Teacher commenting on "interaction" : every attraction is not meant for interaction!!
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Teacher 1 - commenting on circular atrium: Maybe your hole is too big?!

Girl student :  :O

Teacher 2 : maybe your hole needs to get smaller as you go up...

Interesting Comments by Teachers

Student: Miss! I'm really sorry I completely forgot, can I please have another appointment I'll remember it this time?

Teacher: Unlike you, I have a schedule. All my balls are in the air at the same time!, if I don't juggle on time, my balls will fall!

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Student: Sir, over here near the trees, I will make another pavilion, this one for bird watching.

Teacher: Why? Is there a girls college here that people can sit "bird-watch"

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Student: Sir I don't have that drawing because I used it for this model

Teacher: That is the lamest excuse that I have ever heard in the HIStory of lame excuses!!

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Student: Sir, I don't want that people from the adjoining high rises watch the activity in my library

Teacher: Why? Who is bathing there?

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Students presenting

Teacher: Your presentation looks like you've forced a BMW sticker on an old Suzuki!

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Student: Sir, I have made a glass walkway, to provide a precarious feeling.

Teacher: oh yes! you will be precarious when people will look up, see ur skirt, and go WOW!!!!

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Student: Miss, the user will have to crawl through this underground glass tunnel.

Teacher: and look at that earthworm stuck on the other side? pchik!

Compromise

She was tired of being the compromise in this relationship. She had lost her most in it; time, love, sacrifice, prayers, childhood, innocence; all wasted. And now she was about to lose her left-over self esteem; she was about to lose her all. She was fed up of being stuck "in between"; even more fed up of being in that loop, that vicious vicious loop.

Trying to solve a problem
Ttrying to co-operate
Getting no co-operation
Failing at solving the problem
And then becoming the change that was needed to make the problem smaller.

Becoming the compromise. Becoming part of the solution, as well as the problem. Suffering being the no-man's land and every-mans paddy. Being the two and then enduring the pain of being told that she was the benefactor! "Really? How?" her mind screamed back, while her heart wrenched and bled. While her tongue spoke too fast for her, baffling her numb senses, shattering her already trying to mend itself heart, yet satisfying her infuriarated mind. The same mind she kept silencing when she decided to become the compromise each time, repeatedly. The same mind she used harsh logic with for all things pertaining to her heart. The very same mind that debated with in order to become the compromise. The very mind which eventually lost to her, and give up yet more of its peace; to be the compromise.

Choice - in retrospect

She always tried to choose between right and wrong. It ripped her apart, sometimes her heart and sometimes her beliefs; sometimes causing rift between both. Testing, retesting and then repeating the loop. She always made an effort to choose the right, regardless of how she'd have to sacrifice and what she might have to lose. She contented herself even if she did lose something in consequence, or perhaps be left with pain; a drop of which always lasts longer than a flood of happiness.

But then suddenly, life would make her path such, that all her right choices would become wrong, and she would shatter, all over again. Choose, all over again; choose to collect and put back together the pricking shards of her fate-beaten existance. Try to solve the puzzles she found, in the process, form some more new ones. Choose again, between right and wrong; and unwittingly wait for her rights to become wrong again, passively.

The incomplete end

It was raining very hard. She was very happy for the rain.
It hit her petals hard, and the pain it caused soothed her pain in an odd way.
It hid her tears, her warm tears against the cold rain.
She cried for him; and for them.

She had feared this pain, but not in this form.
She had thought, believed, her star would not be affected.

Yet, it had finally happened; worse than she had expected.
She thought she'd break only her own heart. but she'd broken his too. What was worse, with her love.
He had dimmed, had lost the twinkle she loved.
The twinkle, she now knew; she had given him.
So she let the breeze sway her without complain.
Stealing her fragrance.
Hurting her, easing her tears.

Each tear made her love him more. Each hurt her more to have caused him to be hurt.
Hurt through loving her. Simple, pure undemanding love.
She cried till her heart became cold, lost all the warmth of his love in those tears.
Tears as cold as the rain.

brittle ties

Her name was common. Common to all households, to the world. They all knew her by it, except the one for whom she was, her name….mama. she knew this was her identity. But she knew it not, she liked it not, behaved it not and definitely excepted it not. She was mama. The one who gave her birth. Brought her daughter into the world, and made her hate it. Used a sword invisible, to cut through love and respect. She used insult to kill her own effort, and those that were her own.

She knew what would kill another woman; the words, the acts, the manipulation. These weapons, parts of her, she knew well to use. Perfect timing and precise aim. She used them till she killed her. killed mama; and became….just another woman.

Money

On the 3rd of November, she died, after a long illness. She had passed many tests of endurance. Tests of patience. Lost the precious, yet persisted. In the face of opposition. Stood, stood her ground and firmly so. Undeterred by whatever hardship was thrown her way, she had to of course. She was love. Love of the material. Love of money. Wealth being health; and when the funeral was, she was discussed and what she had and what she could afford. Afford to feed on her funeral. Feed her hungry sympathizers – richly.

Pigeon Island

As I sit here on pigeon island, the reef on the beach making my ass sore, I experience the feeling of being just blank. Just watching the sea passively and moving back each time the sea reclaims its territory from me, wetting my feet in the process. Absorbing the bubbling sound of the water as the waves pull it from between the rocks, before another wave comes crashing back with a fierce vengeance. The water hits the broken reef on the beach and and splashes, spraying on me, right through the leaves of the tree I’m perched under; holding my cap to keep it from flying off of my head. The bubbling, crashing, washing and the spray of the water become music together. A song with ever-changing meaning despite the same lyrics each time; in a repreat loop fashion. An orchestra led by the maestro herself, the beats; bubbling, crashing on the reef and washing and trickling off the rocks, all an obedient servant.
Bubbling
Crashing
Spraying
Making the sea… sing!

Disobedience

It was her disobedient little heart; which kept fluttering, skipping beats at the nuances of his presence; his twinkling. It tickled her, the fluttering. Made her smile, unreasonably. Smile a genuine, genuinely pleased smile. She knew it was not right but she liked it. It made her feel pretty, it made her feel wanted. The garden envied her, and craved a star to love. There was a forbidden thrill about these smiles that she smiled to herself. It was the thrill itself that she was growing to love. It wasn’t him anymore. He was just the sparkling, glimmering excuse for her to get thrilled. No more. No less. She felt abliss. Safely content, with nothing to lose.
She had never felt her heart so light before. Light as a bird, floating on the wind, so effortlessly; seamlessly gliding from one cloud to another. She was living in a dream. It may not have been hers, but a dream it was; and she knew it. It was this knowledge that made it even more pleasant, and even more lucrative. She knew it wouldn’t last long, and decided to live it. Live in this dream. Enjoy it while it lasted. Embrace it while it let her. Embrace the dream each night she saw him, do what he did best; Twinkle, and love him for it. Just do what she did best, love his twinkling. Not let what was best about it – the thrill of impermanence – hurt her. For once, let go; just let go.

Ignorance

She saw it from her spot in the night. The dark, silent night; twinkling away. It was love at first sight. She loved the way he twinkled, different from all others. As it grew darker, she felt closer to him. He was also drawing closer. She was sure of it. She adjusted her petals her petals to look prettier, and swayed more gracefully to the wind. They were about to touch. But the light was approaching, and made her see. See the distance between herself and her star. The distance that the dark had been shielding uptil now. She knew she had to ever-share him with the night. It was her that he belonged to. It was she who made him twinkle. Her painful solitude came to her rescue. Her only comfort. He would only twinkle in her eyes now and she would wait for the twinkling to dim and become the pearls commemorating the sublime moments where her love blossomed and perished before full bloom.

Day 1 Colombo

Our first day here began in a state almost of transit. In my mind, the day began the minute I boarded the plane for Colombo via Dubai; this was at 10.30 pm on Tuesday the 22nd of June. From then on, the day that continued from that morning, extremely gradually turned into the day I landed here, the beautiful island that I had marveled at from my wing-window seat.
Being on that flight had been a major experience in itself, never before had I eaten such satisfying plane-meals; or watched three movies in one night on two planes! It was truly a taste of luxury- in economy class ;). My friend stared wide eyed and poked me when I broke into peals of laughter while watching those intensely silly romantic comedies: the rebound, when in Rome and Valentine’s Day. The rebound was the funniest, and in fact the one that also made me cry.
When we got off our flight, we were greeted by this long looonngg line in front of the immigration. It is without doubt that we were overwhelmed by this great tear jerking event. In an almost defensive-mechanism fashion, the thought that struck of us was, “we are Pakistanis, we can slither through the queue at the drop of a hat!” turned out the queue was full of similar resumes, so many other Pakistanis! While we lugged our laptops and counted the number of heads in front of us, there was a constant background bore of an identity crises behind us. An old tall man kept speaking to another in a frenzied combination of an American and a srilankan accident, oops! I meant, accent!; and we made deductions as to why the line we were in was the slowest and why that man was discussing medication rules in USA when the hot – and appropriate – topic was obviously the glacial pace of the line!. It was here that the architecture student in me screamed, “The line weight is too much!!”
However painfully, we got to the immigration counter eventually. We had landed at 9.00 am and hit the counter at 10.30 am, took another two minutes to give the politically correct answers and yet another thirty minutes to find our luggage. Once we began dragging our suitcases, we realised how heavy they actually were. Anyways, now came the best part of our airport experience. It was like we were in a movie, a man stood there waiting for us with our names on a placard! We got so excited we bared all our teeth to him together, not even half bothering that we were giving our best smiles to a driver!
Exhausted, yet running on our adrenaline-rush energy, we got into a huge car, wondering aloud why only two people had been sent that huge vehicle. Actually, we were extremely grateful to our employer for making this arrangement for us. The idea of finding transport when I was that tired still makes me shudder. So, Thank you so very much Sir! 
The drive from the airport to our hostel seemed to never end, even though it was just two and a half hours. On the way we asked our driver to stop somewhere we could buy a phone sim. He did. We got off, excited that it was drizzling and entered a shop where we asked the shopkeeper which connection had the cheapest rates. He informed us we couldn’t buy two of the available srilankan connections, because we weren’t srilankan; we were left with two choices, out of which he told us that one had signal issues. Obviously, we chose the one he said had the better coverage, the next thing we knew was that was the most expensive connection, 600 SLR!!. We had just been thugged. 
Driving through the traffic ridden and sometimes empty roads of Colombo, with my friend sleeping on my lap; we finally reached our destination – the YWCA Hostel. Here we had to wait for another half an hour before we were shown into our room. We, like finicky mummies checked everything from the bed sheets to the window latch and door lock to the socket, the only single one that was there, to our great dismay. Finally out of the two rooms that had been shown to us we chose the more practical one, instead of the more beautiful one, because the socket there wasn’t working, and the lock was also fishy.
Glad to have reached a place we could call “home”, we dropped on the beds and broke into an architectural discussion about the ventilation of the room, which was actually so well designed that even when we kept the window shut, there was a constant circulation of cool air in the room. Later we found out that, that our hostel, is a bawa building! Well bawa certainly knew how to provide comfort without air conditioning.
Soon, we joined our so-called male counterpart to drop in to the office to meet our bosses. Even though we were so tired, we walked all the way to the office, through a twisted path of lanes and alleys. It had strange looking men in lungis checking us out. Thankfully, we did not take that route on our return. It was a twenty to twenty five minute walk to our office, depending on the traffic.
We reached the office to find it a pleasant wooden floored building with a cheerful bunch of people greeting us. Each kept asking us our names, and if we had had lunch. The people were very warm and welcoming, and so were our two bosses, Jennifer and Madhura Premetillike – together, Team Architrvae. After having met all the employees, we finally met our boss, Madhura; someone with a great sarcastic sense of humour, and a presence which felt like that of a combination of a father figure and a teacher. Jennifer too, was very jolly and approachable. Madhura joked about how we didn’t have to do any work now, as Murtaza has already done all the work; and I just looked surprised and looked from madhura to Jennifer. Both, to our surprise, asked us to have fun and absorb srilankan and take trips. They asked us to read about bawa, to which I confidently replied we already had and that was why we were there; in response Madhura exclaimed, “oh they’ve come because of him not meee!”. Everyone laughed loudly, while I blushed.
Madhura told us that we will be cataloging in the room he called “the sweat shop”. I just asked him if there were power cuts or load shedding in srilanka; when he said there weren’t I gave him examples of the scheduled and un- scheduled load shedding that we suffered in Karachi. Obviously, sweat shops were neither new nor a big problem for us – me atleast.
One very interesting character that we met in the office was chaturanga. It took us a while to get his name right, especially the last syllable, but he was very considerate about that. He had learnt a lot of hindi and kept conversing with us in that language. He understood most of what we said and the rest of the office kept cracking jokes on this event of him finding natives of urdu to speak to in Sinhalese. He explained to us very carefully that he learnt hindi from bollywood, and not only movies, the primary reason had been the songs. To my great disappointment, his favourite singer was himesh reshammiya.
At our office we were also served tea. Our first tea in srilanka, and it was great. I was beyond glad to know that I wouldn’t have to suffer drug-tolerance-symptoms the way I had to on my turkey trip. I was also told that are three rounds of tea in the office. Murtaza almost disowned me because I clapped.
Being too tired now, we begged our leave from the office people and left for our first walk back home. On our way we decicde it wasn’t too far or long so we should walk to the office everyday; not only would that save us money, that would help us lose weight. Wow! What a slimming program!. We took a different route back and on our way saw this shop which apparently sold “biriyani”, “kuruma”, “nann” and “roti”. For reasons named in inverted commas in the previous sentence, we eagerly entered the shop, and asked about those items. The only thing actually available was parathas the size of a slice of bread – 10SLR – and a very repulsive looking biryani, the price of which we didn’t bother to ask. Afer asking the price of everythi ng that was visible, we came out with a loaf of bread – 40 SLR and me with the special satisfaction of knowing that tea was avialble – 25 SLR.
While we were walking down Galle road, we were suddenly shouted at by the police. We wondered why they were calling our attention. We had not been here even a day, and yet?. They were telling us to go to the other side of the road. When we were at the office, moses, one of the architects working there had commented that we were living next to the president, and what more could we want. We hadn’t understood that comment then. Now, we did.
It was a challenge to cross thease roads with raging traffic and no traffic signals. We would have to put ourselves on the death-zebra-crossing and then do the multi-tasks of walking fast and praying to not get hit. When we reached home finally, we opened up one of our packed-in-pakistan Pakistani-food-cans. A curry of potatoes and hungrily gobbled down half of the loaf which I had sliced irregularly, with a 3” knife. The same that made my luggage look suspicious at each airport security check.
We were extremely tired, yet I wanted to bathe so I left the room, for the shared hostel bathrooms, happily unaware of the ordeal that awaited me. The ordeal of bathing in cold water, oops! freezing water. I bathed, shivering; clothed, shivering and ran back to my room, shivering more than ever.
Exhausted beyond explanation now, I just collapsed on bed and fell asleep.

One thing we felt great about was the fact that we ranted on and on in Urdu and people couldn’t understand most of it. Of course they understood the basic, thanks to bollywood.

I

He wanted attention, her attention. She didn't realize it though. He had given her the license to pay him attention, it was mutually agreed upon.

They had set the stage now and the lights were on them; but she stood there frozen, not playing her part. He kept trying to activate the stage. Trying to hold the audiences interest, trying even harder to keep his own. He gave her all the hints he could think of; even said some of her lines, yet she seemed unaffected.

The dialogue that the audience expected wasn't happening. some got impatient. He wondered why she wouldn't budge. They had rehearsed these scenes endlessly and now, when they were to breathe life into them, her silence was causing this suffocating abortion.

He could hold the stage no longer. It was just unbearable. His part had been played, more than played. He left her, unwilling and in disbelief, to the questioning waiting of the audience.....

He was all alone, though surrounded by the audience. All those people, yet more to feel for him and she stood there frozen. Emotionally frozen. Obviously not feeling his loneliness. He called out to her from the audience - to disguise this void as part of the play - he called to come to him. He pleaded he couldn't punish himself any longer. She didn't seem to care. He cried he needed her. In response, she asked him to come himself. To the shock of the audience, she repeated it. Repeated with open abandon. There, abandoned he felt; and abandoned he was.

II

The next scene was to begin. Curtains drew. He came to the backstage and jolted her. She said they'll continue from where they had left off. He wondered if she cared at all, confrontation wasn't seeming to help. She embraced him, and reminded him of all their great past performances, how the audience had always loved the chemistry they shared. But the doubt had settled now, he could trust her no longer. He couldn't believe himself. Couldn't believe that he couldn't trust her enough to just respond appropriately. They prepared to get on stage again. This time she made a promise to deliver a most gripping performance. But he didn't know where the play was headed. He depended on her cues, helplessly now.

Curtains opened. The audience gasped. She looked mesmerizing, bathed in that fake moonlight. On a pedestal, making her untouchable to us mortals. He entered the scene and demanded her attention. She responded, by just looking away. He walked to where she seemed to be looking, and she told him not to block her view of the garden below. He said he was the gardener. Despite the beauty of those flowers, which stood there, trying their best at pretending to be real and fragrant, she told the audience of their truth. They are plastic, she exclaimed.

The stage darkened. Lights focused on just the two of them. He deemed confrontation inevitable now. But he chose silence over confrontation. He was tired of pleading, tired of saying her lines and doing her part, and his own alongside. It was his turn to be silent now. Now that she was listening.

She looked blankly at the audience. It was not until the murmur grew loud that she spoke. She asked him what it was he wanted. The backdrop couldnot please him, neither couldn't her best costume. This was a play done and redone!, what was making it so difficult for him?. Why was he standing stunned?

Caught off guard, he snapped it was the mere repetition. He was enjoying this moment, her asking him what she wanted. Her wnating to please him, to induce him to say something agreeable.She asked him if he expected her to read his mind. Tears glistening in his eyes, he left, he couldn't ask her for everything.

Death

Her opinion of death was very different from others, simply because it was an anticipation of it. Not silent, not loud; just passive anticipation. She did not fear it, except she didn't want it to be slow or painful; unlike others she did not fear the coming of it. She knew exactly what she wanted it to be like; as a personal experience. She never thought about the circumstances of it; but she knew what she wanted death herself to inflict upon her person.

She wanted it to be sudden, not something she had a foreseen in a manner that she could tell upon its arrival-date; post a disease maybe. She wanted it to be quick, yet slow enough for her to notice and absorb it. She wanted it alone; so she could her - death - why she had let life torture her so. She didn't want it to leave her unsightly, so people would gather and leave her funeral talking about how miserable she looked. It felt like she wanted more from death than she wanted from life!

In each situation, she had imagined death. In each picture, each scene she could see it, with a recognition like no other. She thought of it with a passion, almost as if it was love. She experienced a preparedness for it at all times, aware it could hit her anywhere anytime; like someone with cancer. Except, she was fine. No cancer, no being suicidal, yet playing hostess for death all the time.

She saw so much in common between celebrations in life and the ceremonies of death in her culture. The use of the same red roses. The serving of similar food. The fact that people cried hyaterically, similarly at both a wedding reception rukhsati and at a funeral amazed her. The fact that white is said to be classiest and most elegant, and white is the shroud that drapes us last. Death in all its darkness and dark associations is commemorated with white.

It was a marvel, the power that death had. To end a life, while it changed the others in a way they had to re-begin. To be that which was feared more than yet asked more for than life! To be a relief, felt from throwing away a gift - of life.

When she drove, an awareness that she could die anytime, made her a confident driver. When she slept, the fact she could die, made her dream easy; sleep heavy.
When all awaited a storm, she was celebrating; saying it may be her last encounter with life.


What most feared, was what made her fearless. Death. Not a word, a sentence.

Alone

She could hear the silence. She could hear it talk to her; but she couldn't listen closely. Couldn't comprehend what it was trying to say. The noise in her head was preventing her from doing that. She caught the word "loneliness" she thought, or was it "forgotten"?; it must've been "unwanted"!. Hold on! was the silence also ruthlessly turning her away? Her only friend of the times she wanted to shrink to nothingness? When all tears had dried, when all laughter had departed to their homes, when even her headache didn't ache her anymore. When numbness could no longer soothe her. When the hot rushes in her head became her only contact with being alive, the contact she found hard to hold on to. The same she wanted to let go of, yet, it wouldn't let her go. And now it was about to steal from her, her last, her all. It had finally convinced the silence to abandon her too. And she knew also, that she had helped.

Tea Tea Tea

If I were to point out an addiction that I have, one which would give me any after-taking-away- of-drug symptoms; it would be tea. It must be noted, I mean TEA...not caffeine. Caffeine can be got through a number of other "halal" drinks, like coca-cola, and coffee. Okay, the "number" ended sooner than I expected... :(... ;p....But tea is my favourite. I am called the official chai-wala (tea-maker) of my class, when we stay those nights in studio, - yes, we the architecture students- me and another friend of mine go around asking people if they want tea. Some accuse us of having addicted them to it also...hehehe...and well, we accept it...we have!!!..

I am basically addicted to tea, cuz my mother is...no, its not hereditary. Look, I come from a country that has no qualms about what the "first world" calls "child labour" ...not that what I was subjected to was child labour, but still... Moving on, when I was what...six??...or was it five and half??...six I think, when I made the first cup of tea for my mother, and from then on it never stopped. She has, to-date, a mug of tea every half an hour!!!...and my fellas call me an addict!...It has been one of our family jokes that if one day we cut ourselves...we will bleed tea...hehehe

Anyways, I have always been proud that I can completely multi-task where tea is concerned. I can have tea while walking, climbing the stairs, draftingg, drawing, u name it!!! - without spilling - and in a moving vehicle, no, not a plane!..I mean the bumpy roller coaster roads of Karachiiii!!!...Where ther are more speed breakers than road length, and more khaddas (dips, ditches, unexpected depressions) than speed breakers - I mean the mountainous speed breakers - here its a real task to juggle with a mug of hot tea waitng to overflow.

Well, today, for me was a milestone tea day. Why?...cuz i drove on the same mad roads while i drank my tea!!!...It felt great!...freaked my sister out but I was very pleased with myself. It was amusing to watch aunties raise eyebrows beyond their foreheads, office-type guys with ties fix their specs to believe their eyes and the paan-chewing truck-walas looking down for a reason other than my being a female...And the tullas!! (traffic-police), they were just classic...!...one attempted to pull me over but instead just yelled...Baybee!!!...poor him!...Now I just wish I had taken a photograph....:/...:D

Introduction to blog

Hmmm... I have never blogged before, written lots, but never blogged. Therefore, being new to this, well, I am not speechless, cause I am a person with verbal diarrhoea; but I definitely do not know how or where to begin. Now, you see THAt is the problem with blogs and diaries and such, they don't reply, and one cant judge by their faces or body language what they might like to talk about. In case of people, mostly you can start with what they want and then move on to what you like talking about most, but it just gets sad if the person in question is into ONLY politics and football and starts becoming taciturn the moment you mention art. Then of course, there are those who count recent popular bollywood songs - such as just chill chill- as poetry. Well, poor poetry!, I wonder how she must feel.

Well, back to blogging and me. I guess I'll take this opportunity to talk about myself. OOhh...The last sentence suddenly reminded me of my kindergarten days, when we all were required to write about ourselves to pass exams!, and funny how the teacher "corrected" what we wrote, I mean how could she correct what we knew about ourselves!!... Strange our education strategies are...Anyways, talking about myself, I am one not-so-Pakistani , Pakistani female, studying or at least trying very hard to, study Architecture. When I say not-so-Pakistani, I mean, i do not, and probably never will fit the description of a Pakistani female. This creature (I'm talking about those that come from a background similar to mine - the middle strata of middle class) is generally what she is expected to become, i.e. shy, refined, not very talkative, one who doesn't laugh loudly - basically bordering on anti-social. Not only this, she is one who can somehow know how to cook since birth, and if she has to have a profession, she has to be a teacher or doctor; other than that, well we really have to fight our way around, and practicing that too becomes another question of "permission" after she gets married. Of course one of our life's goals is to get married, I think its the nucleus and driving force of our society! and our population statistics are reflective of that! . Okay, back to myself, I am social, talkative, sometimes overbearingly so, and laugh loudly!!...haaawww!!!...and unlike many of my counterparts, am not subject to "permission" for everything I do. I am into writing, and theatre and those are some of the things that have brought me here, to blog. I loooove travelling and have very recently been to China, Beijing more specifically. I guess I should go now, cause my computer will shut any moment!...I live in Karachi, where the electricity plays hide-n-seek-with us!....So here's to my first blog...cheers!