

When People Ask...When People Ask About HomeWhen People Ask...
When people ask about home, I am silent. I have no words to let them hear the way the first drops of monsoon
drum upon the parched heart of Lahore.
When people ask about home, I am bewildered. I have no idea how to make them smell the sweetness of methi in July,
the yellowbrightness of its smile.
When people ask about home, I am ashamed. I think about the woman in the Gucci
sunglasses who called Mukhtaraan Mai
attention-hungry, I mean, poori dunya ko batana zaroori hai
I was raped? Seriously, yaa


Model United Nations - HaibunConsider, this viciously pretty teenage girl in her interestingly off-beat T-shirt that says I ♥ ISRAEL but when she stalks past me I hear her scream into her cell phone I hate being Israel! And then theres him, the college-going delegate from one of the developed nations (cant say which), exhaling plumes of smoke, calmly recollecting how an over-enthusiastic delegate from some developing nation or the other blocked his entire resolution. Fucked him over, he concludes, stubbing out his cigarette in one viciously languid swipe of his wrist.Model United Nations - Haibun
I am sufficiently impressed from my


July '09 Haikuthon31 hai, haiku. I give up.July '09 Haikuthon
30 escapism: chocolate chip ice-cream with Johnny Depp.
29 wringing hands-- syllable counting
grows frustrating.
28 cleaning out old cds-- cringe at every
NSync album.
27 man smashes cola-glass on table. Breaks down; weeps.
26 passing along on sweaty palms; pharmacology flash cards.
25 wind-chime hanging glumly
upon humidity.
24 scratching forearm
scars nonchalantly.
23