Here's to Bazaar Bargaining!

Anyone who's ever been to Pakistan and stumbled across the damp, uneven grounds of a bargain bazaar will know never to pay the price that the shopkeeper first throws out of his mouth. Of course, to avoid scandalized looks from the faces of the customers as well as run the risk of their hasty departure, he wouldn't dare just SAY something like,

"The price of this shirt is 1500 rupees,"

No. There will be much flourishing of the hanger, twirling of the shirt to reveal 360 degrees the extent of it's uniqueness, much caressing of the fabric to show the top-notch quality of the "hand-woven" garment, and much insistence that the price is already a special "discount" just for the lucky lady or "baji", they claim, while enticingly making the the cloth perform a series of spectacular, rippling air gymnastics.

Foreginers are easy prey to catch when using this special technique. If you're quick, you might catch the smirk or contended smile creeping on the sides of his mouth as he folds your over-priced purchase and knots it into a polythene bag. 

Of course, nothing, and I mean, nothing, can deter certain segments of the civilian population. These specimens occasionally include burqa-clad women and the not-to-be-messed-with stern old ladies, under whose stern fixed glare, even the ever-confident shopkeeper falters while delivering his speech.

The fact of the matter is, Karachi is, officially, no joke, the cheapest city in the world. Many don't know this. And those foreigners who do, are always never sure HOW cheap exactly it is. This power of estimation comes from years of experience, a well-trained eye, and a good half hour spent sweating in the sun trying to reduce the price of the item by twenty rupees. Sometimes it's just not about the price itself. It's the principle of the thing.

So here's my solemn advice to you, future-to-be-fleeced-foreigners, when buying anything from one of our unique markets, dismiss the keeper's warranty speech with a flourish of your hand, quote half the price he's offering, and go from there. Or bring along the choicest bargaining weapon you can get:

An good old-fashioned Pakistani Aunty. Bargaining? They know how to do it. 


Happy Haggling!

Here We Go Again...

http://www.thenews.com.pk/Todays-News-13-20258-Qadri-gives-11am-deadline-to-dissolve-govts-parliament


The latest: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/pakistan/9802987/Democracy-faces-crucial-24-hours-in-Pakistan.html


There's never a dull moment in this country, now is there?

Just as soon as we loosened our shirts and dared to breathe a relieved breath after the drama of yesterday, what do we have here? A new political crisis. Yippee.

I suppose I should be glad. Besides the definite plus-point that my History class was oh-so-sadly interrupted by my teacher's frantic calls to her husband, inquiring, "Halaat kya hain??", we're definitely in need of some serious change. And I'm not talking about a whole neat-cornered-public-relations-smoothing-out-affair and making promises we know you'll never keep. No, I'm talking about the whole deal. With a cherry on top.
We've feasted on a nice long meal of "democracy" force-fed to us by the silver spoon that is the government and needless to say, the very stench is now making our stomachs churn.

The entire country has been shaken up to it's core. The tension is tangible in the air, just like it was a few days ago during the Quetta sit-in. At that point, might I remind you where our leader was?

Arranging meetings with the military? Speaking to the press? Why ever would you think that?

No, the President had jetted off for some quality-me time in the consumer capital of the world, Dubai.

http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2012-01-12/pakistan/30619185_1_memo-issue-pakistani-american-businessman-dubai

I won't say much, just this:

It's been proved that rats are always the first to leave a sinking ship..

Not that our country is a sinking ship. Not yet anyway. It's a beautiful vessel, filled to the brim with talented, capable individuals and stores of treasure locked away in it's dark cellars. Only it's commandeered by the likes of Captain Hook and Co, who haven't been able to patch up the holes in it's bottom, letting water gush in while they collect the bounty and make for the nearest lifeboat.

Now, I don't mean to sound so judgmental. It's a tough, dirty job sitting up there in the top seat and delegating. I mean, I've watched 24, I know about tough decision-making. Any one person can't just waltz in and wave a magic wand to send an entire rusty system operating for sixty years, into a puff of smoke and have it come out working perfectly.

It takes time, effort and a committed worker to fix what seems like it's beyond repair.

We've lent the sails of our ship to one set of seamen for long enough, and we've seen the waters we've been led into. I think it's time for another experiment...

Quetta Killings...

Michael Jackson sang “It don’t matter if you’re black or white,” back in 1991 and the world listened with open ears, but today, on this rapidly progressing planet, where we claim contentedly that we have moved on from petty things such as discrimination, it still does matter. So the world’s glaring, discriminating spotlight may have moved on from devouring the darker-skinned, to a tastier, easier-to-obtain-meal: the innocents of the Shia Community.

 This discrimination lurks in the cold hearts of those who fire at unsuspecting mourners, hangs in the air over peaceful gatherings, is intermingled with the mist from the breath of families that have been braving sub-zero temperatures for four days now, clutching the bodies of their husbands, their brothers, their children, waiting for some humanity to stir in the hearts of those that have the power to make a difference…

Each one of these people shrouded under white cloth is a martyr. Each of their lives was mercilessly brought to a bloody end by fanatics. Each of them deserves the grandest of funerals, with white lilies and speeches and 21-gun salutes in their honor. 

Not a sad, silent vigil with their corpses flashed across live TV, their grief-stricken families having to resort to a camp-out just to ensure that the government will not let this happen to what sons are left, what men will dare to wear the black attire and mourn the grandson of the Prophet (PBUH) what women, followers of the Prophet's (PBUH)  progeny, dare to leave their houses wearing black shalwar kameez and attend lectures honoring the grandson of the Holy Prophet. 

You cried for Newtown, when the children were mercilessly shot dead. You cried for a little blonde girl, in a pink dress. You cried for the memories she missed. You cried for the birthdays she would have celebrated, the graduations, the weddings, the life that was wiped out in a microsecond by a volley of bullets. How are the children who lie in those coffins tonight, in the open air, unburied, not given dignity in the last rituals of life any different? They had their lives ahead of them as well. These brown-skinned, brown-haired children were innocent too. They had birthdays they would have celebrated, Eids they would have enjoyed, cricket games they would have played on the open roads, bangles they would have bought and worn sparkling on their skinny wrists, smiles they would have shared and laughter they would have spread. 

How have they been honored? America has made sure that the children of Newtown live on, perhaps in the countless articles written about them on all major news networks, in the makeshift memorials, with flowers and loving notes, or in the words of Obama’s speech as he vowed to rewrite American laws on gun control to prevent any more little Jessicas, Dylans or Maxes dying at the hands of gunmen. 

How is our government honoring our Alis, Abbases and Fatimahs? Have our leaders provided our minorities with the protection they are entitled to, as plain citizens at least? Are promises being made to safeguard the lives of those who are left? How many more of us dying will it take for the government to wake up and make a move! Can you imagine the pain of a mother who sits in the freezing cold, surrounded by the bodies of her four sons? All she wants is protection for those who are left- a guarantee that her son’s blood hasn’t been spilt in vain. 

You might be miles away from the nearest gathering, but there is so much you can do to support her, not as a Muslim or even a Shia, but as a mother yourself, as a plain simple human being. Spread the word. If you’re in a position of influence, I beg you, use that influence to pledge support for the endangered species that are Shias.

Because in their minds, here’s what it comes down to:

It don't matter if you're black or white. But it matters if you’re Shia.