Usama Ali : The Fanfic by Rehma Shehzad

I know I talk in hyperbole all the time but this has just got to be the best thing ever. It’s literally every single inside-joke I have with person and it’s brilliant and heart-warming and so well put, I can’t tell if I’m more flattered or envious. Regardless. This is it.

Usama ran his fingers through his dark curls, adjusting his ray-bans. They were originals, as the pathan cart-owner from commerical market had claimed, but Usama knew better. He had donned on a baggy Levi’s top he had purchased earlier that week along with a pair of skinny jeans that accentuated his anime-legs.

Walking briskly, he approached the Comsats Canteen counter. The shop keeper regarded him silently.

“The usual?” He asked, sounding rather bored.

Usama only gave a slight nod, inconspiciously inspecting his surroundings with his peripheral vision. There was no sign of any unwelcome intruders, nor did he notice any strangers looking at him with unforeseen curiosity. Good. But he could not let his guard down for one second. It was too dangerous.

The shop-keeper slapped a mushed up substance onto the counter top. It resembled a sub and was wrapped in a flimsy newspaper sheet, but to Usama, it was more than just that. It was his escape. His life.

Flinging a few 10 rupee notes onto the counter-top, Usama grabbed his anday wala burger and headed towards the food court. From a distance he spotted Zubda waving at him, beckoning him to join her. When he reached the table, she immediately removed a silver laptop from it’s case and began typing furiously at the keyboard.

“Any progress?” Usama asked noncomittally, taking a bite out of his delicious delicacy.

“We found the safe, but we can’t crack the password. Not completely.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve only been able to uncover a few characters. It could be anything.” She sounded exasperated. Being the tech expert had it’s perks, but it also had it’s burdens.

“What are the characters?” Usama asked, his full attention now towards the situation at hand.

“It doesn’t matter- It could be anythi-”

“What are the characters?” Usama pressed.

“We have an ‘M’, then five blanks, followed by three numbers.”

Usama let that sink in for a second. She was right. It could be anything, but everything has it’s limitations. Limitations that depend directly on the source.

“What do we know about the safe-holder, Zubda?”

She looked at him with a perplexed expression. “Just the fact that he has a well established position in the Pindi Mafia and all it’s leading agencies. You know that.”

Usama took a deep breath. There it was. A limitation.

“Hand me the laptop.”

She pushed the device towards him on the table. Usama studied the screen for a second, before quickly typing in a few letters in the space provided. A affirmative beep sounded. Usama smiled. Zubda raised her eyebrows in shock.

“I don’t believe it. How?”

“Everything has it’s limitations. The safe-holder is a high ranking Pindi Boy. It would be foolish not to think he’d choose a password dear to his heart.”

“What was it?” Zubda asked, furiously jabbing at her keyboard again.

“Masair123.”

___

Usama dangled from the ceiling by a safety rope tied around his waist. He propelled himself downwards until he reached the floor. He studied the massive safe in front of him with awe. There it was. In all it’s glory, resting deep withing the heart of Centaurus.

It was open, and it’s contents now belonged to him. He wouldn’t keep them though. No, his job was just to ensure they weren’t in danger of being in the wrong hands anymore. He approached it cautiously, avoiding any traps that may have been set up.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Usama gasped at the familiar voice. “Saad? What are you doing here?”

“You’re not the only one after the contents of the safe, Usama.”

“What do you mean?”

Saad emerged from behind the safe, in all his villian-y glory. His green eyes shone with ill-intention and bitterness. Usama knew right there and then, Saad was not his ally anymore. But could he fight him?

“Saad,” Usama spoke, almost pleading, “Don’t do this.”

But it was too late.

Saad lurched forward, pulling out a few disk shaped weapons and flinging them at Usama. One hit him square in the face and stung him thoroughly before falling lifeless to the gorund. Usama barely glanced at the object on the floor and understood. It was an image of Pepe. Saad was shitposting.

“No!” Usama clutched his head. “The memes! They’re too dank for me!”

But then there was a pause.

Usama glanced at Saad, but his eyes immediately fell onto something else. There was a hologram in front of him. No, no, no. The figure was that of a woman. A woman he knew far too well. She gracefully treaded forward, a box of Slice Mango in one hand and a box of Veet hair removal cream in the other. But she couldn’t be here. She had left him. it was an illlusion. Get it together Usama. “Katrina Kaif…” Usama murmured, but he would not let this illusion destroy him. He lunged forward, dissipating the hologram and twisting his adidas watch. A stream of iridiscent light fell onto Saad.

“NO!” Saad screamed. “Not the tumblr posts. NO! They’re too aesthically pleasing for me to handle!”

But Saad was gone as if he had disappeared into thin air. But Usama knew all he had done is teleport him to Tumblr. And that was a hell of it’s own.

Usama grabbed a silk hankercheif from the safe, tying it up to secure the contents inside. He walked out of the building and lit a cigarette in Centaurus parking lot. Sure enough, two mintutes later, a silhouette of Shahbakht on a motorcycle shone in the distance. “Bao rami ho tussi, Raja jee.” Shahbakht exclaimed upon reaching the lot. “Agli baar mainu bhi mission naal yes krao ok na.” Usama only smiled and planted himself in the back seat. The motorcycle engine started with a roar and the vehicle rushed forth.

Usama untied the knot on the hankercheif, smiling at the rare car sticker inside. It was one of the first car stickers to ever have been produced in Pindi and held great importance in the Pindi boi heritage. It was too priceless to ever go in the wrong hands.

Usama closed his eyes, imagining Katrina. She knew what she would be saying right now. It was the only thing he ever heard her say.
“Veet. Khoobsurti ka ehsaas.”

He opened his eyes then, feeling the strong wind against his skin, pushing his hair back from his face.

“Raja jee?” Shahbakht turned to look at him questioningly. “Dua wheel vi chukso.”

And he did.

ANSI Codes and Myself

I’ve been looking at this cleverly constructed pun my friend made and just smiling like a loon whose never had a taste of wit in brevity before. I do this thing a lot. I pause before texts. And I scroll up a lot. It’s like I’ve assimilated that string of characters and words into my repository and I can go back to it and indulge because it’s the lack of imagery to it that actually makes it easy to reconstruct. And however many times, it doesn’t betray the original.

I feel like I appreciate texts more because I can dwell on it. Like, it holds its existence for however long I want to keep revisiting it. It’s right there, in whatever pixel-form. It’s right there. It doesn’t just dissipate into thin air after it’s utterance.

I know words and sounds happen to linger too, but I find conversations having a better life-span this way. At least, I think the same ever since I haven’t been able to connect with people properly.

During real life exchanges, I get talked over a lot. I fumble over a lot of words and berate myself in the third person. I can also never maneuver my way out of an awkward silence because a part of me enjoys those. I find some reprieve in stillness. Makes me feel like I’ve hit a lap or a benchmark so I can piece the whole thing part by part, silence by silence. And then there’s the case that I don’t process my word-vomit too much when I have to keep track of what my facial muscles are doing and what weird waltz my eyes are choreographing in; which is often times eye-fucking an empty bench in the distance.

I understand that, I, Usama Ali, born of Spring and a child to Summer, am awkward. But I really want to connect sometimes. I want to have a lot to say too. I want to have heads shake to an opinion or an idea. I’m not lonely, but there aren’t a lot of consciences I trust. And I’ve yet to find a medium I can truly use for expression. An audience I might have decided on. I used to want to break the mould, find intellectuals and aged souls, struggle to fit in a better class and just get my feet off. But I think I’m happy here on the ground. I’m happy rooted here, not taking off. And texts work better down here for some reason.

-Somewhere in Saddar, Rawalpindi.

another year, another passing moment of lament

2016 has been a weird year. Pictured below is probably the only time of the year I’ve felt light.

 

I did a major reboot on my life and broke out of the two things that overwhelmed me and dominated most of me. I don’t know if this is a coincidence but I got into both around the same time.

 

This year I did a lot of running. Running away. I jumped a lot of ships and I burned a lot of bridges. Enough to mark it year of the arson. 2016 was sad but I was growing ever-so detached from it all. I met new people. Made great friends. Lived through the highest of highs, did craziest things, had my own Hollywood moments and so much kicked off. So much had been good. Great.

 

But so much was still out of place. I lost parts of me; parts that just got loose and fell off. I didn’t even notice I got sadder and denser. I stopped investing in relationships. I stopped having a sense of entitlement. I gave up. Every day was just every other day. THIS is just every other day. I’m still waiting for the magic to happen. This has been a huge year for me but reflecting back, I haven’t made any personal progress. It’s discouraging. I don’t have any pointers for 2017 me. I don’t have a new year’s resolution. I just want to get better.

The sentiment gets lost in transit

After breakfast my old roommates would check their Facebooks. Except nothing was ever going on so they’d just check out random threads in Facebook groups and look at awful memes.
That was Wah. Nothing was ever going on and you’d be looking for excuses to feel involved or spent. Kindof reminded me why I quit. Everything since my visit kindof reminded me why I quit. Except the things that made me want to come back. Wah’s beautiful. Beautifully mundane. It’s a pretty girl without a personality.

If anything, I’ve missed how open it was. I’ve missed how clean it was. Being at Wah felt like being inside a snow globe. Not necessarily one with snow. Did it ever snow at Wah? I didn’t want to stay long enough to find out. But it was a snow globe nonetheless. You looked up and it was clear. Clean. You could see the stars and the blackness of the night in all their splendor. The vastness of it all was overwhelming. No towering buildings. No noise. Lights where they should be. Roads that ran everywhere. Everything was connected and also not. The same road would go everywhere and still you’d question if you were lost or not. That was Wah.

I wrote half of this on my way back home in a car-held-together-by-faith-and-nothing-else and it was as distracting as any ride in a CHTBFANE with all the curses under my breath and the silent prayers to get home safe.

I originally wrote the above piece on the actual day I was there. I don’t even remember what state of mind I was in to have written that and what I had felt at the time of writing that. It always seemed like I left parts of everything back when I would make the trip. That I’d transition into this realm of disconnectedness once I was on a bus out of there. I loved Wah and I hated it.  I was always stuck in the middle. One foot always out the door. Sure, it meant I had the best of both worlds but that didn’t spare me from the worst of it. Always badly trying to fit in to one life or the other; the wanderer and the homebound. Weekends were always the worst. Sometimes I wanted to stay back and sometimes I wanted to get the hell away from it all. Every Saturday was the same. I’d come back home from work early, debate with myself whether to take a shower or not, decide on not, pack only essentials and leave for Pindi; also home. Always double checking to see if I packed headphones. Always. I forgot my wallet a couple times; didn’t bother me as much. Could always do without.
Going back home, I’d think a lot. Sometimes I’d read or recap the week. I’d think I have so much to tell my family. That I have all these interesting stories that I can amass in a week’s time and that felt so cool. The thought of explaining it all to my friends and family back would keep me warm and slightly giddy through the ride. But the warmth would never really make it home. Over the dhakkay and the cheap samosa-chaat at Pirwadai and Mandi Mor, it would dissipate. I’d find myself wanting to crash on my bed the minute I got home. I could barely manage a salam. Always crawling into the bed, too tired, too broken and too worn down by it all. To think that a two hour long commute can do that to you. I’d go to bed without a peep. My mother would watch me, concerned and abashed, as her first born, her pride and joy who would rather come home to sleep and use the Internet. I’d be leaving around noon the next day. I’m sorry, mum. It’s not me. The sentiment gets lost in transit.

Orange Might Not Be The New Black.

I walk out the door to greet the noon sun a good morning.

Typical me.

Classic me.

Routine me.

One glance down at my legs and I instantly hate my pants. A cruel and unimaginative hybrid of brown and orange where the orange seemed to dominate. And they’re chinos. Standard Pindi boy gear. In fact, it’s almost stock Pindi. It’s the starter Pokémon of Pindi. I slept in the same pair. Wrinkly isn’t even in my problem. The whole thing is. Worn only once in daylight before, the pair now serves sentence as a glorified pajama bottom. I have never once consumed enough alcohol units, or to put things in perspective, ANY alcohol units at all to end up in a drunken shopping spree to have picked this up. I need to stop buying clothes ironically and stop buying things in a prospect of acquiring an article of clothing just for the sake of owning it; at half price and calling it a bargain, which to be fair, seemed like one in the dimly lit shop I purchased it from. I think they do the lighting like that on purpose. Anything off the shelf looks vogue. Anything in the dressing room mirror looks vogue. Wish I could still say the same for myself; the faux pas-vogue clothes and flattering lights and all. I might just end up being a hoarder for knock offs I regret buying after the minute I get home. I wish I could afford my own fashion sense. I wish I could afford any shred of couture that goes on in my head. I hate the me that shopped at any given instance that serves as a prequel to today. I hate the me I was yesterday. Tomorrow I’ll hate the me I am today. Which seems pretty unfair since I feel likeable at the moment and I’m sure come-tomorrow me might like me better- Scratch that. I hate me right now too. I might just run on perpetual self-loathing.

Growing into this.

Growing up, did you ever have any idea what kind of body you’ll evolve into? Or grow in to? Or slip in to? I know the last one sounds creepily sci-fi, but bear with me, I always thought you’d be growing with your body and coming to terms with it. I think that’s just how I would explain puberty. You’ve had the same body for like 13 years (when do kids hit puberty now? I know it took me a damn while. My voice still retains an annoying high pitched creakiness when I’m excited) and it starts surprising you. It’s the same body, it’s your body but doesn’t it just feel new?

Yeah.

So, did you ever picture yourself embodying this form. If I expand, I think I’m just asking myself if I ever knew I would end up skinny. I mean, with me, I kind of always saw it coming. My mom always saw it coming. No, I wasn’t bulimic, I wasn’t under-fed or malnourished. I just ended up skinny. Do people normally get the premonition of their future body type? How do they deal with it? Do they plan on changing it? Diet plans? Maybe wearing certain kinds of clothes? Hair styles to compensate? Facial hair? I don’t know. I found being skinny to come with it’s set of pros and cons. And yes, I don’t have to put it out there but con #1 is definitely, “You’re skinny.” And it easily tops the list of cons that never cease to stop growing. But there have been pros well expressed in victorious chicken fights. I never knew I would be THIS skinny though. I always thought I’d grow out of it. It just stuck… And I found nothing to help with it accept sometimes defeated acceptance. My friends aren’t in-line for the title of Mr. Universe either. They’re okay. But we were all skinny kids once. Sucks being left behind. But what I didn’t make up for in kilos, I did in inches. I grew taller. Safe to say, none of us would last in a fight. Maybe Adnan or Sarmad. They’re the only ones who could actually be called broad. There’s this guy in my class who’s also skinny. But he’s tall. Like, six-foot-something kinda tall. Nice face. Deep voice. I find him attractive. And he’s skinny. You know, lanky and his pants don’t come all the way around his waist.

 

I wonder if people look at me like that. Lanky and his pants don’t come all the way around his waist.

 

On stars and beginnings

I think the best part about moving out, and not just moving out, it was moving out from a small town to another more smaller town was the liberty in constrictness. The freedom bounded by walls. The opportunities marred by industrialism. But most importantly, the sense of putting everything behind for a beginning of your own.

Of course, I had a more humble and comfortable one compared to everyone who traversed from across the provinces to come here and work. I had it easy, I literally came from next door.

I’m keen on finding pleasures in the simplest of things. Stargazing. Green grass. Laughing children. Clean roads. Street lights. Serenity.
Wah had all that and the promise of more. I was hooked. And after a while I’d find myself addicted to it.

The thing that hit me the most was definitely listening to A Sky Full Of Stars while in the company of a sky full of stars. Cold play never was the same to me. The sky never was the same to me. Pindi, plagued with all the neon and all the noise and the scatter of roofs laid about, did not boast much of a sight for stars. This was new to me. This was, I came to realize, what I had longed for. A sense of bewilderment. A sense of awe. And a sense of feeling small. Vulnerable.

The cicadas sing and the mosquitoes rustle through the shrubs but I’m unnerved. I’m moved but i won’t be moving. I’m overwhelmed by rocks that are quite possibly dead lumens and light years away. Just makes you feel compelled to take it all in. Breathe it all in, in heavy, selfish gulps. But the vastness of it all stands strong in the odds against it happening.

”What did we learn from this, Usama?”

This is a letter to myself. And coincidentally i’ve been give the privellage to execute the task. I’d better not keep me waiting.

Hi, Me.
Hope you’re doing okay. Did you know you’re a self-centered asshole? I bet that’s news to you. It isn’t? Oh, yes, i totally forgot you’re smart too. Smart enough to act oblivious to everyone’s feelings. You can sweet talk your way out of most situations, and when you can’t, you put your authority in play. It’s a given that you’re very social and all, people happen to be your speciality, the hours you poured into that extensive research of yours. What was the subject again? Humans? Ah, yeah, that.
Humanity. You love humanity. All of it. Doesn’t that make you the biggest pervert ever to walk this earth? Doesn’t that make you inhuman?
Sure does explain why you lack most human traits.
Let’s move on, i have a lot to cover. You’re not good at keeping facades, as to which your perfect charisma isn’t all that practical. You can’t lie all the time and you know. You try to work you way around it so you don’t have to lie. Clever. Very clever. But did you ever wonder how that made ME feel? Huh? You sick fuck. What did you not over look?
Your image is a mess. You walk through the street and every thing with functional eyes stares. You wake when the sun calls it a day and settle for a glass of milk as breakfast and supper. Dinner? What’s that? I never heard of it. Then again, you have slender long legs. They’re probably enchanted since i don’t know where you get the energy from after walking the life out of them all day.
You’re so weak, it’s disgusting. And no, i don’t mean physically weak, that isn’t even worth pointing out. You, morally. You take ‘no’ and ‘maybe’ as good as any answer. You never ask people to reconsider. And haha, you’re so messed up in the head, you show back bone at the worst possible times.
You constanly wonder whether your father’s proud of you or not. Y’know what. He is and He is not. He’s not proud of you questioning his affection for his first born.
You try too hard. And sometimes… You don’t even try.
You neglect me. You neglect me a lot. As i’m writing this, you’re stuck on ‘why’ ’cause that’s what you do. You’re so accustomed to living like that.
”They’re real people!!” that’s your excuse, right? Did they ever consider you real? Did you ever consider yourself real?

I’m sorry, okay. For what it’s worth, i’m sorry. Just, try for me sometime too. Ofcourse, you’re the minimalist. Doesn’t necessarily make your body one too, right?
Do consider that. And i hope the next letter finds you in better health and a hightened state of mind.

With love,
Yourself.

Posted by Wordmobi

The Little Things He Does

My house is at the end of a street that brances into two more. One parts to the right and the other to the left. Imagine it like the letter ‘T’

Branch |my street| Branch
———————————–

———–| |————-
| |
| | [x]

That plan doesn’t help at all, right? ((Nope))

So the shops and the tandoor (bread baker) was at the far end of the left branched out street. And the route was basically a dark narrow street that is ALWAYS wet ’cause of a perpetually suckish drainage system, it has a real eery atmosphere still and back when i was a kid it also covered a vacant lot that was over run with vegetation and stray animals. You could always hear something snarling from within it or cats fighting. The best part? It was home to our neighborhood’s very own urban legend. Yeah, a Witch . So, there was this empty room at the far corner of that lot and it was a closed room and had a gate.

The legend said that there lived a witch in that very room and she takes children with her, against there consent ofcourse since kids and witches don’t click well, i blame the generation gap. So she took the kids there and… Combed their hair and then ate them, or something. I forgot what came after since the combing part was enough to scare the crap out of me. After a couple of years the plot got cleaned and it turned out that the witch’s lair was actually a desi meth lab. Yeah… Moving on, fetching the bread and small groceries was a really daunting task for me as a child. Especially at night. I am nyctophobic, like deathly scared of being alone and in the dark. I run after switching off the lights in a room when nobody’s around. I am THAT much of a scaredy cat. err… Forget i said that.
So, Every night when i had to go to the market, through that sinister route, i prayed to Allah on the way. I prayed,

”Ya Allah please please please have a car there or have people there. Please don’t let the street be empty. Please let there be light and somebody”

and honestly it happened. It worked. I was rarely alone. I can assure you it worked because my folks went to sleep with roti in their tummies. There was always something. Bikes, Cars and even people walking by. They walked slowly, enough so i can make one dash and get conveniently behind them and sort be in their lign of sight. That continued for a while till i grew up to be a weirdo who’s too absorbed in his cell-phone to actually notice the monsters around him.
So tonight, same street, same 9:30 PM, same eerie demeanour of that street and what probably wasn’t the same was me. I got to the tandoor. Got my warm bread. Was on the way back… Half way back i take my eyes off my phone to glance at the street which i barely notice now.
2 yards away, a person walking at a really slow pace. 10 yards away a car starting up it’s engine as the headlights illuminate the street. And the outdoor incandescent bulbs start lighting up… I stop in my tracks. It’s still the same. I look up to the sky and i’m just smiling, i utter

”Ya Allah, you don’t have to do this anymore. I’m a big boy now. I’m not that scared now… Or maybe. But Thank You so much. Thank You.”

and as i continue walking towards home i hit this moment of enlightenment. Allah and I, we both know i still need it. I’m still afraid of things, i’m still weak… He knows me better than myself. I’m grateful to all the things he does for me and keeps doing them regardless. Alhamdulillah.
This is just of the little things he does. I dare count the major ones.

Posted by Wordmobi

To The Moon; Review

To The Moon.

Personally i love indie games and i’ve played a good load of indie titles before. They all have this immense sense of a creative reservoir from everyday people that just makes them more awesome. I worked on a pet-project videogame of my own and i can honestly tell you it’s fun. Eventhough mine was just a fun thing i made for a community on Facebook, though it lacked an actual plot, i really enjoyed making it.

Moving on, To The Moon by Free Bird Games. I heard of that title at an online forum while discussing indie titles and someone highly recommended this one. It was on hold since forever and one fated night i got tired of Assassin’s Creed and decided to give this game a try.

Boy was i in for a treat.

16 Bit. Gorgeous Art. Dynamic Display. Colorful Pixelated Settings. Tongue in cheek humor. Crisp and an Interesting dialogue and an insanely novel concept! To The Moon had me EMOTIONALLY hooked from the minute i got used to the controls.

It’s not exactly a videogame, it’s more of an interactive story. I always pondered over the possibility that games have the potential to convey more than Movies and Books and TTM assured me i was right.
(Now that i think about it, my game’s not exactly a game either)
So, To The Moon is brilliantly executed and elegantly composed. From the setting to the art and sound effects, it’s a superb effort.

The entire story spans over 3 acts.
The playable characters are Dr. Eva Rosalene and Dr. Neil Watts. They’re professionals from an organization which grants people one last wish before they die. Consider them helping you leaving the realm of the living with a light heart and a feeling of content that you accomplished something you always dreamed of.

The nitty gritty is that the Doctors enter the patients subconscious and analyze their memories and stimulate the desire to fulfill their life’s goal or the one aspiration they have by reconstructing their memories. So the patient ultimately dies with the new memories where he did fulfill his life’s goal. Novel, right?

This time however the Doctors are contracted by an Old man by the name of John. And His last wish is to go to the moon. The Doctors get much more than they bargained for and the little surpises and plot twists keep you on your toes.

The plot is superb! It’s thick, lively, vibrant and tear jerking at times. The sound track though lacking in numbers is still pretty awesome. All in All this game is stellar! Probably the best adventure i’ve ever played.
It was complete. I give it a 10/10.
Everything from the well placed bits of humor, the emotional scenes that pull on your heart strings, the unique character personalities, the refrences from pop culture, the moments of glee where you can’t help but smile and Dr Watts’ cynical commentary on the situation is so original, it really left a mark on me.

You won’t ever regret playing this game, trust me! Also the fan art is adorable!

And hey while you’re at it, do check out a favorite human of mine at According To Maryam

She reviews more anime and manga and her thoughts on most subjects are actually pretty interesting. Arguably the content there is less rainbowy than mine, but that’s how life is. It ISN’T rainbows. ;w;