tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35923068012976444442024-03-05T14:58:38.540+05:00PulseA Space For Unstructured Reflections Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-18560309347958913642022-05-15T18:42:00.001+05:002022-05-15T18:42:22.135+05:00On luck, being lost and the self.<p>I have been beyond lucky in life to get that which few
people do. Genuine, kind hearted and well meaning friends, a supportive family,
the opportunity to lead and have people put their trust in me and then experience
the world beyond the limits of where I was born.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the longest time I spent time over thinking why. Not knowing that it is not our job to necessarily know. At times, pure gratitude is enough. For some time exercising gratitude and not introspection has helped me stay grounded - more forward thinking. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I am coming around not trying to prove - to others, to myself, compensate and justify what I have to someone and anyone. It has ultimately taken the joy that I once felt when I started both my work and my adult life. When I had nothing, I was driven by the ambition to have. Now that I've acquired some, I no longer think wanting is enough. Somewhere down the line I complicated life thinking I was making it easy.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The irony is both a source of embarrassment and relief. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I no longer see success with the same lens I used to 5 years ago. People who cannot be individuals of thoughts, wonder and amazement outside their material world remind me of the empty vessel that get dragged in the race of proving themselves, just as I was doing once, to someone and to anyone. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The purity of life is with those that are content and in realization that life planned is good, but not a guarantee. Having plenty is great, but being burdened by the same is not. </p><p class="MsoNormal">My barter with the world ends here. I have done enough to damage my curious, kind self to embody whatever idea of success the world has had for me. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Its time I don't work the way the world wants me, but to make the world work the way I want it to. I'd rather experience my luck, my sense of belonging and the self on my terms than in constant wonder of the others.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-18080744183823653142019-09-19T22:42:00.001+05:002019-11-26T18:46:12.297+05:00Losing faith?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /><br />Recently, a friend of mine shared an article titled 'Are Arabs turning their backs on religion?'. After going through it, I couldn't help but draw a few general parallels that are telling of the entire Muslim geography as a whole.<br /><br /><br /> In a world that registers change more rapidly than it ever did, nothing, not even faith can sustain without playing constant catch up. In the case of the Muslim community, if there is even one coherent enough to be labeled so, the catch up really hasn't happened. It's still struggling to find its feet let alone be stable enough to respond to emerging trends, crisis or opportunities. For me, that has played a critical part in the dissatisfaction of the youth from religion in general. <br /><br /><br /> Capitalism is another reason I feel faith has taken the backseat. With a steady perpetuation of consumerism and people's lives revolving around material and in pursuit of maintaining or improving one's lifestyle, there's very little time to dedicate to or figure faith out. This newer form of religion is one where offices have become the temples, social status the new God, and money the source of value.<br /><br /><br /> Islamophobia, additionally, has played its due share in shaming the younger generation of Muslims. It is better to dismiss a religion that has such a skewed global image than to find yourself defending or being put at a disadvantage. It has put the younger generation at risk of peer pressure and workplace discrimination. <br /><br /><br /> Last but not least, I feel the older generation's rigidity in transferring their faith-based knowledge and vilification of the newer methods of study has made matters worse.<br /><br /><br /> And although the article pointed out the more political reasons behind the change in attitudes towards religion, I feel there's a lack of psychological and social research that can truly validate the findings. <br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-60017634980446372802019-03-09T16:31:00.001+05:002019-03-09T16:31:16.696+05:00The mess that is life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I think the speed of everything in life has increased tenfold since the advent of modern day technology. Before you know what you're experiencing, it expires and all you're left with is the hollow corpse of your unmitigated emotions. Living as it is takes a toll and this new form even more so. Its noisier, dustier and too damn quick.<br />
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Somewhere, however, the fault is equally mine.<br />
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I should know better than to expect the world to fit my pace. That is not how it works. We have to make sure we're better enough to fit the pace of the world and as far as possible, to do so on our terms. </div>
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This process of individualizing one's living is tough yet necessary. </div>
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I just hope I don't get muted in the crowd. </div>
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Thats all.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-2615445790171481982019-01-08T01:02:00.000+05:002019-01-08T01:07:11.034+05:00Adulthood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Revisiting one's root and origin is quintessential especially when the world around you is moving a little too quickly. Time's being stubborn as it always is and refusing to pace the way you wish it to and slipping as sand does from hands. The company of friends and enemies is blurring between the two and the juggling act of not giving up your personal safety and peace for the profession is becoming hard. You're hoping, wishing, nay almost praying that your sanity does not wash away as quickly as the firmness of your skin is.<br />
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You create divergence at first. They wear off as quickly as your patience does these days. You realize you need solutions. Long or short not being the focus. Just solutions at this point. So you contemplate.<br />
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Contemplate.<br />
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Contemplate.<br />
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You fight between complaining, experiencing the pains of your past, regrets, and denial. Fighting to find rhyme and reason. You're lucky because you struggled to know better. So between you and utter disappointment and physical disintegration, your painful experiences break through. You make a half decent decision and survive for a little longer. And for a second you feel a powerful flicker of pride at the center of your chest. Powerful enough to buy you time. Yes, that old stubborn sucker.<br />
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And you live for a little longer.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-39177888556054632522016-12-21T14:09:00.000+05:002016-12-21T15:56:35.087+05:00"The world's your oyster", said London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Recently, I had the privilege of visiting London (Thank you, British Council). The eight-day visit brought with it a spectacular learning experience, heaps of personal growth and much-needed optimism.<br />
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For a little background information, the visit was part of British Council's Active Citizens Program. In a nutshell the program is about building community cohesion. Their tagline 'Globally Connected, Locally Engaged' does well to encapsulate their belief, aim and structuring. They work with a multitude of entities ranging from universities to civil societies and government to forward the importance of citizenship engagement, durable community service and the hope of a better today and tomorrow. Their focus is to validate the forgotten importance of community building through informal education.<br />
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With their vast network in Pakistan, I got lucky with the launch of their pilot project at my university. My professor, also one of the facilitators of the program, forwarded a few names, including mine. We were to attend a workshop about which we knew little to nothing about. A tactic commonly practiced with the program, as I was to discover later.<br />
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<i><b>Early January 2016: </b></i><br />
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I attended the 5-day workshop with students from different academic years and departments. A side note, my university has over 50 departments. You can imagine how wonderful the mix was. We had students from Business Studies, Psychology to Education. Each from the same campus, but strangers nonetheless. We were put to speak extempore, brainstorm and evaluate on the spot; in short, do everything at the drop of a hat. Often, this involved being in groups.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/12509057_1055002697899121_8701017991374930446_n.jpg?oh=448f5320c4a31667a5c7981f1b1ea92d&oe=58F4BA6A" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/12509057_1055002697899121_8701017991374930446_n.jpg?oh=448f5320c4a31667a5c7981f1b1ea92d&oe=58F4BA6A" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The workshop at the University</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Over the course of the workshop, our evolution involved discovering the 'I' and 'You', and learning the importance of 'We'. Interactive sessions included activities like fish-bowl (critical analysis of social issues), debate vs discussion, among others. And who can forget the extremely fun, everyone's' favorite: the energizers. These were small 2 minute exercises done in order to freshen the minds of the participants. One, for example, was around us running in full circles, only to be stopped by the facilitator into acting out weird animal sounds.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>End of January 2016</b></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/l/t1.0-9/12932750_1742487679327931_8624004205996890459_n.jpg?oh=5fd0e15463d8a0a0634778d3b794c001&oe=58E475DA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/l/t1.0-9/12932750_1742487679327931_8624004205996890459_n.jpg?oh=5fd0e15463d8a0a0634778d3b794c001&oe=58E475DA" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our SAP's Logo </td></tr>
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The end of the workshop gave us an opportunity to pick our desired facilitator of the many that trained us. Once that was done, the real grunt work started: the planning for the SAPs (Social Action Projects). Lucky as I was, faith played me well and landed me among the best people to have by one's side. My facilitator, Syeda Hoor-Ul-Ain, and my team members: Anam Minhas, Javeria Waseem and Rutaba Muneer were and are thorough power-houses. What started as an idea, Break Free: Women's Reconstruction of Self, soon became a reality. Our focus was simple: to challenge the stereotype and stigma attached to divorce women and empower them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13895515_1798054387104593_1097104585930310829_n.jpg?oh=fe8f3f922d021459bd26a61aea186a91&oe=58FB03A1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13895515_1798054387104593_1097104585930310829_n.jpg?oh=fe8f3f922d021459bd26a61aea186a91&oe=58FB03A1" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The team minus Anam.</td></tr>
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Intense planning resulted in us conducting many awareness sessions, engaging with public at large, conducting a workshop with theater, music and panel discussions, conducting support groups, spreading the work through Facebook/Twitter/YouTube, and a research paper. Currently, we are engaged in linking the women we conducted the support groups with organisations that could provide them with vocational training.<br />
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(Funny is it not how months long work can be summarized in a few lines. None of which gives the people involved the due share of the hard-work and dedication involved?)<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Beginning of November 2016</b></i></div>
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Our SAP has successfully delivered the hours we committed, and it still continues to fly. We are given the opportunity to apply for an International Study Visit and so we do. Most of us are tense, but only a few will get a chance to compete. Luckily for me, I make the cut.<br />
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The call that followed was one of the most nerve-wracking interviews I have ever given. For starters, I spoke too quickly and for that, I was stopped often (at least 5 times. And yes, I counted). My interviewer was a persistent man for he did not let any emotion show and that just added to my anxiety. To his credit, I understand he was only trying to understand the project through my eyes. To my credit, I was nervous and had for that moment disliked him. (There is a high probability he would be reading this, and I assure you, he is nothing but a really nice man).<br />
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<b><i>End of November 2016 </i></b></div>
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<i>Flying to London: A story of a missed flight</i></div>
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Before I go on telling about how the ISV went, this bit needs to be narrated. You see, travelling alone brings with a tonne of learning. But nothing teaches you quite as effectively as when you miss your connecting flight and have a deadline to abide by.<br />
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For starters, Dubai airport is like a mini-city. When you reach your destined gate, all you wish to do is peacefully wait for your announcement and call out on one of the biggest, stupidest corporate scam that is their "duty-free".<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://img.pandawhale.com/66068-panic-gif-sgeU.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://img.pandawhale.com/66068-panic-gif-sgeU.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hyperventilating because this is the first time you missed your flight</td></tr>
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Anyhow, according to the boarding pass, my gate was B14. So I sat there for about an hour and a half with other passengers thinking, as they were, that our departure was delayed. Usually, under such circumstances, I would wait for an announcement, but none came. So, I brushed any suspicion aside. After much deliberation, and seeing as how no announcements were made, we made our way to the display screen. According to that dreaded board, our plane's door had closed 4 minutes ago at terminal C, gate C4!<br />
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We made a run and were greeted with one of the most unpleasant men I've had the misfortune of talking to. Can't say the same for the other Pakistani I was travelling with.<br />
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*(For no purpose of anonymity and because I do not know that man's name, I'd call him Mr IDC: I don't care. And the other Pakistani guy as M)<br />
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The conversation that followed went something like this:<br />
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I: " Did the flight take off? We were waiting at the gate mentioned at our tickets"<br />
IDC: "Sorry, the gate's closed a few minutes ago. We don't know where you guys were. The gate changed two hours ago"<br />
M: "Habibi, please can't you do something"<br />
IDC: "I can't"<br />
M: "Please, can't you call the pilot?"<br />
IDC: "It doesn't work like that"<br />
I: "Is this a common practice, of changing gates? Why were their no announcements made?"<br />
IDC: "We made announcements. We even sent people to look for you two but you weren't there"<br />
I: "We've been sitting at that gate for more than hour. There is no way you sent someone and they didn't spot us. Also, why would you need to send someone if you made announcements?"<br />
IDC: "We sent them, you weren't there"<br />
I: "This is an airport, right"<br />
IDC: *looking confused* "Yes"<br />
I: "Well, I bet there are cameras everywhere. Why don't you check and see if I was sitting there or not?"<br />
IDC: "..."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media1.giphy.com/media/C0FcwaopmfsfC/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media1.giphy.com/media/C0FcwaopmfsfC/giphy.gif" height="174" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was his face.</td></tr>
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We followed by asking him directions to the office where we could have our new tickets issued. Surely enough, they cost us a lot. Time limited us to care about what we were spending since people in another continent were expecting us. All in all, I think, reaching just an hour late was not half bad.<br />
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This particular incident did however make me confront a more determined side of mine. Even though I am an unusually calm person, who doesn't mind looking past mistakes, there was some angst in my conversation with the airline representatives that had no sense of customer care or sense enough to register this gate change policy with people, especially people who are not frequent travelers.<br />
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I thought this incident was an eventful start to the week.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxj1RKTnVbnQFt8KmWZSgXqB6qSFFLNN_cM2iTmu2IYw8Hb8E3jyBFsS4rnoH5IwTsZVcBvMwmvF_bHenzmLZmljvk_B-0JqVYDGohAH-NC1he3qfVJ1UIVKx-WehModAERkTcGMtHOu0/s1600/collage-2016-12-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxj1RKTnVbnQFt8KmWZSgXqB6qSFFLNN_cM2iTmu2IYw8Hb8E3jyBFsS4rnoH5IwTsZVcBvMwmvF_bHenzmLZmljvk_B-0JqVYDGohAH-NC1he3qfVJ1UIVKx-WehModAERkTcGMtHOu0/s400/collage-2016-12-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vicinity was beautiful indeed</td></tr>
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<i><i>To London on time</i></i></div>
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Reaching London on time was a relief. We checked in the hotel with just enough time to throw our luggage in our rooms and meet everyone at the Kensington Room (Our solace to be for the coming days). Old Windsor, a countryside, was true to its nature: isolate, calm and beautiful. On reception, we met Catherine and Edward. Their warm welcome made the haste of the missing flight fiasco a little less worrying.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOq7JLbYTBDnDO1-kSpe3oarZ4U0qIBXbslcHNMGd-FcfXCtgtnSGBu_pWiZakldlAtefZBvJ8_u1VSFhHwmL6QLyfvDQwUGtxJUzcuhumRCRO_2XFe_okMRibWcMEopMVDBdcdSarVY/s1600/PB270517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kensington Room</td></tr>
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First day's meet and greet brought with it a lot of new faces and an incredible wave of learning.<br />
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Scottish, Ukrainian, Bangladeshi, Vietnamese, Polish, and so many others all under one roof were exchanging greetings with smiles and trying to remember each other's name with little success. Mike and Michael, our facilitators for the program, did a little exercise asking us to introduce ourselves by defining the story behind our names. Did it help? In a way, yes. For me, I couldn't for the life of me remember all the names, but the stories they brought with themselves made me laugh nonetheless. Some even left me in awe. Some names were so poised and powerful, I felt a tinge of jealousy. Others didn't know what their names stood for, which was relieving.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/15235741_1181798121908567_1427518261869649943_o.jpg?oh=2272c45443e64f43c9da3583bef4892a&oe=58EDF93C" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/15235741_1181798121908567_1427518261869649943_o.jpg?oh=2272c45443e64f43c9da3583bef4892a&oe=58EDF93C" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first official day's about to start</td></tr>
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This little, seemingly simple, activity did, however, give a solid insight into what we were to experience. Lots of informal learning. </div>
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This day ended with a sweet dinner where we got our first glimpse of just how sweet worry could look if it were in a human form, all thanks to Catherine.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGv_RphV7NyGCLxDMwaQmuwIqP43tjOXajjd5_Yn8DcugnCokNKde-IuH8wTYYN7VH5gCvOgB_R0Mp0cYXWZtyeb_eQEhNO7ArnOaTMH9mWPMygR9FfnKX1ZDAVIQIAD99DvFdtiNIfg/s1600/PB270525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGv_RphV7NyGCLxDMwaQmuwIqP43tjOXajjd5_Yn8DcugnCokNKde-IuH8wTYYN7VH5gCvOgB_R0Mp0cYXWZtyeb_eQEhNO7ArnOaTMH9mWPMygR9FfnKX1ZDAVIQIAD99DvFdtiNIfg/s320/PB270525.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So posing</td></tr>
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Because she was managing the logistics, she practically worried about everything. I mean it. Everything.<br />
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The conversation that followed through the dinner table revolved around the many programs British Council takes pride in working on. Many shared their reason for association with the organisation and others, like me, shared our SAPs.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Market Place: A cultural treat </i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCa1crf4Rx77rpMARB56uNYgp0f_GNYqPk5-7pjsJeEf4isCvBdL2MPv_URb9iPVhI8Yx2f5uilvVUlJDdGHBa0X4WAJpfhYerck4FsuV3doYHcD-i-cQALyo3Xr6mwArlDAWgIu0k1U/s1600/CyRiJ13WQAA5E_d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCa1crf4Rx77rpMARB56uNYgp0f_GNYqPk5-7pjsJeEf4isCvBdL2MPv_URb9iPVhI8Yx2f5uilvVUlJDdGHBa0X4WAJpfhYerck4FsuV3doYHcD-i-cQALyo3Xr6mwArlDAWgIu0k1U/s320/CyRiJ13WQAA5E_d.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pakistan's Market Place</td></tr>
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<br />
Day 2 was about introductions, preparing and hosting the country marketplace. What was it about? It was about showcasing your country. The good, the bad, the future and the present. All that you could and wanted to was yours to say.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1TPCFwAYpehA9ObBmhYk6hMl5e8hjUHycwV0CBTLFf4i39rOSsX2V9jN-pLtt53YNjTBtBuDaDYKG5hAYxbnZuKlyaam44b2RyhQcOIkmqQGcCwY3svrDn6xI8V1hdNkjEbRZOpfAsI/s1600/PB270553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>Once preparations were done, the final display of tables was incredible. The colors, the life and the energy were awe-inspiring. And in that moment, sharing about your culture came with pride. Talking about the flaws in your society came with no judgement but care, love and<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15232287_1158760094211622_393266472456001737_n.jpg?oh=6ff7c67153e3738d31bf9dad133f804e&oe=58E35F79" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15232287_1158760094211622_393266472456001737_n.jpg?oh=6ff7c67153e3738d31bf9dad133f804e&oe=58E35F79" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bangladesh's</td></tr>
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curiosity. The intensity of the combined generosity was one of the most heart-warming aspects of the journey for me.<br />
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Bangladesh brought in their famous sweet and stealth. Stealth because they offered us any item on their table if we took pictures with one of their national wears: the <i>dhooti</i>. And boy did that ease the crowd. Their history was rich and it showed. They were proud of their music and food. But most importantly, in the three representing Bangladesh, there was energy that resonated hope.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhkdEeMKppFoLZB6UqnmMTGTxo55kDB9jStZ7l9etrGApYp7sR1QNQfrJklGaK2agQFLlFCwIQyfUemhS72OkzdOykm7fhD8bmAeEnO5nGviwabr6BtMRPYkoPId9jl2vdSE7WRHUgP8/s1600/CyRiJ13XAAA8pIY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhkdEeMKppFoLZB6UqnmMTGTxo55kDB9jStZ7l9etrGApYp7sR1QNQfrJklGaK2agQFLlFCwIQyfUemhS72OkzdOykm7fhD8bmAeEnO5nGviwabr6BtMRPYkoPId9jl2vdSE7WRHUgP8/s320/CyRiJ13XAAA8pIY.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ukraine's</td></tr>
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<br />
The Ukrainian's brought the party to life. They opened a table full of Ukrainian candy and a special home extracted honey (thanks to Anastasia's father). They quizzed us about Ukraine and gave candy to those who got it right... or for that matter wrong (What can I say, they are generous beyond reason). They wrapped their presentation up by singing, which is apparently a big thing in Ukraine and offered to translate our names into their language. *collective awe*<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKoWQ-SBbha1O05hR_oIKyPY13UiK0NmZMEO-_-MlrwdZ5mt6SMHVPbfCOG5nWPGRkqSTXaLf5nG9BSIM1Y0TJ029q2_-zzGA4NMXqYlTaOFr-Lw2s0sjPuEsAVaFarf-hlWcT0vFO1s/s1600/CyR8appXAAAZ7F0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKoWQ-SBbha1O05hR_oIKyPY13UiK0NmZMEO-_-MlrwdZ5mt6SMHVPbfCOG5nWPGRkqSTXaLf5nG9BSIM1Y0TJ029q2_-zzGA4NMXqYlTaOFr-Lw2s0sjPuEsAVaFarf-hlWcT0vFO1s/s320/CyR8appXAAAZ7F0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vietnams'</td></tr>
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Vietnam's table was a piece of art. They showcased more than just their culture, they showcased their social project. Stuff made by the underprivileged people they work with gave their stall a life of its own. Their strength showed the brightest.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSp1ZCWDWeGGvrCjeujq9U88o1zL80xk0arjDIwqEkKqwQIMqULeXdeZMR6DQEPImy18UcbLmpmaouht0w6J256wJhx8ld0R9e8zmEgk-K5GzRXFS3GghhzJHm47fp2DQMLMud2fhkas/s1600/PB270531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSp1ZCWDWeGGvrCjeujq9U88o1zL80xk0arjDIwqEkKqwQIMqULeXdeZMR6DQEPImy18UcbLmpmaouht0w6J256wJhx8ld0R9e8zmEgk-K5GzRXFS3GghhzJHm47fp2DQMLMud2fhkas/s320/PB270531.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polands'</td></tr>
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<br />
Poland's humble stall was hosted by a beautiful being. She introduced us to the Polish culture. I never realized just how difficult Polish is. One activity revolved around her asking us to pick a piece of paper with a Polish statement on it. She'd help us learn it. The phrase I got was a 'legless table' and boy was it a long word. Thanks to my horrible memory, I do not remember it now. But I do remember being astonished at how extensive Polish vocabulary is. I mean they have a word for 'legless table'!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGb6IjjGRPs8sOkw98Bh9-qAcOVL8sS9xJH0fC9PwGWEE91LS8BNFvYtQXmTg7cOCmmnPQOJeQIpLoL9PAKrK1kmfwE_PzZVmKwTahfCs8h59LUI5lQ_Nx3AFSY8wvAKTwgx_QmjaTKyg/s1600/PB270534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGb6IjjGRPs8sOkw98Bh9-qAcOVL8sS9xJH0fC9PwGWEE91LS8BNFvYtQXmTg7cOCmmnPQOJeQIpLoL9PAKrK1kmfwE_PzZVmKwTahfCs8h59LUI5lQ_Nx3AFSY8wvAKTwgx_QmjaTKyg/s320/PB270534.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">UK's</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15181242_10154103706017688_8221637958029757880_n.jpg?oh=2691701d5faa9f66483c3c9b94b92d85&oe=58B724EA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15181242_10154103706017688_8221637958029757880_n.jpg?oh=2691701d5faa9f66483c3c9b94b92d85&oe=58B724EA" width="175" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's just Ana being herself</td></tr>
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The Mexican table was a brave front. The ladies were not afraid to showcase the problems of the country. They discussed how the country was progressing. And also, how their own personal projects were part of making Mexico great.<br />
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The Scotts showed us their dance and that lightened hearts. The UK people represented perhaps the most diversity of all table. They showcased their culture and social action plans in the most passionate demeanor possible. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/15194560_1181799298575116_1729214735502847782_o.jpg?oh=6831b2cb624fd6fc35d70e58e4b8e43d&oe=58B5A5A1" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/15194560_1181799298575116_1729214735502847782_o.jpg?oh=6831b2cb624fd6fc35d70e58e4b8e43d&oe=58B5A5A1" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Activity: Charting the course of learning</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15267854_10154103707332688_4282576132372368802_n.jpg?oh=758a7488ada80d076311dd4720774b08&oe=58EFFF48" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15267854_10154103707332688_4282576132372368802_n.jpg?oh=758a7488ada80d076311dd4720774b08&oe=58EFFF48" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pakistan, Ukraine, UK, Pakistan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15202485_10154103707487688_2425513850334710133_n.jpg?oh=314e010a9d45872c327212d190cdc6c8&oe=58F079AF" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15202485_10154103707487688_2425513850334710133_n.jpg?oh=314e010a9d45872c327212d190cdc6c8&oe=58F079AF" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yay, more photos. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smiling faces were a persistent feature</td></tr>
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<a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15135921_10154103705907688_9137454016424751999_n.jpg?oh=c6ddf32fa9c984329cdd376e150c52e7&oe=58FA3DDF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/15167543_1181798318575214_8509885571523634036_o.jpg?oh=53db53e91d419c050b3ae3ef89386b28&oe=58F12D8F" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/15167543_1181798318575214_8509885571523634036_o.jpg?oh=53db53e91d419c050b3ae3ef89386b28&oe=58F12D8F" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vietnam showcasing their political history</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Day 3: The funny tour guide and our visit to the parliament </i></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjio5a33Eft-tpYFxQ6CRFH7wbuTskpddQd3HI0vxevvGwbY4DQ6OmE9NjlQ0rylzcJfIfZoNMIhf3u0bxCkhi1uO_GNAOugtsdix1sgwnwRSlRFo7bvTkd9uxzovieHLTx4I1ByzSUKrM/s1600/PB280554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjio5a33Eft-tpYFxQ6CRFH7wbuTskpddQd3HI0vxevvGwbY4DQ6OmE9NjlQ0rylzcJfIfZoNMIhf3u0bxCkhi1uO_GNAOugtsdix1sgwnwRSlRFo7bvTkd9uxzovieHLTx4I1ByzSUKrM/s320/PB280554.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mind-mapping: how to engage policy makers in our SAPs</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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Our day started with much excitement. We all knew the visit to the parliament was a big thing. To have us be prepared, Mike gave us a quick lecture on the political history of the United Kingdom. This helped familiarize us with the host country. The 'World Cafe', another activity for the day, allowed us to sit in groups and debate/discuss various critical questions that helped us discover the various challenges and necessary elements to a successful social enterprise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRup7wYlhZq_ijUU4G1yHlohE2fitjiL7kuC7x5TsmeejW6ma1tqBEGVLYOfmGMTgdxYZVhSrTj15-5z8kfXLMXmpFv2fOayWW5ppPoB1nFUv7TZ4szh5Ww7kJ2bycqm9cNyD30QCLKUI/s1600/PB280564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRup7wYlhZq_ijUU4G1yHlohE2fitjiL7kuC7x5TsmeejW6ma1tqBEGVLYOfmGMTgdxYZVhSrTj15-5z8kfXLMXmpFv2fOayWW5ppPoB1nFUv7TZ4szh5Ww7kJ2bycqm9cNyD30QCLKUI/s320/PB280564.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lecture Time: Here's a little to know about the UK</td></tr>
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This, along with brief profiles of the various MPs each group was meeting helped us prepare some questions to ask them. Our heads were soon brimming with potential questions we were to ask.<br />
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Lunch that day was a quick affair. But not before learning a little Bangla! I now know how to say "My name is Rutaba" and " I love you in Bangla". Amar naam Rutaba. Ami tomar ki bhalo bhaashi. (Proof for all the skeptics out there)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8AMCtJMu3KkTAr8orEVwsZLn-nyTpEEPBQsFcyticp1nr_XXyhLCbZa3eUdJsV5YrKZVoeXR8XZy0U_Y50YutmsbVwmHImjltjYmxgf6OPAo382Z_PnsqH4F8dJjcRLdeE8rgjdY9CU/s1600/PB280571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8AMCtJMu3KkTAr8orEVwsZLn-nyTpEEPBQsFcyticp1nr_XXyhLCbZa3eUdJsV5YrKZVoeXR8XZy0U_Y50YutmsbVwmHImjltjYmxgf6OPAo382Z_PnsqH4F8dJjcRLdeE8rgjdY9CU/s320/PB280571.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The parliament</td></tr>
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We left our hotel soon after and were dropped at a little walking distance from the parliament. The first cool wind took me by surprise. And unlike most, I enjoyed the cold a little too much. Our walk down the parliament was a short, sweet one. Of course, a lot of selfies and picture taking was involved. The architecture took me by surprise. It is one thing to see stuff in pictures, other to witness them personally. I don't think a single visit could ever do justice to the history and architect of London.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxH8C1EfJkeB7QxI4KfDcxkkKdr59DLsYWh-r6AL_ugLrkL77hOLOx_ezBaVzE2y_JavEJCfAeXcog483R9XNCCr8RobYVUAIHYeNl93a7OAII-f9twFY5aoWJysusQswrAJHGeLo-T0/s1600/PB280575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxH8C1EfJkeB7QxI4KfDcxkkKdr59DLsYWh-r6AL_ugLrkL77hOLOx_ezBaVzE2y_JavEJCfAeXcog483R9XNCCr8RobYVUAIHYeNl93a7OAII-f9twFY5aoWJysusQswrAJHGeLo-T0/s320/PB280575.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The UK Parliament</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After the airport style security check, we were greeted in a giant hall, the Westminster Hall, with a huge stand alone Christmas tree and our funny little guide. I won't bore you with the details of the tour, but much of the history told by the guide revolved around the words 'died... executed...potty....died...killed....rebelled....took over...killed...pled...killed'<br />
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It is safe to say the history he told us was very ghastly. I kind of liked the guide, though. He was odd, and that made him funny.<br />
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We were given a few minutes to ourselves before we had to reassemble with our group and onward to our designated MP. In the meanwhile, I, Julia and Ed planned a secret rendezvous that the entire group had been unaware of (at least until now). To be fair, it was a little spur of the moment decision. I wanted to see the Chambers and the idea was appreciated by Julia. Ed just offered his help because he had already seen the place. Our attempts to get a peek into the House of Commons was but shattered because of the long queue. However, we did manage to make a quick run to the House of Lords. While Ed handled our backpacks (did I not already tell you how kind he is?), Julia and I went to the guests' gallery of the Chamber. If I thought the exterior of buildings in London were fabulous, boy! was I in for a treat with what I saw inside. The chamber was glorious. They were apparently discussion something about pensions, but I was too preoccupied with the beauty of the place to be too keen about the discussion. I was in awe and I was touched. I suddenly felt I knew the UK a little better. We had a total of 4-5 minutes that flew by too quickly. We had to be ushered by the staff on Ed's request because he had been conscious of the time, unlike Julia and I.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our meeting with Baroness Mobarik</td></tr>
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Our meeting with Baroness Mobarik was a peaceful one. The questions we asked were more pertinent to her experience, more in line with social projects than politics. Nothing too controversial and nothing too easy. I was more interested in how (because she had worked for programs that catered to cross national issues), she managed to create a holistic approach when working with people from different countries/regions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Westminister hall</td></tr>
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Our day ended up with having dinner at the British Council Headquarters (HQ sounds so much better than office). The view outside the office was spectacular. It made the whole dining experience more pleasant, even the conversations ended up being more lively.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzmRhk_xDLDi7iPGzFIHaEcU3GWlZ6NFfdh9sdnjzS4cPNeXAkrXh95EMUhP35vMwwjgaNmUftglREDz5NsTunOJI521Ij6ycWXoh0WbQIcueBkqKdJGhkDE2iigXC8OzTEZegOxXg_I/s1600/PB280581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzmRhk_xDLDi7iPGzFIHaEcU3GWlZ6NFfdh9sdnjzS4cPNeXAkrXh95EMUhP35vMwwjgaNmUftglREDz5NsTunOJI521Ij6ycWXoh0WbQIcueBkqKdJGhkDE2iigXC8OzTEZegOxXg_I/s320/PB280581.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">British Council HQ</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adam in his natural form: discussing.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilArnZMbcySh_AA4nrE81z-Os_bZDDyh5aLqz5sN7HuigZlmHMfpMapObN2xBxPOOyrGK_9E19gmkzsjfmmzslNfsrFpwPsBjUQs6Pi3qfhDNDXQ9ECaRomSR0PcJQfCQTFV4eG7rhQ_A/s1600/PB280590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilArnZMbcySh_AA4nrE81z-Os_bZDDyh5aLqz5sN7HuigZlmHMfpMapObN2xBxPOOyrGK_9E19gmkzsjfmmzslNfsrFpwPsBjUQs6Pi3qfhDNDXQ9ECaRomSR0PcJQfCQTFV4eG7rhQ_A/s320/PB280590.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Members British Council </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGPi75W9KsLK2lrouT6Xks-BRagwKoNF6N814TkdtMrGqkZoraDx1tcXvTMHw0a20F5tMbW0GQfigLUYc6rIYdC__E3cm0RVt0ze1M-Kvt0qFgeORYztToYtPDYepmqgzKdJ0hOIUd2o/s1600/PB280596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGPi75W9KsLK2lrouT6Xks-BRagwKoNF6N814TkdtMrGqkZoraDx1tcXvTMHw0a20F5tMbW0GQfigLUYc6rIYdC__E3cm0RVt0ze1M-Kvt0qFgeORYztToYtPDYepmqgzKdJ0hOIUd2o/s320/PB280596.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No dinner went without some intense discussion</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ukraine and Poland. <3</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9rQs7nUDLUsld2YA4Gzw-p1A3fIvTvKjbo193cDcZZIuxciLcIFZGcxNv1Mjho7Rac3LwLQzRoOwHuIymKZtbpdb7Mx0AxmYAz03OJ2PHw9HmIjL28SsV2NxImWttIf9ro5Il5JLsa0/s1600/PB280587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9rQs7nUDLUsld2YA4Gzw-p1A3fIvTvKjbo193cDcZZIuxciLcIFZGcxNv1Mjho7Rac3LwLQzRoOwHuIymKZtbpdb7Mx0AxmYAz03OJ2PHw9HmIjL28SsV2NxImWttIf9ro5Il5JLsa0/s320/PB280587.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just wanted to add this because its such a cool picture</td></tr>
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<b><i>Day 4,5 and 6: Cold London, the warm company and in between a mosque and a synagogue. </i></b></div>
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These were busy days. This was when the group had to divide and take their taxis/trains/planes to different centres within the UK to engage with the local communities. Before and at lunch, we had the brief fortune of meeting our community hosts.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecEI7x3Mtmme3P8_p2WCELYISShPusLftrUVCZWbG9Evdf6odbvyAOvLmOJFztVjUrPaQs1-NUSUj_7JT5r3EFbpSOmX5DNXIL2pTrknGztPpv994hamkUeK2V8yDqkU2r-tQq1Axm6M/s1600/PB300544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecEI7x3Mtmme3P8_p2WCELYISShPusLftrUVCZWbG9Evdf6odbvyAOvLmOJFztVjUrPaQs1-NUSUj_7JT5r3EFbpSOmX5DNXIL2pTrknGztPpv994hamkUeK2V8yDqkU2r-tQq1Axm6M/s320/PB300544.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas was just around the corner</td></tr>
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Our group of four was to taxi off to main London. The cold colder coldest London. I, Ameera, Adam and Ana-Isabelle were in for really eventful three days.<br />
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On our way to the new accommodation: a travelogue, we had this wonderful chat with the driver. It kept our minds off the London traffic. Our check in was a quick affair. We met Iman and Youkeu and head out immediately after. Where to you ask? The East London Mosque!<br />
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The biggest in the vicinity, the mosque was a serene place. Unlike, myself and Ameera, Ana and Adam were new to the concept of Mosque. Somewhere, in my heart, I wanted to monitor their reactions, too. It was sort of a side experiment I was conducting. Of which, if they read this, they would know of only now.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*taking notes at the mosque*</td></tr>
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The welcome was warm. A quick documentary revealed a fascinating history of the mosque. From the agreement between the Jewish and Muslim community over the land: the fact that there is still a tiny synagogue between the two wings of the mosque. The build up of community cohesion to expand the building and create a more inclusive, more progressive society. The fact was, the mosque played a bigger role than just a praying place. It offered help of all sorts. Educations, domestic counselling, charity drives, etc.<br />
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In my mind, as I looked at the building and talked to the people at the mosque, the traditional concept of a mosque was coming to life. The one that depicts a mosque as more than a praying place; a community center, a school, a safe haven for all, a place for festivals and remembering the God.<br />
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The mosque was an exception, in short.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVDz3xmYei0KEFcu9wRPqILaxLxaiGJFP2QEQo-cJgHUbgeoABtqeywxctyei3JZ8-CN13GsuC81wgIoN22vdavbdRxBbPfe21-Oi5s9pt1uDK2AZn4v5UfjTHedvI-jW3ACM22xKpII/s1600/Cygdxa3XgAARIG4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVDz3xmYei0KEFcu9wRPqILaxLxaiGJFP2QEQo-cJgHUbgeoABtqeywxctyei3JZ8-CN13GsuC81wgIoN22vdavbdRxBbPfe21-Oi5s9pt1uDK2AZn4v5UfjTHedvI-jW3ACM22xKpII/s320/Cygdxa3XgAARIG4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the synagogue. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK32NQvf11Dh7tSgGhX98EVv8hMdMODYg_-S2JoUWsI9kng3qnmhyp4wewBY3ckcIBAwN-iY2_4FkNkdrqFRg-qVJrOQ6XHF4VQXMqIUZVNNsFYcefM4m97OqvBtBGGZIz7svMR1ypq3g/s1600/PB300515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK32NQvf11Dh7tSgGhX98EVv8hMdMODYg_-S2JoUWsI9kng3qnmhyp4wewBY3ckcIBAwN-iY2_4FkNkdrqFRg-qVJrOQ6XHF4VQXMqIUZVNNsFYcefM4m97OqvBtBGGZIz7svMR1ypq3g/s320/PB300515.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Synagogue</td></tr>
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The next day, the visit to the synagogue had me intrigued. I had never been to a Jewish praying place and this was my time to discover. Surprisingly, the very first conscious connection I made with the place was with regards to their security. It seems that there was a sense of insecurity that surrounded the place. Something the Muslim community is very well aware of. We were told that the Rabbi would soon be seeing us and that we were allowed to roam the hall. It was not long before the lady Rabbi greeted us. We knew in that instance that this synagogue, too, was an exception.<br />
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The next hour was intense. My information intake had quadrupled. We were told about the progressive nature of the synagogue, its many charitable and interfaith programs, the concept of Bar and Bat-Mitzvah, we were shown around the praying hall, we were introduced to symbolism in the faith, and the Rabbi was kind enough to recite from Torah, too. Did I not tell you about the experience being overwhelming?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The group with the Rabbi</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is where the sacred texts and artifacts were stored</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Torah</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At SOAS meeting with other Active Citizens and chilling with the guru</td></tr>
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On day 6th, we found ourselves at the 3 faith's forum. An organisation engaged in inter-faith and community building. Our hosts treated us to some good cake, coffee, fruits and company. They also conducted a unique 'safe space' session that showed us how storytelling could prepare grounds for building effective community/interfaith cohesion.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bWDbVEOk9wttgyTUsGHEL2uK2aikDr6ec1zf7sJtRLK30-tAnC8o3ooS6AlKdp07DQ64_x0LL0hcIb4YRFN0xRs_-yKUagINym1WHcFfUhwL0MELtPVkLzNcLRaGprDBSmoMfw-Hvig/s1600/PC010549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bWDbVEOk9wttgyTUsGHEL2uK2aikDr6ec1zf7sJtRLK30-tAnC8o3ooS6AlKdp07DQ64_x0LL0hcIb4YRFN0xRs_-yKUagINym1WHcFfUhwL0MELtPVkLzNcLRaGprDBSmoMfw-Hvig/s320/PC010549.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3FF had the best food :D </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwa47MycSplRL-Mmm5yV5Rbclo-K94vuHYr7ZF3iizkF3ciOrX1Ach4rfDu0b3WqVgcvo_YjQcaCg-Ln5ZpTPKrYDKUbjL-i43ukGR6gkBGc0PP4WtVc6-PqKpYdwQiXimx3OIl1DJhU/s1600/PC010559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwa47MycSplRL-Mmm5yV5Rbclo-K94vuHYr7ZF3iizkF3ciOrX1Ach4rfDu0b3WqVgcvo_YjQcaCg-Ln5ZpTPKrYDKUbjL-i43ukGR6gkBGc0PP4WtVc6-PqKpYdwQiXimx3OIl1DJhU/s320/PC010559.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The people behind 3FF</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha4w7x0OuszAGjJ7H28jCLP81BfbXgmoMJj9hvDSQh5pq0BtymGo2hZxNGJEShA7B8yIEzFGFu7yT5dz1U6tLfpF6X0Tg4gEiYJlCE1THjIWTdPGO7YVOnot7upn9fDYux3sfm_4LDfL4/s1600/PC010564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha4w7x0OuszAGjJ7H28jCLP81BfbXgmoMJj9hvDSQh5pq0BtymGo2hZxNGJEShA7B8yIEzFGFu7yT5dz1U6tLfpF6X0Tg4gEiYJlCE1THjIWTdPGO7YVOnot7upn9fDYux3sfm_4LDfL4/s320/PC010564.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PIZZA KNOWS NO CULTURE</td></tr>
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By early evening, we had some time before dinner and we headed to Primrose Hill. The walk to the venue was refreshing but the walk to the top of the hill was painful. The end result, however, was a beautiful sight worth all the pain.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhg0qRsTiVA9jnBy4paX8U506ttSNk-0x2yFLxAVPM53VYOW2Xi5DDS6L-uP75r41rTpFZ0r-XgRKIoO0dp2PcicBgMfscfOxEfQ89JY932TFYATqszpCtgrDE9BqAZR65q9RSuboB-g/s1600/PC010567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhg0qRsTiVA9jnBy4paX8U506ttSNk-0x2yFLxAVPM53VYOW2Xi5DDS6L-uP75r41rTpFZ0r-XgRKIoO0dp2PcicBgMfscfOxEfQ89JY932TFYATqszpCtgrDE9BqAZR65q9RSuboB-g/s320/PC010567.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little meditation en route Primrose Hill</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0mO5Nlqd-xtzi245YJzLqKoAImFoNDpeT_SXWAsjgFHkfyL9vXvLmHXWgzzv3XvGyC2ZUO7DvOgOQ2Cm5aJ-2DGKy3ebOo2q-Rruh3NjrWAmvu_vIdS5yRKu_AAh5H0GxQq5LW0vS2E/s1600/PC010575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0mO5Nlqd-xtzi245YJzLqKoAImFoNDpeT_SXWAsjgFHkfyL9vXvLmHXWgzzv3XvGyC2ZUO7DvOgOQ2Cm5aJ-2DGKy3ebOo2q-Rruh3NjrWAmvu_vIdS5yRKu_AAh5H0GxQq5LW0vS2E/s320/PC010575.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atop Primrose Hill. The view was to die for.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAOL1K0Do9NrQxl5JXRDbeiVFgpwfhmh6gXICc72OvvG0SnjOQcd1jRS53T3Zq6rAUPdL6C2NE3iefIzTzL4dbBTwvXn6C19EAsxycSGD12wjz1LJ67LcmQEKwQCzigcpPwELaYnGHP4/s1600/PC010579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAOL1K0Do9NrQxl5JXRDbeiVFgpwfhmh6gXICc72OvvG0SnjOQcd1jRS53T3Zq6rAUPdL6C2NE3iefIzTzL4dbBTwvXn6C19EAsxycSGD12wjz1LJ67LcmQEKwQCzigcpPwELaYnGHP4/s320/PC010579.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sad 9 3/4</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sVKWUmONoVHvSXACKMofu6ysD5Nq5SQffkJ5zB4xku_R6eRMuNm0zAcc8bW90FJuqIaOYEBJY0f0jE031w-MC-p_VOVlF37x2FDiSUlhMPijo9v5OkYuL0hK-3XJ6rDJeNtJJtnQwAA/s1600/PC010580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sVKWUmONoVHvSXACKMofu6ysD5Nq5SQffkJ5zB4xku_R6eRMuNm0zAcc8bW90FJuqIaOYEBJY0f0jE031w-MC-p_VOVlF37x2FDiSUlhMPijo9v5OkYuL0hK-3XJ6rDJeNtJJtnQwAA/s320/PC010580.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dobby is alive guys. This was inside the gift shop at Kings' Cross</td></tr>
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On our way back to the hotel, my request to see 9 3/4 was accepted and we made a quick stop to Kings Cross stations. After having my expectations burn to the ground because it was basically half a trolley glued to the wall, we made our way to our hotel, checked out and head back to our original living. Technically, this was not our home, but it sure felt like it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the King's Cross Station: our real oyster. :D </td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyKnRUFz6SBdPng_DHJUqmSSIKVxlsCim8vW3kmGYk_roJVNkuBuD_p18mP6ZjvkYjPE3_lmeabeM1DxhbL3w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*festivities on high*</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Day 7: The sharing and our special theatre </i></b></div>
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Today was all about greeting everyone back. Friends you made prior to this three-day rendezvous were more missed than realized. So we hugged and laughed and shared our experiences right away. At the Kingston Room, the official note was out and we had to think of a way to showcase what we had learned in an hour.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8X9Jw6_qADYNCXaA32F9LqnNcWERuu3WYWokmoLRhBuA6y96I8PjAqMuv3TAaMbh8f2UY3FfriXFpLCQk39LVaVWgXHrU7VLTP0chMOhpvHCdEK50rZEZzNoFY-vZtfRlLu09QMJyebk/s1600/PC020513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8X9Jw6_qADYNCXaA32F9LqnNcWERuu3WYWokmoLRhBuA6y96I8PjAqMuv3TAaMbh8f2UY3FfriXFpLCQk39LVaVWgXHrU7VLTP0chMOhpvHCdEK50rZEZzNoFY-vZtfRlLu09QMJyebk/s320/PC020513.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Belfast Group</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVQL1RcwYACGSqO6UXxujAgw2jN6k-c-9GPLO96j5BiHNIBG0NCiKu-vox1LBCFQ6Kr0NWGR5VOhw95QCFjU-xEs2-LISPZWNrHRQyeejvOmof1Bf82tURMCXPsJksxZCI1Oin-3tYu8/s1600/PC020550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVQL1RcwYACGSqO6UXxujAgw2jN6k-c-9GPLO96j5BiHNIBG0NCiKu-vox1LBCFQ6Kr0NWGR5VOhw95QCFjU-xEs2-LISPZWNrHRQyeejvOmof1Bf82tURMCXPsJksxZCI1Oin-3tYu8/s320/PC020550.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cardiff Group</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3O_Fnmj6rD76hKT6wjWviBbFX_OCfprECNDPCP_22I041JGOcqRB2ifc2Y2uVAfRqOx1TcwSvadKiCQcAfQLKiBoAPKQrohpFaulTlMCR-udmwnUsCCel7K2MJjNd_M8_Gwszt-plIY/s1600/PC020566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3O_Fnmj6rD76hKT6wjWviBbFX_OCfprECNDPCP_22I041JGOcqRB2ifc2Y2uVAfRqOx1TcwSvadKiCQcAfQLKiBoAPKQrohpFaulTlMCR-udmwnUsCCel7K2MJjNd_M8_Gwszt-plIY/s320/PC020566.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This ones' Durham</td></tr>
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Most of the presentations were heartfelt and there was one thing very common to all: the genuine way the trip had touched our hearts and inspired us. No one, and I mean it, no one was left unaffected.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03hGmoS1pvATXd9H2Hc6qyAx8tCmek-NkGNSDXlxH6smISRF70Y1Hz_2WCkannRYrZzewvzaekwsGRdqADo1iLKGgme_4RCbQCUn4hL6k943axWz58Nk0DWtHd0pSE2LAAgscjQYcuxY/s1600/PC020575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03hGmoS1pvATXd9H2Hc6qyAx8tCmek-NkGNSDXlxH6smISRF70Y1Hz_2WCkannRYrZzewvzaekwsGRdqADo1iLKGgme_4RCbQCUn4hL6k943axWz58Nk0DWtHd0pSE2LAAgscjQYcuxY/s320/PC020575.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ameera in no action. :D</td></tr>
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Our group decided to do a theater to showcase our journey. Adam's brilliant idea, Micheal's wonderful narration, Ameera's oscar-winning performance and Anna's improv made the quickly prepared theater a joy to perform. And like everyone else, we felt what we were showcasing. We felt our journey burn into our hearts. But this burn was a sweet kind.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcM9bA-Z9CnRAqflHzefWp25Gany2kcIrJJgbn97xfXC1SARGMpZYaLBbdiSImmI-FAF0FuHcGFREhjrfxL_lFZdVaByC5icugWuJtkCD4KeXXydsUHM1hi1zpKE1ujRQeOeJ2UeJCts/s1600/PC020584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcM9bA-Z9CnRAqflHzefWp25Gany2kcIrJJgbn97xfXC1SARGMpZYaLBbdiSImmI-FAF0FuHcGFREhjrfxL_lFZdVaByC5icugWuJtkCD4KeXXydsUHM1hi1zpKE1ujRQeOeJ2UeJCts/s320/PC020584.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Re-enacting the visit to the mosque</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UYhU-qhia2RcAWxT2eaAdm2pPhIpGtTBNZqS9zZYhCOnjo3tRRyXfR_TYiIfl7t7pNA0nDUMxqAq22gB1lmtY9LKTqUizeri38t4yxqJBjsPaCa-cN5okWAkEKdCuU9OhCXUh_uUaYA/s1600/PC020597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UYhU-qhia2RcAWxT2eaAdm2pPhIpGtTBNZqS9zZYhCOnjo3tRRyXfR_TYiIfl7t7pNA0nDUMxqAq22gB1lmtY9LKTqUizeri38t4yxqJBjsPaCa-cN5okWAkEKdCuU9OhCXUh_uUaYA/s320/PC020597.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The London Group <3</td></tr>
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By mid-day, we were taken to main London for some sightseeing and alone time. Mike guided us through some of the many historic sites, letting his inner encyclopedia out and blessing us with some usual and other unusual facts. Did you know that the usually considered entrance to the Buckingham Palace isn't the front at all? In fact, it is the back side of the Palace.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKLtxoav0qf7kOpy30w6mSYMORXSuASDvSnA53o_b_rl-LoxCbDzaf8Ol6__nDo1HcPmhDPet9YXVXA9aQfVXeXrVXEPZ3oDGtjvc-5BupXnE8y_w_zAvMqvfbZpt9W7Rxh4hKrT4GVw/s1600/PC020614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKLtxoav0qf7kOpy30w6mSYMORXSuASDvSnA53o_b_rl-LoxCbDzaf8Ol6__nDo1HcPmhDPet9YXVXA9aQfVXeXrVXEPZ3oDGtjvc-5BupXnE8y_w_zAvMqvfbZpt9W7Rxh4hKrT4GVw/s320/PC020614.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere in London</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwSEa7W6x-KABIPzZE1tNXW-Wa7rgd7IVAcfGEmGcgoCjEUD85tyZbu-LkgMmJJ3tBEIaHIDcPBNvwO8ZI1yisVqupDtDvGD5-QIJGMlWxaFU7T4JcNTprAGOzKY0T-ZhAshG4iZwFRcA/s1600/PC020599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwSEa7W6x-KABIPzZE1tNXW-Wa7rgd7IVAcfGEmGcgoCjEUD85tyZbu-LkgMmJJ3tBEIaHIDcPBNvwO8ZI1yisVqupDtDvGD5-QIJGMlWxaFU7T4JcNTprAGOzKY0T-ZhAshG4iZwFRcA/s320/PC020599.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere in London again. :D </td></tr>
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It was immediately after sun-down that our little tour ended and we were allowed to roam the streets of London on our own. At least till dinner, by when we had to meet the group at a Thai restaurant.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiytVPvyeHx-YVxQgI6uBC0IwIJw8ld0zMVV4vp_LIle8UxWu6EWDMLh45XRiyJlZGpG88hrTwAYqw49_GunogcQo6OLPcmh32p7res8bUUszI3lAOJQDv4c1zwulMRRMk8Xtnm4PMcxzU/s1600/PC020616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiytVPvyeHx-YVxQgI6uBC0IwIJw8ld0zMVV4vp_LIle8UxWu6EWDMLh45XRiyJlZGpG88hrTwAYqw49_GunogcQo6OLPcmh32p7res8bUUszI3lAOJQDv4c1zwulMRRMk8Xtnm4PMcxzU/s320/PC020616.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">En route Oxford St.</td></tr>
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After a great struggle of deciding whether to go to Baker's Street or Oxford, we settled with the popular choice: the Oxford Street. We walked our way, guided by the valiant Jawaria (our protector) and *drum roll* google maps. We walked through the crowd, shopped, rejoiced, shopped more, talked more so and before we knew it, it was time to return. It would be a shame not to mention the mesmerizing Christmas decorations that made the street and all of London basically magical.<br />
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The dinner was a light, happy affair that night. Upon return, we were given the Kingston Room to party. A cultural night of sorts that included<br />
few but very loud people, a lot of music, some very interesting Scottish, Ukrainian and Indian dance.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*A serious rolly polly competition raised the stakes at the party*</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Dance was involved*</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Day 8: Saying hello when it was time to say bye</i></b><b><i> </i></b></div>
<br />
When good things end, it's always bittersweet. This day was just that: bitter freaking sweet. We shared our experience, small love letters, some tears and a lot of hugs. Oh and the Boda Boda!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVoecGCSBXHv2X3oDMefjFN6MKHQiLUOlleh_Sbk9qgPPhJvPF4UJMDEFdWAD4FOT_L4O6v5VDPG-DQQ_IBXOaA9QcULxLL-C7RnwCtdeAxwO9fRNHqWOIFSxV7u8xF-pK3ii2T5oDBg/s1600/PC030012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVoecGCSBXHv2X3oDMefjFN6MKHQiLUOlleh_Sbk9qgPPhJvPF4UJMDEFdWAD4FOT_L4O6v5VDPG-DQQ_IBXOaA9QcULxLL-C7RnwCtdeAxwO9fRNHqWOIFSxV7u8xF-pK3ii2T5oDBg/s320/PC030012.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last group photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Someone famously said, 'this too shall pass'. A holistic phrase and the only I know that encompasses the good and the bad both at the same time. While the goodbyes were painful, the journey was not. In our hearts, we knew it was a beginning of something bigger.<br />
<br />
As I write this now, I not only feel confident... I feel happy! I feel more aware of my abilities and the world around me. And my optimism has skyrocketed. There is nothing I do not feel I cannot do, and that my friend, is a super power.<br />
<br />
So for that and much more that this little blog post would never be able to communicate, I would like to thank British Council, my mentors, friends and other active citizens for making a mark in my life. You've left a little bit of yourself in me and for that, I have nothing but gratitude and a promise: a promise to continue trying to make the world a better place.<br />
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<a href="http://i.giphy.com/TzpnO1kZpEC0U.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.giphy.com/TzpnO1kZpEC0U.gif" /></a></div>
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<br />
And here's my sign off to you: Locally engaged with a global promise.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-32541314270857541462016-09-11T23:58:00.001+05:002016-09-11T23:58:38.418+05:00Prisoner to vulnerability<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last I properly wrote was in January 2016. We are nearing the end of June and I think its time I let go of my confusions for what they are: mere confusions.</div>
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<br /></div>
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You see, I was overcome by this grave flood of new priorities: work and studies, leaving me with no time to tend to my new peeves about writing and self. It was not always like this. When I had started writing, it was not so much about quality, rather the joy of expressing. But alas, adulthood hit and hit hard. The new insecurities that came with it were far worse, far complex than I was maybe prepared to mentally take on. Cutting me off at my knees and throwing me into a spiral. A revolution of the mind was demanded and I did not know how to cope with it. We are for most part of our childhood left at the mercy of adults, this transition from childhood to adulthood becomes excruciating when there's a demand of rewiring your thoughts according to this new, more independent life style. We are suddenly expected from, are to deliver by and be something concrete.</div>
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Wallahi, it is <i>not</i> easy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HJeLRsklSrYvNeYchr_S0VNgk3I36N6_kOIh9nOwPXAKS91ONQr-ZDhFPPHpwBSlqXd8yAXtQ1kDsN8z4MsgOpJj4UwmEB32InrWttCqgpLT9wrk93eEgRIMRx0GRqGSQKfUxiA5Ngc/s1600/total-confusion-tamra-davisson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HJeLRsklSrYvNeYchr_S0VNgk3I36N6_kOIh9nOwPXAKS91ONQr-ZDhFPPHpwBSlqXd8yAXtQ1kDsN8z4MsgOpJj4UwmEB32InrWttCqgpLT9wrk93eEgRIMRx0GRqGSQKfUxiA5Ngc/s320/total-confusion-tamra-davisson.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>
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I had begun asking existential questions. I do not know if it is just me but I think as adults, we are more scared of vulnerability than we would like to admit to. Children in this case are fierce beings. To boil it down to a sentence:</div>
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I had become a prisoner of my own mind.</div>
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It is a dark place to be in. Just you in your own mind. And while writing and meditating had been for long, modes for me to release the tensions, with time becoming too little with age, the problem got too big to handle. </div>
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For now, I've decided to sell my soul to this peculiar phase of confusion. I do want to admit to this decision as being rationale, but I'd resort myself to honesty and admit it as nothing but the only choice left for me at the moment.</div>
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Here's to not knowing shit and constant rewiring of my brain.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-91893285585438419572016-01-15T16:28:00.001+05:002016-01-15T17:59:40.247+05:00Dear Charlie Hebdo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Charlie Hebdo,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_jswU6LvJqsdvjfVF_iD5ClKUS-hPt9S__QA_ZgCYUk_m6LQ0rLdOtnFGWJZKlNR6y8JTO2lEuh6l7Ejg3Pcr6PUKlnyhrZV3D09sLpq85o-6SCV130H1rKQRWYtlOesnAUgeyytngs/s1600/6c13b1384c955b5821a6638bace71320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_jswU6LvJqsdvjfVF_iD5ClKUS-hPt9S__QA_ZgCYUk_m6LQ0rLdOtnFGWJZKlNR6y8JTO2lEuh6l7Ejg3Pcr6PUKlnyhrZV3D09sLpq85o-6SCV130H1rKQRWYtlOesnAUgeyytngs/s320/6c13b1384c955b5821a6638bace71320.jpg" width="320" /></a>Thank you for defining what true disgust really feels and looks like. Lucky for us, your latest work of 'art' is full of it. Under the pretext of freedom of speech and sarcasm you have given life to moral degeneration in a remarkably refreshing manner. I am in awe. A full grown adult with such ignorance and lunacy, I won't say is unknown to this world, but definitely rare. Rarer in your case since you seem to be among the elites in that land. Say hi to Trump for me, by the way.<br />
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Aylan Kurdi, the (dead) kid whose destiny you played God to, depicting in this horrid cartoon as a potential 'groper'/sexual harasser, was a really smart choice to put your gun onto and fire. I mean, what could be more igniting than using an innocent kid, who died untimely and tragically because some powerful (both legitimate and illegitimate) actors decided to work their issues out with complete disregard to human life. Not that you're doing anything different. Your disregard for human life is equally extraordinary. Except instead of big guns, you have your pen to bring harm with.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAngZyCZN4EUUJ5aUj2D-x2VhdOuNM5nKOj1VVdKgmPrUWtU52mV6dzXQGCTm09D3lK3B6_X2iUWcmhV080vQ-i71iEEQx6pcdAns6tqCaShPYIeQuFcFCs13xDs9SVUtxd7K1Y1w7sKQ/s1600/228162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAngZyCZN4EUUJ5aUj2D-x2VhdOuNM5nKOj1VVdKgmPrUWtU52mV6dzXQGCTm09D3lK3B6_X2iUWcmhV080vQ-i71iEEQx6pcdAns6tqCaShPYIeQuFcFCs13xDs9SVUtxd7K1Y1w7sKQ/s320/228162.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Your aura of filth is astonishing. Your work has enabled me to feel sick sitting miles away from you. That's the magic of your work. I mean, this is just <i>one </i>final piece of your many works that got past the editors, your colleagues, and everyone in your office, and I wonder how much more filth your mind is capable of harboring. Just the thought of it made me puke a little in my mouth.</div>
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Aylan, as he laid face down with his feeble innocent self, embracing eternal sleep on the shores of the Mediterranean sea is a depiction of failure... of humankind, and your use of his memory in your cartoon a dark example of that failure. This kid's death failed what humanity or whatever the idea of humanity stood and stands for. Your cartoon's just a tip of the ice berg sadly. It is the desensitized souls and minds like yours that think the way they do that even hope finds little sense in existing. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpx4wMbJeRaiajE3i25wRqKOt3oDQsNo5YGWQ-Z5N0l-P9EN-DmAeUWMVH3HHf8ztbOcucyR8ucL4AGCrvMU6aFz7V4ICP6qRtM1hQgotrQelJ4Z0aCa84P0AD3Pe8xyD4BUoUCya8oXA/s1600/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpx4wMbJeRaiajE3i25wRqKOt3oDQsNo5YGWQ-Z5N0l-P9EN-DmAeUWMVH3HHf8ztbOcucyR8ucL4AGCrvMU6aFz7V4ICP6qRtM1hQgotrQelJ4Z0aCa84P0AD3Pe8xyD4BUoUCya8oXA/s200/Untitled.png" width="166" /></a><br />
What's more is the way you took it upon yourself to top your own pathetic high. The ludicrous way in which you brushed the issue of sexual harassment with your bigotry is a shining example of why sometimes, or maybe more than sometimes, hate finds it easy to home itself. <br />
<br />
Aylan is dead in the worldly sense, <i>you </i>however suffer from a kind of death even worse: the moralistic kind. And you live it everyday. Leeching on off a dead child's memory to feed your bigoted bloated ego must be a moment of pride for you. But it will never satisfy your heart, will it. Even dead, Aylan holds more power to you. He continues to live through us and you continue killing yourself with your ideas.</div>
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Rest in peace, sir.</div>
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Rest well in peace.</div>
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Regards,</div>
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Rutaba Tariq.</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-84601375300848122252015-11-05T20:14:00.000+05:002015-11-05T20:14:30.865+05:00Flesh <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I think I am going to have a breakdown. I am going to either internally diminish in a way that only the flesh remains, or have both my soul and flesh destroyed at the same time. Either way, it spells doom for me.<br />
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I have been living on hope for so long that its starting to suffocate my very existence. And I have reached a point where total suffocation has made me realize that I <i>never had </i>any hope to begin with. It was just wishful thinking on my part that saw the great blooming poison as a way out, and seek it.<br />
<br />
Ironic, isn't it. I was advancing towards death with every breath I took. Making me realize that its not death that calls us, <i>but us</i>. Only some, like me, idiot as they are, run towards it. I like to believe I do it cause I am a coward in thoughts and character. I have no moral standings. I am just a body with a name. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjryHbSfUXPPiJ0xCsApeDKm-6WQifc21ItTExgO7OA6yt5VvF0uGhaUbR81NEgveHnqjP4lnJzm6aPI6_8pQZxwYfALM_MvPWwY61NB9avX8vMP2Ut-w4LuW9IUAjtKK_dMur4KtexCI/s1600/Illustrations_to_Robert_Blairs_The_Grave__object_9_The_Soul_Hovering_over_the_Body-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjryHbSfUXPPiJ0xCsApeDKm-6WQifc21ItTExgO7OA6yt5VvF0uGhaUbR81NEgveHnqjP4lnJzm6aPI6_8pQZxwYfALM_MvPWwY61NB9avX8vMP2Ut-w4LuW9IUAjtKK_dMur4KtexCI/s400/Illustrations_to_Robert_Blairs_The_Grave__object_9_The_Soul_Hovering_over_the_Body-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And now all sense is seeping throw my hands like water does. I can not contain the disgust, the filth. It lives and reeks under my nose and in my lungs and I don't know what anything else smells like anymore. It's all the same.<br />
<br />
I can't cry either. Not truly. I may shed tears for hours, but simply shedding tears is not what crying is. My insides scream, but they are too caged by that disgusting smell to be heard. I am growing weak, weaker and tired. My mind has exhausted. The nerves slithering on my brain wilting yet strengthening their dry, piercing grip around my brain as they create pain...<br />
<br />
Oh! It pains so bad yet I feel <i>nothing</i>. I yearn for meaningful pain, now. I truly do.<br />
<br />
I beg YOU and you and you to give me my senses back. So I smell again, and feel again. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-91011621882643689052015-08-23T20:58:00.000+05:002015-08-23T23:20:06.639+05:00The pain is real. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-3656505338568506892015-05-30T18:30:00.000+05:002015-08-23T21:00:08.383+05:00Gone Insane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Someday my ideas will drive me crazy!<o:p></o:p></div>
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I'll be the
lunatic who'll become a laughing stock for young and old to mock; for them to
point and shove my overachieved sanity for insanity. No sir! I am not wise by a
million light years; I am just dumb enough to accept that entire wisdom cannot
be achieved by a mere mortal - especially by the likes of me. The paradoxical entireties
of our lives have been ever so magnificently (as an adjective only reserved for
Him) placed to keep men grounded. As man half flies with intellect and comes
back down… trashing down, realizing that all knowledge leads to one entity and
His alone, and to one reality: of nothingness and his alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Man! Man! Man! You
absurd little creature.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
You learn to
observe, discover and learn, yet with each step in that direction, self stitch
your lips into the deep abyss of realization. A realization too profound for
not only mine but for any writer, who dares me, to write... to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b><i>express</i></b>. I wonder if
this is how maniacs are born. If this is how, in the roots of burdensome,
roaring liberation, servants of God are born. The silent, the poets, the
detached of the society are born.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-83904623666313854352015-01-01T00:33:00.000+05:002015-01-01T00:33:54.642+05:00Finally<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Finally, I feel awesome! </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I know using the word awesome, being so overused and cliché and
so… ‘normal’ somehow cuts down on my seemingly legitimate value. But what the
hell, why does normalcy, or especially not being among the ones whose prime
purpose is to run and run away from gelling in, and reaching where they are
recognized as ‘unique’, such a bad thing?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be honest, I am tattered. I feel shit. I am making
mistakes, more as of late, and am pretty clueless in my otherwise personally
self organized life. And ironically, I am just fine. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no magic to it. I’ve just learned to accept the
many faces of life. I’ve learned to not know the outcomes, as life is as
unpredictable as it gets. Still hold onto
being the one who tries, because life being unpredictable isn’t an
excuse to lurk around and do nothing, but more of a challenge to get off our
butts and try harder. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s just perspective I guess. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I am also trying to realize that there are billions of people
out there, all product of some beautiful random combination, who share the same
one or more or countless attributes and troubles with me. I am not unique, and
I am okay with that. Cause I am from this gorgeous planet, with people I can
share, atleast in my universal mind, the idea of being a part of it. And with
that comes the idea of peace and faith. People are alike, and they get over
things. And so shall I. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I mean honestly, doesn’t the modern idea of uniqueness have
a ring of isolation attached to it? And who here wants isolation as a
destination? As a mere pit-stop it suffices, but as a destination, it sounds haunting
and hollow. Nothing impressive to me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I am sorry, I wish I could give a speech about how
awesomeness springs from being unique. But in my little experience, (packaged
with the notion of accepting well constructed counter arguments) I come to the
conclusion that compassion, empathy and being humble unites us. In that, we’re
one. And it is from that one we are truly satisfied. Even when we feel like
we’re twenty feet covered in shit. </div>
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<o:p> Oh and Happy New Year everyone! :) </o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-32826126397392348412014-12-27T22:53:00.001+05:002014-12-27T22:53:37.150+05:00Two sides, and both right.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Try living the life where you try to think of the other person, the other side, the opposing story... constantly. It's painful. But is it right?<br />
<br />
Whether with friends or foes, imagine yourself reasoning for their behavior, attitude and feelings, and more than often above your own. Just because you realize that there are sides,and there are stories, and that the other person is as human as you. He/She deserves as much a chance as you. I believe , 'empathy' is what its called.<br />
<br />
But how much empathy is enough? And on the expense of sounding selfish and insane, does constant empathy not ruin our own self esteem? As egocentric as this may seem, how do I find logic in losing my self in the process of understanding others. Just how...<br />
<br />
Can anyone out there tell me the exact proportion of using 'I' as well as 'them', and in that maintaining individual sensibilities and the social etiquette necessary to run a better world?<br />
<br />
I am living in paradoxes, which life is. But I can't do it. Cause it seems that this very contradiction this universe runs on, disallows it to be followed by men - perhaps only understood.<br />
<br />
Baah! How unfair is life.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-72122396472545724632014-12-16T00:25:00.000+05:002014-12-16T00:35:49.187+05:00Hulksville Villain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; line-height: 115%;">Chapter
1: Casual killing</span></h2>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Gabriola; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Known for its year around cheerful spring-summer weather,
it was an awfully dark and gloomy night for Hulksville. Massive grey clouds
encircled close to the earth’s skin, engulfing the moon in and out of sight. It
felt as though the moon was drowning over and over again, and even though one
felt they could reach to touch the protruded tummy of the clouds, against the
terror they welcomed, the moon was far from reach and shone merely as an
example of what one assumes was a show of tyrannical public punishment. </span><span style="font-family: Gabriola; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Gabriola; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Famous for its friendly crowd, functioning institutions
and governmental competency, Hulksville was an ideal city of a few thousands.
Surrounded by high peaks and low valleys, flowing rivers and evenly spread
green pastures, it gave a reflection of a post-card perfect picture. Only
today, contrary to its general nature, it was dark from the outside and it was
on the inside. On Lane 26, house no. 13, home to Mr. and Mrs. Frank, a monster
was to be born. He was going to commit the first true sin the city would suffer
greatly from in the future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">It was Saturday, this dark night, and the couple had
decided to grant themselves a break and go out on a date leaving their 5 year
old son under charge of Melissa, the designated babysitter of the night; and
another, very patient guest, but one who they were oblivious to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Our uninvited guest, apparently a figure of sleek stealth
had made way through the garage when the couple was on their way out, and into
the house, where he seated himself on the ground in the shadows of the study
adjacent to the garage, waiting for the kid to be put to bed, and in no hurry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">At 10 pm, when the parents had been out for some odd 20
minutes and Mel had put James to bed, a black hooded figure entered into the
kitchen where she had her face dug into the fridge. Cashing in on the
opportunity, the black hood walked swiftly past her into the kitchen closet
right next to the sink and crouched to not be seen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘James?’ Mel turned looking around and down, ‘are you up,
Jammie?’ she asked loudly to reaffirm, but there was nothing and she got back
to finding something to eat. He gazed longingly at the babysitter, smirking
with an aura of superiority. He had the chance he was longing for. Sliding by
the wall to the lounge, taking the knife Mel had put on the counter, he strolled
quietly past the fireplace and for a moment there, when his eyes met the fire, his
irises reflected those flames, a little too perfectly. His walk reflected unsullied
familiarity with the house and could have easily fooled any stranger into
taking him as a member of the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">By the time he reached the end of the lounge, he decided
to give the babysitter one more look. From the other door that opened between
the lounge and the stairs linking to the first floor, he could see her making a
sandwich and swaying to the music that reached her ears through her headphones.
At this sight, he couldn’t help but run a finger on the blade of the knife he
had now attached to the left side of his pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">What seemed like a few seconds of pondering over whatever
he was thinking, he started to walk upstairs, taking each step with care. The
silence was so deafening that his heartbeat was the only sound clear to his
ears. And with each step he took, his
heartbeat grew louder, consuming him and making all blood in his body rush to
his face in waves, hitting his flesh hard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">At the head of the stairs, the silence only grew louder
and with each pair of heartbeat that gonged, it signified a step forward. Steps
he took towards James’ room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Soon finding himself standing at the door ajar, he took
his hood off, revealing a head full of lively brown hair. Pushing the door, he
crept in and found Jamie tucked gently in his bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘What an angel’ he thought and closed the door behind his
back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">The room was small and had a suppressed strawberry scent
to it. It was carpeted blue with a singular window to the left with the view of
the backyard. The tiny cupboard to the window’s right had toys stacked on its
top, with a reading table right parallel to it. On it was a night lamp that
made the room shine with thousands of tiny little stars, and with each rotation
the lamp would complete, it would make a little sound, *tik*. The silence made
it audible, albeit gently. It was to the
right of the room, where Jamie actually lay secured in the embrace of his
blanket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Smiling, with his head tilted in almost with awe for
Jamie, he slowly started moving towards him, making each step more meaningful
than his last, </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;">all the while, scanning
Jamie from head to toe. His breathing grew louder with each step, competing for
loudness against his heartbeat and the *tik* the night lamp made every five
seconds. The same rush of blood, this time stronger, started hitting the flesh
of his face. Even his skull was pumping. Whether he was thrilled or scared was
unknown. All was known was he now stood at the side of James’s bed, looking at James
with wonderment, and stroking his arm with the tips of his gloved fingers. So
gentle was his touch that it failed to even stir Jamie in his sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘Wakey wakey little one’, said the killer softly,
stroking James’ arm a little firmly now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">While the killers’ attempt made James twirl to face him,
he was still very much in sleep. He
dragged his finger from the child’s chest, to his chin and shook it a little.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘Look, who’s here’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And with some struggle, only a child in deep sleep would
portray, James batted his eyes heavily and smiled at the sight of his companion,
‘What are you doing here?’ </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘Just sending you someplace where you can play forever…’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Confused, James did not know what to reply with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘I just came here to say goodbye… go to sleep …’ and so
James did, instantaneously falling asleep to the lullaby the killer was now
singing. The astonishment in the killer’s eyes had gone, and his stare grew but
empty. His breathing subdued, the *tik* continued, but his heartbeat mounted
simultaneously with the goose bumps on the back of his neck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">The lullaby soon found sleep with James’ little snores dancing
off his nose. A full of five minutes must have passed when the killer flexed
his muscle, gulping the little saliva that accumulated at the end of his throat
and slowly snaked James’ pillow from underneath his head. Puffing it up to even
the softness and not once moving his gaze from the child’s face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">*tik*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">‘I’ll miss you James’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">*tik*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Slowly placing the pillow on James’s head, he soberly
climbed the bed and sat on the pillow with his butt on it, opening to keep his
feet on both side of James’ torso.*tik* James read struggle started after a few
seconds of realization, *tik*, his hands started to claw the killer’s legs and
his body jerked. His legs moved frantically, making the bed budge. But how hard
can the combined strength of a five year old move the bed? He screamed into the
pillow, into nothingness, only drawing more air out which squeezed his chest
harder with every try he made. *tik* the killer sat with emptiness in his eyes,
staring at the wall in front of him, unaffected by the nudges his body too was
receiving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"> James body grew
heavy and the intense pumping of blood was the only thing any sense in his body
could experience. It was resonating in his entire body. With the energy running
out of him and his limbs fidgeting more from the pain than with the effort to
fight back, he grew slower and slower. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">The killer took his knife out, and wiped the little
trickle of sweat that had made its way to his forehead with the pointed edge of
the knife, closing his eyes in the process, mumbling something to himself and
with little wait, striking it hard and fast to James’s chest. *tik* Ending little
James’s little left struggle, and leaving the knife there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">*tik*.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-69397626495254904502014-08-04T14:44:00.000+05:002014-08-04T20:49:28.430+05:00We women, we lie. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFL0Ak1devlc4YVC7O-FdOkBmuVLCTYqcqrcqBVO1LAf8OzKjU9L8tniZjJAUmO2Oby6AV_B-iZ_a4qjdW6egOQsgpaLHRpPEk5VPenVbQEE79_IaK_-hKFr2kkezFKWvzV0wR0CjtIl8/s1600/Tears+by+Halmurzaev+Edward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFL0Ak1devlc4YVC7O-FdOkBmuVLCTYqcqrcqBVO1LAf8OzKjU9L8tniZjJAUmO2Oby6AV_B-iZ_a4qjdW6egOQsgpaLHRpPEk5VPenVbQEE79_IaK_-hKFr2kkezFKWvzV0wR0CjtIl8/s320/Tears+by+Halmurzaev+Edward.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Tears by Halmurzaev Edward. All rights to its respective owner. </span></div>
<br />
We women, we lie. Sometimes to get a smile on his face, and sometimes to get a giggle out of our babies. You may never tell how deceitful we can be, just how ruthlessly selfish our souls can get to stop the tears running down from our mothers cheeks. We are a lost cause of nature - weaker to male in material but arrogantly, prejudiced about our nursing instincts.<br />
<br />
What has hell got against us?<br />
<br />
Our pit of secrets is deeper than the darkest hole any hell of any religion possesses. The possibilities of the avatars just one of us possess is beyond the magic, science and literature, of any world, anywhere, can unravel.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Reveal to me myself as a woman,</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">and I will discuss why you can never.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Prick a pin in us, and just see how many emotions ooze out of us. You will have a hard time naming the colours mankind hasn't even discovered - the dark, the light, the faded, tattered, glittery, shimmering, rouged, grotesque...<br />
<br />
How many sides will you read before you grey, kneel down, dig yourself a grave with your own tired hands and lie down, calling upon God for giving you a companion - a companion that has been your biggest nemesis. Your toughest test in the world and yet, the best solitude. The most noble comforts that God ever offered - in her nagging, , in her sleepless eyes, in her lap that magically transfuses her comforts into yours with the quilt of sacrifice wrapped around you that kept you warm from the cold the world offers, from the hug she desperately seeks when she looks at your fatherly face, sometimes more to kindle your sense of authority, so gently, than out of personal fear.<br />
<br />
Yes, we women lie.<br />
<br />
We are thieves. We steal from Satan the satisfaction of death and hopelessness - we birth joy!<br />
<br />
We are cons. We rob the dark side of the world from greed and needs, and we smile from our family's eyes. We light from their successes. From their triumph, we win.<br />
<br />
We are murderous! We kill logic, and let emotions sway us. Thus, we love. But more than that, we <b>teach </b>love.<br />
<br />
We win because we are hopeless with hope.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Ha! We women, we win because we do <b>all</b> the wrong things.<br />
<br />
<br />
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
What I know about women (the good that is) does not come out of my own-self as one, but emerges out of other important figures in my life. That includes my mother, leading that group, with my khaala (aunt), sisters, nanni (grandmother), teachers (specially Ms Riffat and Ma'am Lubna), my girl-friends - Anam baaji, Hiral, Zonobia, Javeriyah, Roshna and many that I am forgetting at the moment. The list includes every woman that is known by the world, and the ones that have honoured only my world - knowingly and sometimes not even that.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-17875484050269802712014-08-01T03:57:00.000+05:002014-08-01T03:58:45.602+05:00When Silence Resonates Loneliness. (Guest Post)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alone. Being alone is the worst feeling ever. But it does
not necessarily mean that you have to feel lonely just because no one is
around. You can be alone standing there in a bunch of people. No matter how
many people are around you, you can still feel lonely.<br />
<br />
And that's what I've been feeling lately. Lonely. I have so many people around
me to love me, to take care of me, to accompany me but it just isn't the same.
I still can't shake this feeling away. Like there's something missing. Like
there's some vital part of me that has gone missing. I've even trying to figure
out what is this missing piece but all I've been coming up is with nothing. A
big empty whole in my mind. Why can't I figure out what's missing? Why can't I
answer myself? I should know myself better, no? One should be familiar with
what they feel and why they feel like that. Then why is it that I find myself
battling with my emotions? Why is that I can't seem to come up with an answer?
Because about one thing I am certainly sure. There's something missing inside
that has stirred up this feeling of loneliness inside me.<br />
<br />
When I read books about people being in love and how perfect they are for each
other and how always in the end they find their way back. Reading something
like this always stirs some emotions inside me. Like I could feel my stomach
tightening at whatever is it that I feel. Like my subconscious mind keeps
hitting me at the back of my head, hinting towards the answers of the gazillion
questions I have running through my mind. But perhaps my stubborn mind doesn't
want to wake up and realise the fact that I've known the answer to my questions
all along. Because it would take too much of me to let my guard down and accept
that I know what has been missing all along since those feelings kicked in. So
to shove the thought away, my mind started making excuses and delays became it
knew that my heart wasn't ready yet. Thoughts like 'maybe I should stop reading
novels that have romance or anything related to love and the feeling of being
loved' rush to my silly mind every time a sickening thought kicked it's way in.
Yes. A sickening thought I called it. Why? Because that's how I want to look at
it as.<br />
<br />
I was in love. Still am. But heck, I don't think I'm old enough to know what
love really means. Oh, wait. No one ever knows what love actually means.
Because you just can't describe it. It's like explaining someone why the sky
and the ground can't meet. Or maybe I am exaggerating but this is my point of
view and I'm going to stick to it. I don't know if the love I feel is real or
not because at times I feel the same for another person. And to tell you
something interesting, I haven't even met that person. Now something even more
interesting, that person doesn't even know I bloody exist. So that makes me
what? A teenager with an obsessive compulsive disorder or someone who cannot
keep her emotions and feeling and most importantly hormones under control?
Well, if you ask me, I'd rather call myself an utterly massive idiot for even
feeling something like that for someone who doesn't even know exist and for
someone who has millions and billions of girls falling over him because he's
that much famous. I told you all something majorly embarrassing so now I think
I have to say something for you all to let that roll of laughter die down. But
for some of you, I still might be an idiot. Anyways, I can't really tell if the
actual person I am in love with is really "love" because when I read
something utterly heart melting, that person's face flashes through my eyes and
I can't help but let that smile appear on my lips. I know it's totally wrong to
hold on to someone who is someone else's even after you told him how you feel.
I know it's wrong to smile like that on the mere sight of seeing their face
flash across your eyes. But at the same the feeling is totally right. Because
in that moment you know there's someone that you've give your heart to. You
know you love that someone with all the power that there is inside you because
in that one moment, you're happy. So maybe what I feel for that other person is
nothing but a mere obsession. Even if I decide to picture the other one there
beside me, all I can come up is with the same image of my someone. And it makes
it hard to concentrate on.. The other one.<br />
<br />
A part of me tells me to stop and move on because it realised how wrong this
all is holding on to someone who isn't even mine. But is it my fault that I am
so much in love that every time I try to think about someone else or picture
myself with anyone other than him, I just can't. That part of me tells me that
I have made a grave mistake my placing my heart in the palm of that someone and
giving him every power to crush it, to break it into tiny millions pieces. But
the other part of me screams at me that he has already done that. He has broken
my heart before I even realised I gave it to him. He said no even before I
asked him to. Does that make me a pathetic lover? I still am waiting for that
moment where I would feel true happiness of being loved in return by the person
I'm in love with. And someday, God knows when, but someday I will feel that
pure happiness rushing through my veins and making me cheeks go wider and
wider. Because in that moment, I will get to know the meaning of
happiness. </div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 115%;">___________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A guest post written courtesy of a very good friend, Neha Batool. She likes writing, reading and making her opinions stand out through these mediums.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Read her first ever attempt at a fan-fiction, short story, that has gotten many to bow down to her talents, here:<a href="http://www.wattpad.com/story/14468042-break-the-walls" target="_blank"> Break The Walls.</a> </div>
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<br /></div>
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Side Note: She is effortless when it comes to being cute!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Give her some love, ya'all. </div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-9213835691965885092014-07-26T08:30:00.002+05:002014-07-26T08:30:26.680+05:00My satisfaction ever after?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Lost. Lost was all I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
In the folds of my walnut brain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The indistinguishable twigs and stems of my veins<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
In the darkness that followed,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
In the pool of blood,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
On the skull space so hollow,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
As I quiver mid-air as if shocked by the air - Lost. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Lost was all I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
_____________________________________________________________________<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
I knew deep down what direction was mine. What road had
shone the brightest for me. What path was mine and what gave me more than what
no money, power or status could ever amount into giving me -<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Satisfaction</b>. The pleasure of
being satisfied. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
But I also knew how hard it was going to be. How untraditional it
was. That it will demand of me what no money, power or status could ever demand
-<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Honesty</b>. The honesty of
hard work. The uncorrupted involvement of each and every cell of my body. And
the honest emotions that would reflect in the heat of my face and the beating
of my heart every time I walked that one true path that always signalled me
towards it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
But I was not ready. The path was giving by all means, but it
asked for too much. In short, I am not a risk taker. I am not bold. I do not
have the courage to give more than I can bet on taking back. Coward, I thought.
Is that not what a coward means? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
For years, I veiled my cowardliness under the consolidation that
it was shyness.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Shyness</i>.
But the only times I questioned this notion was when I longingly gazed the path
- the path that was for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It used to talk to me, only rarely, but in manners that made me
aware of the vibration of every atom around me. Sometimes saying things that
were too, too honest. And really real, too real to take. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It (the path) honey-whispered things to me, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
‘No’, was my only comeback.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I shied? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It talked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
‘No’, was my only thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It talks more when I am alone. Growing softer each time it calls
me out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Does the path you walk do that to YOU? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Does it talk lovingly? In a way that reminds you of your mother's
tender smile, or your younger sisters shimmering, naughty but pure eyes. Does
it call you out in a way that shows consideration, consolation? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Can a life choice do that? Has it ever done that to you, or am I
the only lost stranger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Does it smile without smiling? Call you to dance, when you both can’t?
Summon a beast in you, the addict if you may, as if knowing your passion more
than you realize it yourself?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
‘NO!’ I shout.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The path… <b>my</b> sweet path, stays quite. Quite until <b>I</b> become
quite enough to hear it again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Is your path as patient? Does it give you the vibe of being your ‘satisfaction-ever-after’?
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">My
humanly appetite asks more of it, much, much more. I ask of promises of comfort
- the comfort of this world. The ease of being careless and carefree. Why is it
disapproving of my weary complains and to the idea of giving up. Have I no
right to lose it once in a while? Why do you swell on the idea of me hurt and
tired? Worn out and jaded, as exhausted as I can ever be. Why will you
not allow me short cuts and ways that are easy? Why are you, my path,
so stubborn on making it so damn hard? </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
And there, it does it again - smiles without smiling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I stand - lost. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Lost, as I always was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-31977012773890913412014-07-11T00:55:00.003+05:002014-07-11T01:07:16.392+05:00That one Donkey and her muse. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">23rd June, 2014.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Dear Diary,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Even though I have just invented you for this post, today you're
going to be my close companion and listen to one of the most beautiful instances
I've ever witnessed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">But before I start narrating, I need a name for my story. You'd be
surprise that even though a name to a story is nothing, for the story is the
meat; it often takes a lot more time to come up with one. Often more time than
itself a story ever takes. At least to me, that has happened quite often. Nevertheless,
after thinking well and hard, I finally decided on one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I’ll call my story:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 172.5pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">That One Donkey & Her Muse</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">It all happened one dreaded Monday afternoon. To be fair, all
Monday afternoons are dreadful. So uhm… let me rephrase that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">It was a <i>casual </i>*wink wink*<i> </i>Monday morning -
dreadful and tiring. I had just given my last paper and was on my way back
home. To make things worse, Mr.Omnath (our van driver), decided that’d he’d
give Monday a run for its money, and took on the enormous (read: idiotic) task
of dropping girls who live poles apart in the city, in <i>one</i> go. Imagine
the pain I felt when I realized I’d be more than an hour late to my home than
usual, all because my uncle could save some petrol. Oh and by the way, I live approximately to a
15 – 20 minute drive from my university. THE AGONY! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Not to forget that it was painstakingly humid, and the girls, all
cramped up like 20-odd pearls in one clasped oyster, didn’t do any good either.
The only thought making the heat of Karachi and my miser van uncle’s miserable
maneuver any bearable was the fact that I had a month long semester break waiting
for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Some 40 minutes later, after some girls had been dropped off and
after I had dozed on and off during that period, I opened my eyes to the <i>locked
away</i> alleys of Karachi and what I was missing on. The beautifully old
crumbling structures, all those small windowed homes, the lazy laughs of men in
the market, the swell sight of happy kids bidding school goodbye, the <i>leemopaani wala </i>(lemonade) serving the old and
young… oh, how I could write an endless story on Karachi. But let that story be
reserved for another day. For now, let’s be back to the story I am currently
telling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Dear diary, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">This part is where it gets beautiful. But before that, it gets
ugly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Life’s like that. Is it
not?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Anyways, returning to the ugly. Our van broke down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Yes, yes, it did. The Monday Curse is no myth, I truly believe
now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Whatever little ray of hope was left in me, died and I wanted
nothing more than this day to end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">But then the beautiful happened:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">There, a few feet away from where I stood, was a parked ruined
cab. It was damaged, dusty, and the
yellow and black on it was now peeled off, exposing its corroded and dented
body. And right there, was where I saw her. That beautiful little donkey, tied
to her cart from behind, with her chin resting motionless on the trunk of that
dented taxi. Her kind eyes were shaded with big, soft lashes, and they looked
very tired. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Its' odd how we so often forget how beautiful these creatures are,
just because they do the work for us that which we ourselves don't/can’t do; or
maybe it’s' because we’re so fond of seeing them, that they just become
ordinary to us. In any case, for me, there is merely ordinary by perception.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The scene of her chin resting so subtly cooled my heart. And even
from a distance apart, I could sense she had rested it just hard enough to not
let the taxi feel her weight. To her, maybe it was living. To us, maybe she
wasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">‘IT’S FIXED. ALL OF YOU GET BACK IN!!’ our uncle yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">With that, we walked back; I, a little hesitantly. She then looked
longingly at me for whole two seconds before I broke eye contact and found
myself behind the doors of the van. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> I wanted to sigh, but
before that could happen, I noticed a school going girl trotting by. In her red
and white checkered frock, she was bouncing merrily with her water bottle
swinging off her right shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Our van was struggling to start at this point. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">She stopped some two steps away from the donkey. Tilted her head
to the right, and with furrowed brows, looked thoughtfully at her (that donkey). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Come on…work” said Mr.Omnath in a pressed agitated voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">By now, the little girl seemed to be moving close to the taxi ;
still looking thoughtfully at her new friend. But the friend was unmoved. She was still immobile and looked weary. But the little girl knew what
to do. She kept her water bottle down. Took her bag off, stood on her toes and
placed it on the dented roof. Reached back to the water bottle, opened the cap
and let water fill it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“FINALLYYY’ roared our uncle simultaneously with the engines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">We started to move, but I could see the donkey move her head
closer to the girl’s hand. She drank
from it slowly, as the girl managed and failed to stand on her toes, and
stroked the top of the donkeys’ nose as much as she could. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
_____________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
P.S. This one's dedicated to Zeba, from <a href="http://zebra-talk.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Zeba Talk</a>. For being the little inspiration <3; Thank You.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-35713243144665622652014-06-02T18:29:00.000+05:002014-06-02T18:29:07.076+05:00Try<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Somewhere around 8th or 9th standard, we were issued to buy a book with a collection of poems for our English class. Unlike many other school books that pass us by every year like trash (sadly) does , this book is one of the few that remained attached to me. And to-date is very much a part of both, my shelf and my self.<br />
<div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Today, as I am reminded of how little I am , and how grand life is; I'd like to share a poem from that book. I do not know whether it is the poem itself that attracted me, or the fact that like everyone, I found a connection in it that I so needed at that point of my life. Which ever the case may be, this is it :<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Try Again</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
'Tis a lesson you should heed,<br />
try again;<br />
if at first you don't succeed,<br />
try again;<br />
then your courage should appear,<br />
for if you will persevere,<br />
you will conquer, never fear<br />
try again;</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Once or twice, though you should fail,<br />
try again;<br />
if you would at last prevail,<br />
try again;<br />
if we strive, 'tis no disgrace<br />
though we do not win the race;<br />
what should you do in the case?<br />
Try again.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
If you find your task is hard,<br />
try again;<br />
time will bring you your reward,<br />
try again;<br />
all that other folks can do,<br />
why, with patience, should not you?<br />
Only keep this rule in view:<br />
try again.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Hickson, William Edward</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope with reading you find why I like it so much. It's simplicity and yet in it, the prevailing life changing concept of what <i>trying </i>means: to live forever, is what makes this poem a remarkable piece of literature for me. Its concept fails to age and it is foresight, gained from the hindsight, that puts faith in me for the poem to last ( going to go cliché here) forever and ever... <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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( Poem copied from : <a href="https://www.blogger.com/Somewhere%20around%208th%20or%209th%20standard,%20we%20were%20issued%20to%20buy%20a%20book%20with%20a%20collection%20of%20poems%20for%20our%20English%20class.%20Unlike%20many%20other%20school%20books%20that%20pass%20us%20%20by%20every%20year%20like%20trash%20(sadly)%20does%20,%20this%20book%20is%20one%20of%20the%20few%20that%20remained%20attached%20to%20me.%20And%20to-date%20is%20very%20much%20a%20part%20of%20both,%20my%20shelf%20and%20my%20self.%20%20Today,%20as%20I%20am%20reminded%20of%20how%20little%20I%20am%20,%20and%20how%20grand%20life%20is;%20I'd%20like%20to%20share%20a%20poem%20from%20that%20book.%20I%20do%20not%20know%20whether%20its%20the%20poem%20itself%20that%20attracted%20me,%20or%20the%20fact%20that%20like%20everyone,%20I%20found%20a%20connection%20in%20it%20that%20I%20so%20needed%20at%20that%20point%20of%20my%20life.%20Which%20ever%20the%20case%20may%20be,%20this%20is%20it%20:%20%20Try%20Again%20%20'Tis%20a%20lesson%20you%20should%20heed,%20try%20again;%20if%20at%20first%20you%20don't%20succeed,%20%20try%20again;%20%20then%20your%20courage%20should%20appear,%20for%20if%20you%20will%20persevere,%20you%20will%20conquer,%20never%20fear%20try%20again;%20%20%20Once%20or%20twice,%20though%20you%20should%20fail,%20try%20again;%20if%20you%20would%20at%20last%20prevail,%20try%20again;%20%20if%20we%20strive,%20'tis%20no%20disgrace%20though%20we%20do%20not%20win%20the%20race;%20what%20should%20you%20do%20in%20the%20case?%20Try%20again.%20%20%20If%20you%20find%20your%20task%20is%20hard,%20try%20again;%20time%20will%20bring%20you%20your%20reward,%20try%20again;%20all%20that%20other%20folks%20can%20do,%20why,%20with%20patience,%20should%20not%20you?%20Only%20keep%20this%20rule%20in%20view:%20try%20again.%20%20%20Hickson,%20William%20Edward%20%20%20%20%20%20(%20Poem%20copied%20from%20:%20http://www.ellenbailey.com/poems/ellen_366.htm%20.%20With%20some%20corrections%20made%20)" target="_blank">http://www.ellenbailey.com/poems/ellen_366.htm </a>. With some corrections made )</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-82287365274955147542014-05-14T21:19:00.000+05:002014-05-14T21:20:15.881+05:00Stealing a little inspiration <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mloK1qrDjclW56DTrf4_OGnV8FeSONjVEa5n9xwyGdZbs89HMNNZ3GadS0BYVZiKJksJyEn49-zjliWaSelbiSPioMwtnVd4YFbKYMa3W9956I6DbmRDA6J4Jt6AcebNsMdi7WYpd1w/s1600/download+(1).jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mloK1qrDjclW56DTrf4_OGnV8FeSONjVEa5n9xwyGdZbs89HMNNZ3GadS0BYVZiKJksJyEn49-zjliWaSelbiSPioMwtnVd4YFbKYMa3W9956I6DbmRDA6J4Jt6AcebNsMdi7WYpd1w/s1600/download+(1).jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" /></a></div>
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See what it does? </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-48427243806596125232014-05-01T18:06:00.000+05:002014-05-01T18:06:00.282+05:00Dear past self<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dear past self, </div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>Know I write from care,</o:p></div>
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and so it's urgent this be told, </div>
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present lies are corroding the future,<br />of the only true thing you own :</div>
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that tiny bit of dignity earned today, for tomorrow</div>
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well off, but sweetheart, a person who ends hollow. </div>
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I know, you mean well,</div>
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but fear and submission, </div>
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and even silence in chaos,</div>
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may not make you a culprit but a <i>sinner </i>nonetheless. </div>
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So talk, show and boast of all you mean well</div>
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for an indifferent soul is the result of <i>anything </i>less.</div>
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Pay heed,</div>
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for mistakes are inevitable, </div>
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and courage demanded,</div>
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be noble and <i>prudent</i>, </div>
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not arrogant and defy.</div>
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I know, intuition guides you<br />foresight says otherwise, </div>
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'To lie is to hide,</div>
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and to hide is for cowards,</div>
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and for cowards are temporal,</div>
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bravery... lasting & durable'</div>
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<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]-->Alas, my future depends on you, </div>
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you...who can do, </div>
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that what <i>I</i> can not do.</div>
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With sincerest of regards,</div>
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and a heart of your own... I bid you goodbye.</div>
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Yours,</div>
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Future unknown.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-19165492623403184262014-04-20T16:07:00.001+05:002014-04-20T16:08:30.690+05:00Status update : Busy. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As I type I have about 20 odd tabs open on my browser, three word documents, two PDF files, countless folders and a whole lot of paper and note books flying about on my bed.<br />
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You know what this calls for? A cry for help!</div>
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With two weeks left for the semester to end, I ideally would have liked minimal work load, but to my surprise, I have more work than I can seem to handle. </div>
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Oh and not to forget, the living breathing monster of a place I live in, Karachi, who instead of feeding on, I don't know something more acceptable like... flesh, feeds of human energy. The heat is actually THAT bad. So, even if I am up for completing my work, my brain only withstands an hour of work and no more, just no more. </div>
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What else... </div>
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Oh yeah, my absolute absence from social media. It's a miracle how I've gotten so far, but I have had literally no time to check on Facebook, Twitter or watch any tv-shows with persistence ( Dr.Who, I miss you :'( ) ; but these are things I am willing to forgive myself on, its the distance from my blog and books that bothers me most. </div>
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Timetables don't work on me, sleep comes rather too readily, hunger escapes me like logic does from bollywood movies. Understanding? Meh. If I can't convince myself of making sense, how will I expect any of you to. </div>
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Anyhow. I wish to rant more, I seriously do, but I think Karachi is more hungry than my self energy can satisfy. </div>
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Sooo, thats goodbye from me. </div>
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I won't be apologizing for not writing, since I have a few tricks left in my <strike>draft</strike> box. ;)</div>
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See you!</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-15847258430148443452014-03-01T15:39:00.000+05:002014-03-01T15:39:13.511+05:00Where vendors live – a childhood wonderland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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They are everywhere you go. In shadows and dead ends, found
in daylight and sunsets; at beaches and barren roads, besides you and behind
you, in sadness and joy, with the youthful and old, but mostly together with a
child, accompanied by a smile.</div>
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They survive on your happiness, knowingly or not, intended
somewhat. Yet, like trees or those candies and toys they sell, we don’t
appreciate them as much.</div>
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These vendors are the ones living and breathing, everything.
Reaching extinction, in the dead ends and shadows, in sadness and troubles. At
barren alleys and sunsets but <b>not </b>as on the beach.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmDvLFxqV2ZjnStbdd-VONhnZkCpdXo9_tk8jwxVvUTu2D5-djcjc8aSj8frenUYKRsjW7Jz8lYf4r_NXr5amHL1KIrwc8CHxs2IsCdRkPCHzyzYySixAu1fOeUpMkWPpnEYcIUXIwx8/s1600/vendors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmDvLFxqV2ZjnStbdd-VONhnZkCpdXo9_tk8jwxVvUTu2D5-djcjc8aSj8frenUYKRsjW7Jz8lYf4r_NXr5amHL1KIrwc8CHxs2IsCdRkPCHzyzYySixAu1fOeUpMkWPpnEYcIUXIwx8/s1600/vendors.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
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Small homes, mini
quarters, they are truly behind you, below you in every aspect of life.</div>
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They sell what they can’t have: <b>Dreams</b>. They live like
veiled super-heroes, at the edge of each city, just minus the luxuries. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">(Picture source : http://blogs.wsj.com/photojournal/2011/10/10/photos-of-the-day-oct-10/)<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-76545091169041876862014-02-11T17:19:00.000+05:002014-02-11T17:19:43.870+05:00Differences that hurt us.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The one mean thing we do to ourselves is: we compare. We are never truly happy with what we have, and that is basic human nature for most of us; being receptive, critical and comparative, is one apparent quality that reflects this notion.<br />
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Certainly, being inspired is a perk, but engulfing our accomplices' traits, not to indubitably 'add' to our characters but to have it fight with what we already are, is dangerous. It leaves us with a sense of inferiority and in turn, upsets us heavily.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCEAl99z08M77OOD1j-tAhNOaUxnW5B-HJakC9deg_IVQhXfQsG1v6BiEpi66rzgtQzCB-J8IFj3bn948kWItFQSwi1hwvwomj_ntV26s-Uh5u7lwUezr87hyphenhyphent700YcQ_JW_9BjPkMB5s/s1600/Comparing+is+the+thief+of+joy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/2014/02/differences-that-hurt-us.html" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCEAl99z08M77OOD1j-tAhNOaUxnW5B-HJakC9deg_IVQhXfQsG1v6BiEpi66rzgtQzCB-J8IFj3bn948kWItFQSwi1hwvwomj_ntV26s-Uh5u7lwUezr87hyphenhyphent700YcQ_JW_9BjPkMB5s/s1600/Comparing+is+the+thief+of+joy.jpg" title="http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/2014/02/differences-that-hurt-us.html" /></a>We are <i>suppose </i>to be individuals, with our own set of problems and blessings, and all with varying degrees. And it's meant to be explored, build-on and embraced. What we mostly do, is we fail to take this first step and readily jump onto other sources of inspiration. Just like two fingerprints, that are never the same, we can't blade our personalities to match that of others, so why bother?<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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Just like two fingerprints, that are never the same, we can't blade our personalities to match that of others.</blockquote>
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So, I guess, what I am trying to say, is we need to be a bit grateful for our distinctiveness and not treat it is as a menace; you inevitably end up having a fight with your own self, and since no one in the world judges, never truly, what makes a good person a good person, we fall into a loop of endless confusions. And take it from me, it is NOT a nice place to be in.<br />
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Take baby step, just try and come to terms with yourself. It'll be relieving, to say the least.<br />
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Love,<br />
Rutaba.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3592306801297644444.post-6556479688939903442014-02-11T15:42:00.000+05:002014-02-11T15:42:56.381+05:00To Kaa'ba and eternal rest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Turned, twisted and spun, the car did<br />
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Just like the life in me,</div>
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like the life in them - my family</div>
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Glimpsing death so fleet,<br />
I saw like pearls, and precious, few smiles </div>
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but none one was mine,</div>
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I understood, death was not my guest tonight</div>
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One untainted said ,' Fate had it, I had to go pure...<br />
so God called as I visited heaven on Earth, right here...' </div>
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Softly the smiles faded and darkness prevailed,</div>
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the only difference remain: </div>
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my darkness is temporary, </div>
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their's an eternal bliss.</div>
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<i><b><u>In honour of my uncle, aunt and cousin, who passed away recently due to an accident on their way to perform Umrah. And in special honour of my cousin, the only one who survived. This one's for you Marif Bhai. </u></b></i></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Thank you for reading. More on: http://rutabatariq.blogspot.com/</div>Rutaba Tariqhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04909757943639549795noreply@blogger.com0