my eyes…
And suddenly…as if in a dream…
The meadow starts to come to life,
The wind can almost caress my face,
The fragrance can tickle my thoughts,
And the water falls in the back,
Collecting at the bottom and mirroring the meadow’s beauty on its
cool clear surface…
If I stretch my hand further,
Just a little further…
It might touch the glistening dewdrops on those crimson petals,
Petals as red as the blood coursing through my veins…
But as I stretch my hand I feel the distance start to grow…
I feel it all slowly moving away…
Slowly…silently…mockingly…
Fainting into a distant horizon,
It’s all a blur now…
I can hear the dark whispers behind me…
They are pulling me back…
I try to resist,
But their pull is too strong…their force too magnetic…
And as I slowly open my eyes,
Sunshine is just plain sunshine…
The smell of the meadow has scattered somewhere in the air…
The petals are all gone…
And reality comes with pain,
Such wretched…excruciating pain,
That I can feel my insides crumble to dust…
I can feel my soul slip away and the emptiness within…
Every day, every night,
Every moment that I breathe…
It haunts me,
The meadow follows me like a wraith…
Leering out from the dark shadows…
I want to run away…
I want that meadow to become real…
To hold those petals in my hand,
And to get lost somewhere in their beauty…
To pour my heart out to them,
And watch in silent awe as my tears mix with the dewdrops,
And they become one…
I want to stand under the waterfall,
And shiver as the cold water sweeps my pain away…
I want to see my reflection silhouetted against the meadow’s beau-
ty…
And become oblivious to those voices pulling me back…
If only the reality would wait a little longer,
One more moment and I could hold my dreams in these palms,
Close then real tight and never let go.
To Have and to Hold by Hina Khurshid
11
The blazing sun blinds my eyes…
And suddenly…as if in a dream…
The meadow starts to come to life,
The wind can almost caress my face,
The fragrance can tickle my thoughts,
And the water falls in the back,
Collecting at the bottom and mirroring the meadow’s beauty on its
cool clear surface…
If I stretch my hand further,
Just a little further…
It might touch the glistening dewdrops on those crimson petals,
Petals as red as the blood coursing through my veins…
But as I stretch my hand I feel the distance start to grow…
I feel it all slowly moving away…
Slowly…silently…mockingly…
Fainting into a distant horizon,
It’s all a blur now…
I can hear the dark whispers behind me…
They are pulling me back…
I try to resist,
But their pull is too strong…their force too magnetic…
And as I slowly open my eyes,
Sunshine is just plain sunshine…
The smell of the meadow has scattered somewhere in the air…
The petals are all gone…
And reality comes with pain,
Such wretched…excruciating pain,
That I can feel my insides crumble to dust…
I can feel my soul slip away and the emptiness within…
Every day, every night,
Every moment that I breathe…
It haunts me,
The meadow follows me like a wraith…
Leering out from the dark shadows…
I want to run away…
I want that meadow to become real…
To hold those petals in my hand,
And to get lost somewhere in their beauty…
To pour my heart out to them,
And watch in silent awe as my tears mix with the dewdrops,
And they become one…
I want to stand under the waterfall,
And shiver as the cold water sweeps my pain away…
I want to see my reflection silhouetted against the meadow’s beau-
ty…
And become oblivious to those voices pulling me back…
If only the reality would wait a little longer,
One more moment and I could hold my dreams in these palms,
Close then real tight and never let go.
To Have and to Hold by Hina Khurshid
12
In solitude
A candle stands
Unused
Unbruised
In a world
Charged with electricity
Switches and wires
Tie our eyes so they won't see
When there is no electricity
In fear we cry for light
When even with bulbs
We lived in darkness
Composure prevails
The candle wick has been lit
A tamed flame which stands alone
Slowly melts and pauses
The smoke becomes a drug
Reflecting flashbacks in the air
We slowly start to realise
Like a candle we melt and stand
Until our wick can no longer burn
Wicked By Mehreen Mujeeb
I’ll make murdered girls live again Follow their drops of blood, Rusty in places Black in some Scrubbed clean by bleach By the hand that held the knife. I’ll grant them one last wish And it wouldn’t be revenge Nor would it be a chance to live again. We’ll redecorate Heaven. It’ll be our Earth in the sky.
The Murdered Girls By Maryam Mirza
13
Death Said By Ayesha Raees
The Death told me that day
when the rained refused to cry
that today was not my last day
and I pleaded with him
ripping his ripped cloak
“Take me. Take me now,”
He did not respond,
“Take me instead”
I am not here
to collect deaths
he whispered into the dark night
I am not here
to do as I please
I am only here
as the orders say
I cannot do as I may
Carry on, little girl
don’t lie in a heap
the rain will soon fall
and carry away your grief
The Death told me that day
when the rained refused to cry
that today was not my last day
and I pleaded with him
ripping his ripped cloak
“Take me. Take me now,”
He did not respond,
“Take me instead”
I am not here
to collect deaths
he whispered into the dark night
I am not here
to do as I please
I am only here
as the orders say
I cannot do as I may
Carry on, little girl
don’t lie in a heap
the rain will soon fall
and carry away your grief
14
No one can see the misery
No one can see the pain
No one can see me suffering
As I go through it again
I am addicted to the pain
Don't care if it is a sin
Come on, give me the blade
I'll put a rash on my skin
Shrouded in a family's sorrow
Lost in love's woe
I'll end up sitting in a corner
No one will ever know
Who knew bleeding was fun
I can even do it with a grin
I'll hide quietly in the shade
And start to hash at my skin
All my dreams are haunted
My life is worse, still
No one can hurt me more
When i can hurt myself at will
There might be some hope
That keeps me going from within
Maybe even that i can trade
For another gash on my skin
I'll cut myself today
Maybe a cut too deep
Nothing will hurt anymore
For I shall forever sleep
I wonder if i should do it
For there is a loss in that win
Maybe i'll do it tomorrow
And settle for a slash on my skin
Another Slash at my Skin By Ali Hassan
15
Another Slash at my Skin By Ali Hassan
16
Flowing Ink
17
17 | C ountarpart by Kanwal Mukhtar
21| Manto by Syed Zeeshan Ahmed
25| Hel lo Alice by Noor Rehman
18
‘One step at a time, one at a time…’ No matter what I told myself, the next step
would be even harder. I concentrated on each
one, telling myself there was a long way to go,
but only ‘one at a time’ and I’d make it.
Nothing helped of course.
I didn’t lose faith; I still concentrated hard on
each one. Nevertheless, the path got rockier and
rockier and it became more and more difficult to
place my foot safely anywhere.
I was hyperventilating now, and the path started
getting narrower.
My head spun and claustro-
phobia began creeping up. And
I had no option but to keep go-
ing, no matter how hard it got.
Life or death, there was no oth-
er option of course.
But isn’t life supposed to offer you some charms?
A hysterical giggle burst through my lips, think-
ing of charms! How grateful I’d be if there was
just a place to sit down for a few moments at
least!
I stumbled on a rock and it cut through my foot,
the blood was profound and it turned scarlet in-
stantly.
A dry sob built up in my chest, I didn’t have any
energy left for a real crying jag.
My head spun and stomach heaved, while my
heart beat somewhere in the range of my ad-
am’s apple.
‘Keep pushing on,’ there was no other way.
I desperately needed to hold onto something, but
couldn’t do so without scraping my hands at the
rough, rocky walls lining the steep path.
And then, I narrowed my eyes to make sure I
wasn’t hallucinating merely, there was a shadow
ahead in my way.
It was impossible, didn’t they say, everybody’s
tracks are different, every journey is separate
and individual?
It could be a foe, a threat, a menace. As if I
cared. Things couldn’t get any worse anyway.
I caught myself at that thought, ‘Don’t you dare
be ungrateful!’
The shadow loomed closer. I wondered dismally
how I was going to get past whoever it was even
if I decided to just carry on straight; the track
was too narrow for two.
But my head didn’t have much space for such
wonderings; I still had to pull a huge effort for
every small move.
I was right behind it now, I paused, sucked a
huge breath in through between my teeth.
He turned to face me.
I barely blinked my eyes, and he’d picked me up.
With the next step he took, we emerged from the
narrow alley into a wide, green field.
I shielded my eyes as the sun blinded them mo-
mentarily.
I had gone mad or I was dreaming, right? There
was no saner explanation for it.
I closed my eyes as he walked forward. And then
I realized how actually drained I was.
With my eye still closed, I rested my head
against his chest and kept them closed.
And I had thought I’d be able to make it on my
own?
‘I believe in you,’ a voice whispered in my ear.
And I realized I’d never actually believed in my-
self!
I could hear water flowing somewhere nearby.
He stopped after a while and put me gently
down on the grass. I opened my eyes; we were
sitting next to a stream.
I drank deeply the water he got me, thirsting ad-
amantly as I was. Then he took off my shoe, and
cleaned my wound with the water.
I couldn’t believe it wasn’t an extravagant
dream! Yet the sun was too bright, too real.
So was the being next to me.
They say that humans originally consisted of
four arms, four legs, and a single head made of
two faces, but a certain Greek god feared their
power and split them all in half.
No matter what else might go wrong around
now, life had come to life.
I knew that I was safe enough to open the locks,
to let my truest self step out and be completely
and honestly who I was; I felt it in myself. Be-
cause the one who had locks that fit my keys and
keys to fit my locks was here.
Though the paths still won’t be easy, they’ll be
easy enough for me.
There still was a long way to go, I thought as I
stood up again, but there was nothing to fear
Counterpart By Kanwal Mukhtar
19
It could be a foe, a threat, a men-ace. As if I cared. Things couldn’t get any worse
anyway.
‘One step at a time, one at a time…’ No matter what I told myself, the next step
would be even harder. I concentrated on each
one, telling myself there was a long way to go,
but only ‘one at a time’ and I’d make it.
Nothing helped of course.
I didn’t lose faith; I still concentrated hard on
each one. Nevertheless, the path got rockier and
rockier and it became more and more difficult to
place my foot safely anywhere.
I was hyperventilating now, and the path started
getting narrower.
My head spun and claustro-
phobia began creeping up. And
I had no option but to keep go-
ing, no matter how hard it got.
Life or death, there was no oth-
er option of course.
But isn’t life supposed to offer you some charms?
A hysterical giggle burst through my lips, think-
ing of charms! How grateful I’d be if there was
just a place to sit down for a few moments at
least!
I stumbled on a rock and it cut through my foot,
the blood was profound and it turned scarlet in-
stantly.
A dry sob built up in my chest, I didn’t have any
energy left for a real crying jag.
My head spun and stomach heaved, while my
heart beat somewhere in the range of my ad-
am’s apple.
‘Keep pushing on,’ there was no other way.
I desperately needed to hold onto something, but
couldn’t do so without scraping my hands at the
rough, rocky walls lining the steep path.
And then, I narrowed my eyes to make sure I
wasn’t hallucinating merely, there was a shadow
ahead in my way.
It was impossible, didn’t they say, everybody’s
tracks are different, every journey is separate
and individual?
It could be a foe, a threat, a menace. As if I
cared. Things couldn’t get any worse anyway.
I caught myself at that thought, ‘Don’t you dare
be ungrateful!’
The shadow loomed closer. I wondered dismally
how I was going to get past whoever it was even
if I decided to just carry on straight; the track
was too narrow for two.
But my head didn’t have much space for such
wonderings; I still had to pull a huge effort for
every small move.
I was right behind it now, I paused, sucked a
huge breath in through between my teeth.
He turned to face me.
I barely blinked my eyes, and he’d picked me up.
With the next step he took, we emerged from the
narrow alley into a wide, green field.
I shielded my eyes as the sun blinded them mo-
mentarily.
I had gone mad or I was dreaming, right? There
was no saner explanation for it.
I closed my eyes as he walked forward. And then
I realized how actually drained I was.
With my eye still closed, I rested my head
against his chest and kept them closed.
And I had thought I’d be able to make it on my
own?
‘I believe in you,’ a voice whispered in my ear.
And I realized I’d never actually believed in my-
self!
I could hear water flowing somewhere nearby.
He stopped after a while and put me gently
down on the grass. I opened my eyes; we were
sitting next to a stream.
I drank deeply the water he got me, thirsting ad-
amantly as I was. Then he took off my shoe, and
cleaned my wound with the water.
I couldn’t believe it wasn’t an extravagant
dream! Yet the sun was too bright, too real.
So was the being next to me.
They say that humans originally consisted of
four arms, four legs, and a single head made of
two faces, but a certain Greek god feared their
power and split them all in half.
No matter what else might go wrong around
now, life had come to life.
I knew that I was safe enough to open the locks,
to let my truest self step out and be completely
and honestly who I was; I felt it in myself. Be-
cause the one who had locks that fit my keys and
keys to fit my locks was here.
Though the paths still won’t be easy, they’ll be
easy enough for me.
There still was a long way to go, I thought as I
stood up again, but there was nothing to fear
MANTO THE MAN
WHO WAS NEVER UNDERSTOOD
By Syed Zeeshan Ahmed (21. A rebel, who bleeds green, and cricket. Writer, literature and Biryani lover. He hasn't got a
DSLR, but still loves to do photography. Blogger, astronomer, movie and music fanatic. Explorer
of physical, fictional and metaphysical dimensions. Social critic, and a veteran twitter user. For
more information, do not refer to history books. )
21
MANTO THE MAN
WHO WAS NEVER UNDERSTOOD
WHO IS SAADAT HASAN MAN-
TO?
For some he was a lunatic. For others he was
just an ordinary writer, who used to write
'sexually explicit' stories.
For some he was the greatest short story writer of Urdu lan-
guage. Then there are people who have never heard of him.
Born on May 11, 1912, this genius (and a nobody) lived an
interesting life. Filled with all the emotions, and concluding
with tragedy.
Like everything else, our society remains divided on Manto.
Some people ignore Manto when they speak about Urdu lit-
erature, while some consider him the greatest short story
writer of Urdu language. Sadly, a lot of this hatred is also
rooted within our social psychology. We refuse to accept our
faults, and our evils. We love living in denial. We see some-
thing wrong, we choose to ignore it.. As long as we're safe
and away from it, it's completely okay. We speak for others,
judge them, but we rarely look at ourselves. And when peo-
ple like Manto show us the mirror, our dirty faces, we throw
the mirror away and call it blasphemy. We call that person a
liar, a sinner, moron and at times a criminal too.
"If you cannot bear these stories then the society is unbeara-
ble. Who am I to remove the clothes of this society, which it-
self is naked. I don't even try to cover it, because it is not my
job, that's the job of dressmakers" - Manto
Manto's era was a very conservative one, and we can associ-
ate the term 'extreme' with it. A lot of people found the dis-
cussion of controversial topics 'indecent'. Everything existed
within the society, but to talk about it openly, was incorrect.
So, a lot of things were never talked about.
By Syed Zeeshan Ahmed (21. A rebel, who bleeds green, and cricket. Writer, literature and Biryani lover. He hasn't got a
DSLR, but still loves to do photography. Blogger, astronomer, movie and music fanatic. Explorer
of physical, fictional and metaphysical dimensions. Social critic, and a veteran twitter user. For
more information, do not refer to history books. )
So, a lot of things were never talked about.
What Manto did was to write about them.
To create a picture of the society along with
its evils, in which he often used extensive
descriptions. To a lot of people, that was
outrageous. Deep inside they knew what
was going on, but in public they had to go
against it.
On 24-01-2012 I bought Manto Ke Shahkar
Afsanay (Masterpiece Short Stories by Man-
to). Apart from some random stuff I hadn't
read much of Manto. I still remember read-
ing his short story "Naya Qanoon" (New
Law/ Constitution) in Class 9th. It was then
completely removed from the later editions.
The version I read, I came to know later on,
was heavily censored. It was shortened, and
a lot of stuff was removed deliberately. I
won't go into the details. Once I finished the
book, I couldn't help praising Manto. His
brilliance, which was way ahead of his time.
It is very hard to imagine educational au-
thorities ignoring Manto, so brutally. But
then, we are all Pakistanis, and here in Paki-
stan, things work rather oddly. We have a
vast history of ignoring our legends, dis-
owning them and removing them from
texts.
Manto was different from a lot of writers of
his time. He explored psychoanalysis with
human behaviour. He looked at an individu-
al from his own perspective, as well as oth-
ers. But he never himself tried judging a
character, on his own. Even if he did, he
never called it the ultimate judgement. Ra-
ther, his own opinion.
A lot of his famous stories revolve around
the partition of India. He used simple char-
acters to explore the situation, the psycho-
logical condition of individuals, as well as
the political backdrop of the event. A story
titled "Toba Tek Singh" is considered his
magnum opus by a lot of literature experts,
and his fans too. It also revolves around the
partition. Using satire, he presents a bril-
liant story, and concludes it rather amazing-
ly.
"Hindustan had become free. Pakistan had
become independent soon after its incep-
tion but man was still slave in both these
countries -- slave of prejudice … slave of re-
ligious fanaticism … slave of barbarity and
inhumanity.” - Murali Ki Dhun (Ganjay
Farishtay)
Manto is famous for his short stories. But
he also wrote plays, screenplays for some
movies, and also essays.
Manto was arrogant. He was self-centered.
He was addicted to alcohol, which also con-
tributed to his downfall. But Manto was a
genius too. And above all he was a human.
Just like his characters, he was a flawed
creature. He made some terrible decisions,
so did the characters in his stories.
I haven't read his entire works, I admit. But
whatever I have read, touched my soul. His
works speak to you, in a hoarse voice. His
tone is very furious at times. You might hate
his stories, his characters, but you can't
help relating with them. Manto didn't pick
kings and queens, or fairy tale characters
for his stories, he picked the ones who are
ignored, hated and avoided. He picked the
"Saugandhi" of Hatak and also "Mamad
bhai". Not only them, he also explored the
battle between the right and the wrong in
the mind of "Javed" from Darpok.
Hypocrisy is rooted deep within our coun-
try. Our personal hatred has often been
found damaging the heritage of this coun-
try. This is the same country which still ig-
nores Dr. Abdus Salam.
To dream of a better Pakistan, is easy, but to
change our mindset, that requires huge ef-
fort. It's often said that mind plays a nega-
tive role when we try doing something that
is against our current thinking or nature.
Manto passed away on January 18, 1955.
But his words have lived on. It's not that
easy to get rid of ideas, they keep on trans-
forming into something stronger. Manto
once said for himself "...and it is also possi-
ble, that Saadat Hasan dies, but Manto re-
mains alive".
No better way to end this article than quot-
ing Manto himself. He wanted this to be his
epitaph on his grave:
"In the name of God, the Compassionate,
the Merciful
Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto and with
him lie buried all the secrets and mys-
teries of the art of short-story writing....
Under tons of earth he lies, still wonder-
ing who among the two is greater short-
story writer: God or He.”
MANTO
23
So, a lot of things were never talked about.
What Manto did was to write about them.
To create a picture of the society along with
its evils, in which he often used extensive
descriptions. To a lot of people, that was
outrageous. Deep inside they knew what
was going on, but in public they had to go
against it.
On 24-01-2012 I bought Manto Ke Shahkar
Afsanay (Masterpiece Short Stories by Man-
to). Apart from some random stuff I hadn't
read much of Manto. I still remember read-
ing his short story "Naya Qanoon" (New
Law/ Constitution) in Class 9th. It was then
completely removed from the later editions.
The version I read, I came to know later on,
was heavily censored. It was shortened, and
a lot of stuff was removed deliberately. I
won't go into the details. Once I finished the
book, I couldn't help praising Manto. His
brilliance, which was way ahead of his time.
It is very hard to imagine educational au-
thorities ignoring Manto, so brutally. But
then, we are all Pakistanis, and here in Paki-
stan, things work rather oddly. We have a
vast history of ignoring our legends, dis-
owning them and removing them from
texts.
Manto was different from a lot of writers of
his time. He explored psychoanalysis with
human behaviour. He looked at an individu-
al from his own perspective, as well as oth-
ers. But he never himself tried judging a
character, on his own. Even if he did, he
never called it the ultimate judgement. Ra-
ther, his own opinion.
A lot of his famous stories revolve around
the partition of India. He used simple char-
acters to explore the situation, the psycho-
logical condition of individuals, as well as
the political backdrop of the event. A story
titled "Toba Tek Singh" is considered his
magnum opus by a lot of literature experts,
and his fans too. It also revolves around the
partition. Using satire, he presents a bril-
liant story, and concludes it rather amazing-
ly.
"Hindustan had become free. Pakistan had
become independent soon after its incep-
tion but man was still slave in both these
countries -- slave of prejudice … slave of re-
ligious fanaticism … slave of barbarity and
inhumanity.” - Murali Ki Dhun (Ganjay
Farishtay)
Manto is famous for his short stories. But
he also wrote plays, screenplays for some
movies, and also essays.
Manto was arrogant. He was self-centered.
He was addicted to alcohol, which also con-
tributed to his downfall. But Manto was a
genius too. And above all he was a human.
Just like his characters, he was a flawed
creature. He made some terrible decisions,
so did the characters in his stories.
I haven't read his entire works, I admit. But
whatever I have read, touched my soul. His
works speak to you, in a hoarse voice. His
tone is very furious at times. You might hate
his stories, his characters, but you can't
help relating with them. Manto didn't pick
kings and queens, or fairy tale characters
for his stories, he picked the ones who are
ignored, hated and avoided. He picked the
"Saugandhi" of Hatak and also "Mamad
bhai". Not only them, he also explored the
battle between the right and the wrong in
the mind of "Javed" from Darpok.
Hypocrisy is rooted deep within our coun-
try. Our personal hatred has often been
found damaging the heritage of this coun-
try. This is the same country which still ig-
nores Dr. Abdus Salam.
To dream of a better Pakistan, is easy, but to
change our mindset, that requires huge ef-
fort. It's often said that mind plays a nega-
tive role when we try doing something that
is against our current thinking or nature.
Manto passed away on January 18, 1955.
But his words have lived on. It's not that
easy to get rid of ideas, they keep on trans-
forming into something stronger. Manto
once said for himself "...and it is also possi-
ble, that Saadat Hasan dies, but Manto re-
mains alive".
No better way to end this article than quot-
ing Manto himself. He wanted this to be his
epitaph on his grave:
"In the name of God, the Compassionate,
the Merciful
Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto and with
him lie buried all the secrets and mys-
teries of the art of short-story writing....
Under tons of earth he lies, still wonder-
ing who among the two is greater short-
story writer: God or He.”
Hindustan had become free. Pakistan had become independent soon after its inception but man was still slave in both these countries- slave of prejudice… slave of religious fanati-
cism… slave of barbarity and inhumanity.
“
HELLO Alice There is something wet and dry on her face.
Wet because she can feel it cool as they breathe on
“Don’t do that,” a voice chides softly, then sighs when she
does it again. “It’ll hurt more if you do that. It’s caking up.
You’ll need to wash it off.”
25
She moves her lips to ask, but it hurts to
part them and she stops abruptly with a
pained cry of surprise. Something- a
hand- she realizes, clamps down on her
mouth, though not as forcefully as she’d
expected and another strokes her hair.
The action is hesitant, slow and choppy
even - as if the person doing it had never
tried this before. The voice is back. “I’m
sorry. I’m sorry. So stupid, I’m so stupid!
I should’ve warned you. Should’ve
known you’d try to speak. Hush now.
Hush.”
She did not want to hush. But if it would
get them off of her. She forced herself to
relax and she felt him? Her? It? Relax as
well.
“That’s it.” The relief at her compliance
was obvious. “Now,” and the hesitance
returned “could you. Could you open
your eyes?”
Eyes? A giddy voice inside her, one she
couldn’t really place, asked. Why not?
But as the seconds passed she realized it
wouldn’t be that easy.
Initially it felt as if she had forgotten
how. Silly really. It was the first thing a
human child did after all. The first sign
of life after the initial wail, announcing
its arrival. But then she realized it was
something else. Something was actually
hindering her already tired lids from
prying themselves apart. A dry, crack-
ling something. And when she fought it-
it hurt.
“Nngh!” It was pitiful really, that the low,
guttural sound was all she could man-
age. But it was either that or try to
speak again- and that was an experience
she did not want to relive any time soon.
“Oh no, no.” Disappointment, that was
the emotion present in the voice now.
That and something. She didn’t know
what but it made the giddy part of her
subconscious shriek and made her want
to laugh a strange, almost frightened
laugh. What? But the voice was talking
again and she switched off her inner
monologue to pay attention. After all,
she was a good girl, and good girls lis-
tened when people spoke to them and
curtsied while they thought. After all, it
saved time.
…what?
“I was hoping you’d be able to see at
least. I didn’t want to start without you
being able to see.” Petulance, was that
the word she was looking for? Or was it
pitifull? Really, the state she was in right
now, her sister would’ve wrung her
hands in despair.
Eyes flew open and tears gathered. It
stung. It stung. But that didn’t matter.
By Noor Rehman
Her hand flew out to catch a bright red vest. Her eyes hardened as
they met startled red eyes and a nervous, twitching nose.
“Where. Is. My. Sister.”
A moment longer he was still.
And then the man- White Rabbit, wasn’t it- he smiled.
For whatever reason, her eyes flew to the doorknob. She blinked.
And that’s when the world exploded.
Well, not really. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. After-
wards, she realized that that was actually a
very accurate summary of the incident. Be-
cause when the doors burst open like that,
they signaled a chain of events that- but
we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s get
back shall we?
“Hello Alice” he had said, and that had trig-
gered something in her. Her eyes had been
drawn automatically to the doorknob, and
then several things happened at once.
The door flew open and she kneed the-
Rabbit in the stomach, keeping a firm grip
on that pretty red vest, causing him to jerk
forward. Something pale and red streamed
in to the room and it took a moment for
her to realize that they were people- pale
and bloodless but draped in blood red
clothes that at once stood in sharp contrast
with their complexion and also suited it.
Their faces were covered with thin, pale
masks. She twisted the wheezing man
around in a choke hold. Her heart was rac-
ing, her ears ringing and the giddy voice in
her head was nearly hysterical now, so she
was surprised to hear the calm, almost
bored sound that came from her mouth.
“Hold it Oysters.”
And miraculously, they did.
For a moment, she and the pale, sickly peo-
ple eyed each other. She counted twenty of
them, but was there anymore outside?
Why don’t you ask? The giddy voice ques-
tioned and she thought, why not indeed?
“How many more?”
Surprisingly, it was the Rabbit that an-
swered with a wheezy little laugh. “It’s just
you isn’t it boys? You got here so fast be-
cause you were on patrol. Am I right?”
No response came from the pale figures
and the Rabbit wheezed again. “I bet he
doesn’t even know you’re here. It’s all
right.” He held up his hands. “She’s… well,
I’m taking her to see the Queen.”
That worked- if only a little. There was a
slight shudder in the sea of red and white
and as the Rabbit kept talking she saw now
that the masks they were wearing didn’t
completely hide their. They hid the fea-
tures yes, but a gesture or a spasm violent
enough could be seen. But even those
spasms were uniform and unanimous. The
same “Oh,” of muted shock, the same jerk
of the head. Except one. As she tuned the
Rabbit ot, she glimpsed one of the crowd,
in the far right corner, right next to the
door. That one did not move. And if she
didn’t know any better, his attention was
not on the Rabbit as much as it was fo-
cused on her.
It irked her, but she refused to let him unnerve her.
Smug idiot, the giddy voice in her head agreed, and
she focused on the remainder of the Oysters. But as
she stared resolutely away, she could have sworn she
saw what looked suspiciously like a grin spread over
the last ones face.
Silly old Cat. She thought venomously, then she
stopped.
Wait, where did that come from?
Her eyes widened as a flow of memories rushed to
her mind.
Trees. Too many of them, the roots tangled up togeth-
er, making her trip.
“Stop running you’re going to fall!”
Liza? Her tired mind questioned, as she tried to grasp
for her sister.
Why must you make things so difficult Ali-
Watch out! Alice Watch Out!
The last one wasn’t in her mind she realized as she
blinked and dove to the side instinctively, dragging
the Rabbit along as something black wizzed over
their heads.
On the floor, she scrambled to get up and heard the
Rabbit shriek.
“They shot at me. They shot at me!”
“Oh Shut up Rabbit.” A bored voice muttered and she
jerked up to locate it. It was comparatively calmer
now, but it had been the same voice that had shouted
out the warning a few seconds prior. The Oysters
were also confused it appeared, because they were
alternating between locating the owner of the voice
and staring at their comrade who was looking at the
revolver in his hand. If Oysters got surprised or
shocked, she would have to bet that this was how
they looked. The poor thing looked completely flab-
bergasted at his actions, as if breaking from ranks
and making a decision on one’s own was something
he had never expected from anyone- let alone him-
self. It was simply not done. And his compatriots
seemed to agree with him as two grabbed his arms
and he looked at them for a moment before hanging
his head and letting them drag him past the staring
oysters, out the door and away. As their footsteps
faded away, the other oysters looked at each other for
a moment then back at her. Squaring their shoulders,
they took a step and regrouped until there they were;
same perfect formation as before. As if nothing had
changed. Not all of them though. The laughing one-
she was sure it was him- stayed where he was, by the
door. As if he had met her eye, he gave a barely dis-
cernible nod. And in that moment she knew who had
warned her.
Slowly, as if on automatic, she got up, eyes on the
Oysters following her every move.
Somewhere, a clock chimed and her ally from the
back leapt up and over his comrades and in a single,
fluid motion hurled something at her..
A second passed.
A white mask fell to the floor.
And then the Oysters raised their revolvers as one as
she raised her hand to catch the loaded gun thrown
at her face.
And yes, that could have been the explosion I was
talking about before. Because from the moment she
released the safety, something exploded inside of her,
bringing down the white walls she’d built so careful-
ly. A locked door flying off its hinges, that’s what it
was like. The giddy voice vanished and things got
deadly quiet as the world around her slowed down.
The Rabbit scuttled under the bed as their new ally
landed gracefully where he’d been before.
“Shall we?” a droll voice asked and she could almost
hear his smile. Because really, what did he think she
was going to say, no?
They wouldn’t do it. But a part of her that sounded
suspiciously like Liza wanted to give them a fighting
chance.
So she took a moment as she aimed. Long enough to
give them warning.
“Run.”
To their credit, they did just that. They ran, at her.
“Should have been specific darling,” the new friend
murmured as he plunged forward to meet them. She
caught a blur of pink and a bright smile on his face as
he passed her and four men in mob outfits in that
same sickening red ran in the door.
Well, she mused as she took aim, she had warned
them.
___________________________________________________________
“What’s the password?” He asked only half jokingly
as they moved in almost perfect sync, eliminating the
wave of loose pack men and Oysters.
She almost lost her mask at that but used the attack
of a particularly ugly Ace of spades as a delaying tac-
tic. The pack men were better trained and had the
added advantage of being able to think for them-
selves. It took a second to aim properly and that was
long enough to bring the answer to her lips. After all,
it had been all they had been calling her. 29
It irked her, but she refused to let him unnerve her.
Smug idiot, the giddy voice in her head agreed, and
she focused on the remainder of the Oysters. But as
she stared resolutely away, she could have sworn she
saw what looked suspiciously like a grin spread over
the last ones face.
Silly old Cat. She thought venomously, then she
stopped.
Wait, where did that come from?
Her eyes widened as a flow of memories rushed to
her mind.
Trees. Too many of them, the roots tangled up togeth-
er, making her trip.
“Stop running you’re going to fall!”
Liza? Her tired mind questioned, as she tried to grasp
for her sister.
Why must you make things so difficult Ali-
Watch out! Alice Watch Out!
The last one wasn’t in her mind she realized as she
blinked and dove to the side instinctively, dragging
the Rabbit along as something black wizzed over
their heads.
On the floor, she scrambled to get up and heard the
Rabbit shriek.
“They shot at me. They shot at me!”
“Oh Shut up Rabbit.” A bored voice muttered and she
jerked up to locate it. It was comparatively calmer
now, but it had been the same voice that had shouted
out the warning a few seconds prior. The Oysters
were also confused it appeared, because they were
alternating between locating the owner of the voice
and staring at their comrade who was looking at the
revolver in his hand. If Oysters got surprised or
shocked, she would have to bet that this was how
they looked. The poor thing looked completely flab-
bergasted at his actions, as if breaking from ranks
and making a decision on one’s own was something
he had never expected from anyone- let alone him-
self. It was simply not done. And his compatriots
seemed to agree with him as two grabbed his arms
and he looked at them for a moment before hanging
his head and letting them drag him past the staring
oysters, out the door and away. As their footsteps
faded away, the other oysters looked at each other for
a moment then back at her. Squaring their shoulders,
they took a step and regrouped until there they were;
same perfect formation as before. As if nothing had
changed. Not all of them though. The laughing one-
she was sure it was him- stayed where he was, by the
door. As if he had met her eye, he gave a barely dis-
cernible nod. And in that moment she knew who had
warned her.
Slowly, as if on automatic, she got up, eyes on the
Oysters following her every move.
Somewhere, a clock chimed and her ally from the
back leapt up and over his comrades and in a single,
fluid motion hurled something at her..
A second passed.
A white mask fell to the floor.
And then the Oysters raised their revolvers as one as
she raised her hand to catch the loaded gun thrown
at her face.
And yes, that could have been the explosion I was
talking about before. Because from the moment she
released the safety, something exploded inside of her,
bringing down the white walls she’d built so careful-
ly. A locked door flying off its hinges, that’s what it
was like. The giddy voice vanished and things got
deadly quiet as the world around her slowed down.
The Rabbit scuttled under the bed as their new ally
landed gracefully where he’d been before.
“Shall we?” a droll voice asked and she could almost
hear his smile. Because really, what did he think she
was going to say, no?
They wouldn’t do it. But a part of her that sounded
suspiciously like Liza wanted to give them a fighting
chance.
So she took a moment as she aimed. Long enough to
give them warning.
“Run.”
To their credit, they did just that. They ran, at her.
“Should have been specific darling,” the new friend
murmured as he plunged forward to meet them. She
caught a blur of pink and a bright smile on his face as
he passed her and four men in mob outfits in that
same sickening red ran in the door.
Well, she mused as she took aim, she had warned
them.
___________________________________________________________
“What’s the password?” He asked only half jokingly
as they moved in almost perfect sync, eliminating the
wave of loose pack men and Oysters.
She almost lost her mask at that but used the attack
of a particularly ugly Ace of spades as a delaying tac-
tic. The pack men were better trained and had the
added advantage of being able to think for them-
selves. It took a second to aim properly and that was
long enough to bring the answer to her lips. After all,
it had been all they had been calling her.
"Hello Alice," she said before she pulled the trigger to end the
Ace’s misery.
The wall splattered red behind him but her attention was fixed
on that sickle moon grin that spread across his face as Cheshire's
lips moved.
"Finally," he smiled, "Alice. Welcome back." and as she shot down a
particularly obstinate Oyster she heard the stealth expert’s sigh of
relief. “Still got it.” But there was still tenseness to his stance, ri-
gidity in his lips.
She ducked to the side, almost by instinct as he leapt at and past
her, driving his Katana through an Oyster. From the sounds of it, it
had gone through his head.
Why do they keep calling me that???
Oh dear, the giddy voice was back, but she forced it down as she
fired another round in to the figure coming in the door.
“I thought we’d lost you,” he admitted from his position behind
her, his face hidden as he straightened up from the crouch he’d
been in. Involuntarily, she felt the need to stroke his messy pink
hair. Dear Chess. He would never admit this in public she knew,
not Cheshire. She couldn’t remember how or why she knew this,
but she and Cheshire were close. And something told her that he
might stab her in the gut if the situation demanded it but he’d
never attack her from behind or leave her without some sort of
help.
So it was with that faith in her heart that she snorted and replied,
“You wouldn’t be that lucky, partner.” And as the words left her
lips she realized that they had been the right words to say. Not be-
cause of the sigh of relief that left his lips. But because, she real-
ized as she blasted a Two of Diamonds through the wall, they
were true. That’s what they were, they were partners. And with
that relationship established and the cause for their mutual con-
cern categorized, labeled and ascertained, she found it easier to
breathe in his presence, and just like that they were back in sync.
In fact, she realized as they neared the door, better than before.
“Hey,” he called softly, interrupting her musings.
She flipped around to meet him and caught the tell tale maniacal
glint in those dark eyes just in time to drop down before the glis-
tening blade swung up to spike the approaching Three of Dia-
monds behind her.
“I could have handled that.”
He smiled again. “And I was supposed to stand by and let you
dirty your pretty little hands? Hatter would kill me. Besides,” he
jerked his head distastefully towards the bed that she’d forgotten,
“he may be a double crossing, spineless little buck toothed freak,
but he’s our double crossing spineless little buck toothed freak.
He’s one of our own, and Hatter wouldn’t much like either of us
leaving him behind. Though, having you back might soften the
blow.”
His smile was the same thin sickle moon grin as before, but she
could detect a bit of warmth there, carefully hidden, but appar-
ently, she knew where to look to locate the chinks in his armor.
She rolled her eyes at that thought and as she made to get their
companion, she caught his smile stretching a little wider, all the
way to his eyes.
She did not try to match it. Truly, she considered as she blasted
the last stirring Oyster, she doubted anyone could.
“Shall we get our sniveling friend and leave?”
Hidden from him though, her lips did curl a little as she grabbed
the shivering bundle of the fur and silk that was their Rabbit and
dragged him, squealing and muttering apologies, out from under
the bed. Suddenly, the day seemed better and she felt a wave of
optimism pass through her as he helped her steady their friend
and drag him out the door. She could get through this. She felt it
in her heart now, sure of it.
Dear dear Chess.
31
"Hello Alice," she said before she pulled the trigger to end the
Ace’s misery.
The wall splattered red behind him but her attention was fixed
on that sickle moon grin that spread across his face as Cheshire's
lips moved.
"Finally," he smiled, "Alice. Welcome back." and as she shot down a
particularly obstinate Oyster she heard the stealth expert’s sigh of
relief. “Still got it.” But there was still tenseness to his stance, ri-
gidity in his lips.
She ducked to the side, almost by instinct as he leapt at and past
her, driving his Katana through an Oyster. From the sounds of it, it
had gone through his head.
Why do they keep calling me that???
Oh dear, the giddy voice was back, but she forced it down as she
fired another round in to the figure coming in the door.
“I thought we’d lost you,” he admitted from his position behind
her, his face hidden as he straightened up from the crouch he’d
been in. Involuntarily, she felt the need to stroke his messy pink
hair. Dear Chess. He would never admit this in public she knew,
not Cheshire. She couldn’t remember how or why she knew this,
but she and Cheshire were close. And something told her that he
might stab her in the gut if the situation demanded it but he’d
never attack her from behind or leave her without some sort of
help.
So it was with that faith in her heart that she snorted and replied,
“You wouldn’t be that lucky, partner.” And as the words left her
lips she realized that they had been the right words to say. Not be-
cause of the sigh of relief that left his lips. But because, she real-
ized as she blasted a Two of Diamonds through the wall, they
were true. That’s what they were, they were partners. And with
that relationship established and the cause for their mutual con-
cern categorized, labeled and ascertained, she found it easier to
breathe in his presence, and just like that they were back in sync.
In fact, she realized as they neared the door, better than before.
“Hey,” he called softly, interrupting her musings.
She flipped around to meet him and caught the tell tale maniacal
glint in those dark eyes just in time to drop down before the glis-
tening blade swung up to spike the approaching Three of Dia-
monds behind her.
“I could have handled that.”
He smiled again. “And I was supposed to stand by and let you
dirty your pretty little hands? Hatter would kill me. Besides,” he
jerked his head distastefully towards the bed that she’d forgotten,
“he may be a double crossing, spineless little buck toothed freak,
but he’s our double crossing spineless little buck toothed freak.
He’s one of our own, and Hatter wouldn’t much like either of us
leaving him behind. Though, having you back might soften the
blow.”
His smile was the same thin sickle moon grin as before, but she
could detect a bit of warmth there, carefully hidden, but appar-
ently, she knew where to look to locate the chinks in his armor.
She rolled her eyes at that thought and as she made to get their
companion, she caught his smile stretching a little wider, all the
way to his eyes.
She did not try to match it. Truly, she considered as she blasted
the last stirring Oyster, she doubted anyone could.
“Shall we get our sniveling friend and leave?”
Hidden from him though, her lips did curl a little as she grabbed
the shivering bundle of the fur and silk that was their Rabbit and
dragged him, squealing and muttering apologies, out from under
the bed. Suddenly, the day seemed better and she felt a wave of
optimism pass through her as he helped her steady their friend
and drag him out the door. She could get through this. She felt it
in her heart now, sure of it.
Dear dear Chess.
Naiha Raza
“I graduated as an architect but my ultimate goal is to work as a concept
artist for a game designing company. For that very reason, I am currently
working at Caramel Tech Studios, a mobile game developing company, located
in Defence, Lahore. I work there as a game tester and as an artist.”
Strokes
from Within
Naiha Raza
“I graduated as an architect but my ultimate goal is to work as a concept
artist for a game designing company. For that very reason, I am currently
working at Caramel Tech Studios, a mobile game developing company, located
in Defence, Lahore. I work there as a game tester and as an artist.”
Strokes
from Within
35
36
39
40
"The score never inter-ested me, only the
game."
43
"The score never inter-ested me, only the
game."
44
THE
HANDMAID’S TALE
45
‘Nolite te bas-tardes carborun-
dorum.’
(Don’t let the bastards grind you
down.) What was once the United States of America is now the Republic of Gilead, a religion-based totalitarian regime, where the women have no rights. They can’t read, write, or work; their identity depends on the men who control them. The setting is in the late 80s/early 90s, and Offred is a Handmaid, whose sole purpose is to reproduce, as fertility con-tinues to decline in that age. Along with all this, Offred reminisces about the past, her time with her husband, her daugh-ter, her freedom… Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether I’d like this book or not. Dystopian books aren’t really my thing, but it was so highly rec-ommended that I couldn’t resist. And I’m glad I read this. It’s changed my views on a lot of things. The scariest thing about this book is how relevant it still is in recent times. This book is like a femi-nist’s worst nightmare, and what chilled
me so much was how easily I could de-pict the world Atwood has painted for us. Just look at the Middle East. How many rights have women got so far? Or even take me for an example. I am an 18 year old girl living in Karachi who has never stepped out of my house here alone, without a chaperone. Do you know how suffocating that can get sometimes? The only reason I mention this is because, the circumstances are different from the book, and this most definitely doesn’t apply to everyone, but this remains a fact: Were I a boy, no one would have any qualms about me going out alone. Why this kolaveri di, eh? This book show’s us Offred’s struggle, and her eventually succumbing to their kind of thinking, being only a means of reproduction. Think of it, if suddenly one day you are fired and have your bank account and several other things revoked, just because of being a woman, something that’s not in your control, how would you feel? How would you feel knowing the only reason you live is because of your fertility? This book touches on many questions, and the ending is ambiguous. It’s up to you, and the important part is, there should always be hope. The writing style takes a while to get used to, but it’s all worth it. Recom-mended to you all.
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