Stories about growing up in Pakistan

Act like a boy

I asked people around me for thread to sow my wounds close, But all I got was words. Words that had already drilled holes in me like a drilling machine. Words that left echoes in my mind, body and soul, Like a drilling machine making roads through mountains. These words wanted to make me a road to my boyhood Drill Act like a boy Drill Act like a boy Drill Act like a boy boy boy boy *echoing * Always the last to be chosen to play; Sometimes never chosen. Why? Because when I threw the ball, It was obvious my throw was not enough. So when the other boys’ ball hit the bat, The drill ...

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To all the leftist liberals and the beghairat brigade, my blood is still green!

Nostalgia is a funny thing. It’s like looking through the window of a bullet train passing by downtown of a metropolis at night. You only see the well-lit boulevards and tall skyscrapers while the darkened slums are blurred out of view. Today, when I look back at my 29 years in Pakistan, I can’t remember the pitch dark slums of the late 80s or early 90s. The memories that have remained or those which my brain has chosen to record are the ones where only the metaphorical boulevards and skyscrapers remain. Before a myriad of Pakistani television channels sprung up, before a number ...

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