Socialist Yuppies 3: The Jihadi

Khasi: A Fulbright scholar, Harvard graduate, Marxist, Teaches marketing for a living.
Khabees: Super rich and good looking, thought he knew everything until he met Khasi.
Khasi and Khabees are loitering outside Chief Burgers Peshawar.

Khabees: Yaar Khasi, what our responsibility is as we are socialist in the bud?

Khasi: The capitalistic model is based on the vilest of all human vices, i.e. greed. It is this greed that acts as the grease that lubricates and turns the wheels of capitalism and it is the overflow of this grease that will result in its ultimate downfall. The socialists should pounce on any weakness in the lines of the enemy and bring capitalism down to its knees. As socialists and communists we represent the future of humanity. So the responsibility is great, we must not cower.

Khabees: That is what I think too, capitalism is greece of society.

Khasi: errr! tell me one thing, how exactly do you reach your conclusions?

Khabees: Oh yaar chore, tell me who is the bestest socialist in this year?

Khasi: Sigh! Well Hugo Chavez is making waves..

Khabees: Is he owning the Hugo Boss company?

Khasi: Huh! You don’t know who Hugo Chavez is?? Do you even watch the news?

Khabees: O yaar my cousin say kay BBC and CNN is Jewish conspiracy, and Geo News is Qadiani conspiracy, so I only watch Star Plus.. very good drama, have you seen“Kyoon key Saas bhi kabhi bahoo thi? ?”

Khasi: huh?!?

Khabees: oh yaar, you know “mother-in-law was once daughter-in-law that’s why??”

Khasi: Are you fricking serious?

Khabees: o chore, yaar…… OYE! Look who is coming on the way… Khasi, meet my cousin from Braadford in Englaand, Faltu Fasadi. Fasadi bhai, this is Khasi my very genius friend.

Fasadi: Asalam o Alaikum Wa Rehmatullah a Wa Barakatuhu.

Khasi: Hey man, whats up?

Fasadi: *FROWN* Astaghfirullah! My brother, is THIS how muslims greet each other?

Khabees: *whispers* Oye Khasi, say walaikum or he beat you up. He beat me up last night.

Khasi: huh!?! Gulp! *whispers* no!.

Fasadi: *FROWN* I await your reply my brother, I sent peace onto you, do you send peace onto me? *rolls up his sleeves*

Khabees: *whispers* bole na!….. or I have to beat you too.

Khasi: errr. Hmmm.. gulp!… Walaikum

Khabees: *whispers* poora! poora!

Khasi: Walaikum salam.

Khabees: *whispers* rehmat ullah! rehmat ullah!

Khasi: *whimper* Walaikum Salam…. Barkat… ullah.

Khabees: O yaar Fasadi bhai jan, Khasi is very modern man but he love Islam very much….. he always turn down the voice of tape during maghreb azan.

Fasadi: *FROWN* This kind of a behavior is tolerable for now, as we need unity in our midst, because the infidel is in our lands. We have to kick him out of our lands first. But once they are kicked, InshaAllah then we turn towards the loose ones in our own society. My dear brother Khasi, if you want to survive in the future Inshallah, you have to get well versed in the ways of Muhammad PBUH Mashallah. May Allah help you in this path JazakAllah bil khair.

Khabees: Oh yaar Fasadi bhai jan, Khasi bhai hate U.S. of Amreeka, hain Khasi, tell him tell him Mashallah.

Khasi: *wince* America…..well the corporations… *gulp*

Khabees: Yes yes, Amreeka is coming down. Hain Khasi? Because it is greedy and resources is very little hain Khasi? Corporation suck oil.. hain? Oye tell him about the greece na yaar.

Fasadi: *FROWN* Astaghfirullah! Only Allah has the knowledge of resources. The infidel knows nothing about resources. Remember the showering of Mon o Salwa from the sky? Jazak-Allah America is going down Inshallah because, Allah has promised in the Quran that Muslims will rule the world Inshallah. Until that day, Jazak Allah, Jihad will continue. Mashallah.

Khabees: Oh acha, tobah tobah…Oye! Fasadi bhai jan, you know Boss Hugo Jahaiz? Khasi call him best socialist of this year.

Fasadi: *FROWN* Who!?

Khasi: *clears his throat* He means Hugo Chavez.

Fasadi: Ah! Chavez, well he is an infidel with the courage to see the light. He offered help to brother Nasrullah. He is a man of great courage. The great satan has enemies in every corner of the world. And Hugo Chavez is one of its enemies.

Khasi: Yes! The imperialistic USA has to be stalled and Hugo Chavez is doing a great job by threatening to choke the imperialistic juggernaut at its source, that is by threatening to deny it of its blood – oil. Communists and Muslims are together in this fight against the imperialistic hegemony of America.

Fasadi: ahem! Allah has specifically told us Muslims, not to trust the Jews and the Christians. Ultimately we are alone in this fight against the infidel Mashallah. And the infidel might come in different clothes.

Khasi: Well actually.. Marx was a Jew, who rejected Judaism.

Khabees: Mashallah, if someone had does tableegh to him, tu maybe Marx be muslim as well, hain Fasadi bhai?

Fasadi: Jazak Allah, all humans are born Muslims brother Khabees. All humans have promised Allah that they would be muslims in this world Inshallah. The infidel has forgotten his promise Lanatullah bil kazibeen.

Khabees: So Marx can be muslim hain? Oye Khasi, Jews do khatnay? you know…. cutting of small-urine place?

Khasi: Look Fasadi, America today is challenged by leaders with balls. And these leaders are either muslim, e.g. Ahmedinijad, Nasrullah, etc or they are communists like Castro, Chavez, and Kim. They are on the same side.

Khabees: Yes Marx was muslim in the inside. Hain Khasi?

Fasadi: But. I remember the infidel Marx saying that religion is the “opium” for the masses? Na-ooz-billah will a Muslim ever say that?

Khabees: HAIN!? Astaghfirullah! What he say Khasi? He call all muslim, charsi?

Khasi: May be…. Marx never understood Islam, he was more aware of the bigger enemy. The capitalist overlord, the vampire who would suck humanity dry. May be he never had time to study the religion of peace. Maybe no one invited him to Islam. The responsibility also falls upon the muslims of that time, no?

Khabees: Fasadi bhai? What you say?

Fasadi: Hmmm. It maybe true…. But you never know. An infidel is an infidel.

Khasi: Listen Brother Fasadi, today North Korea and Iran have pushed the capitalistic monster to the ground. Iran is buying time till it detonates a nuclear device. North Korea is keeping America busy. Once Iran does detonate, then Iranian nukes can be transported to Cuba. Then the whole of the US will be in the target of the poor people of the world. Another missile crisis, but this time blood will be spilt. And we shall rise from the ashes.

Fasadi: Allah o Akbar. Brother Khasi this is a great plan.

Khasi: Yes comrade Fasadi, we have the same goal.

Khabees: This is great news yaar mashallah, what happen after we throw nuclear missile on America?

Khasi: Comrade Khabees, The poor will take control of this planet. Finally the majority will be the authority. The capitalist, the industrialist, the bloodsucker, the vermin is going to pay for all his atrocities. There will be no labels, no brands… utopia forever.

Fasadi: Brother Khabees, Sharia will reign supreme all over the Muslim world, and the non Muslim world will either pay jaziya or become muslim. The prostitute, the nudist, the musician will all be brought to justice. The western way of life will cease to exist. Inshallah It would be a win win for the muslims jazak Allah bil khair.

Khabees: SubhanAllah, Muslim poor will become rich by jaziya from the infidel, and Micheal Jackson head will cut off for doing sex with small boy. Allah o Akbar.

Khasi: I don’t see any conflict between communism and Islam, both believe in freedom, social justice, equal rights and of course peace.

Fasadi: Jazak Allah

Khabees: Mashallah *claps*

Fasadi: So my brother Khasi, what do you do?

Khabees: O yaar let me tell you, Khasi bhai is very good teacher of marketing and he make very good add for Coca Cola in Peshawar. And Khasi, Fasadi bhai is spending life in service of Islam in Bradfordistan. Look at Allah’s miracle he get pay from Tony Blair for sit at home and study Quran. InshaAllah.

Khasi: ahem! Yeah… hey did you guys know that the sign of freedom struggles the AK-47 was invented by a Communist?

Khabees: Yes, very good gun… favorite gun of Afghan mujahideen.

Khasi: oh! yaar Khabees, the Afghan jihad was an American conspiracy.

Khabees: yeah, bilkul bilkul

Fasadi: *FROWN* EXCUSE ME? What did you say?

Khabees: hain!!??! Me? Oh acha, oye khasi… WHAT DID YOU SAY?

Khasi: *gulp* well yaar, if we are rejecting American interferences then the Afghan War was the biggest and the most devastating American conspiracy of the last century. Pakistan has still not recovered from its violent legacy. Let’s not be hypocritical about it.

Fasadi: *FROWN* HYPOCRITICAL!?! Look who’s talking? Mr Marx the professor of Marketing??? Do you have any SHAME!?

Khabees: HAIN?!? WHAT? KYA? SHAME?

Khasi: *clears his throat* At least I am not living on the scraps thrown to me by some “infidel” government.

Fasadi: ASTAGHFIRULLAH!!! ALLAH FEEDS ME UNDERSTAND! *punches Khasi in the face*

Khabees: TOLD YOU I WILL BEAT YOU *kicks Khasi in the groin*

First published on under my pen name Adam Khan on March 27 2008

Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 5:28 pm  Leave a Comment  


Arsalan’s mother had cooked his favorite dish today; it was kalool (red beans) with lamb mutton. The beans were from the mountains of Dir, and were special, the reason being the archaic methods of agriculture still in practice there. These methods resulted in a low yield, but the taste of the produce was unrivaled. The mutton was from Namak Maandi – “Charsi Tikka Shop” made sure that the lambs that they slaughtered were young and their meat was left in the freezer for a week or two. They wouldn’t sell raw meat to anyone, but then Arsalan was one of their regular customers.

He took the dastarkhwan and set out for the tanoor. Four rotis were enough; one for his mom, one for his dad and two for him.

He hurriedly wrapped up his rotis and paid the tandoor wala. When he turned around he saw an elderly man sitting on the foot path. The Baba Jee seemed to be in his 80s; white beard, frail frame, thick spectacles, and was holding onto an old walking stick.

Unlike the people around him, Arsalan paused for a moment to take a look at this feeble and helpless man. The Baba Jee was breathing heavily and would break into a loud cough followed by a spitting of mucus. For some reason, Arsalan felt guilty for the Baba Jee’s condition; it was as if he had something to do with the old man’s misery. He shrugged these thoughts off and hurriedly took a roti out of his dastarkhwan. With a big smile on his face he handed the roti to Baba Jee. The old man looked up at him and without even acknowledging his gesture, took the roti and shoved it in a white shopping bag that already held four or five more.

Arsalan knew that the Baba Jee needed more than just a roti.

What can I do? he thought to himself; a voice inside him replied with a plan.

Take him to the hospital first and when he gets better bring him back home. The drawing room has an attached bath with it; the Baba Jee could live there. How much could he eat?

It will be a big Sawab, and it would make Allah really happy. People will talk about it – the whole will become famous for this good deed.

It sounded like a win-win situation, but if only he could convince his father..


When he got back home his mother had already laid the dastarkhwan. She always took extra care in her presentations. There were clay bowls and clay plates as well as wooden serving spoons. There were salad leaves, carrots and onions splashed with vinegar in one bowl, mint chutni made from homemade yogurt with added crushed walnuts in another, spicy tomato chutni along with mango achar from Shikaar Pur, and the luxuriant red bean and lamb mutton curry.

The white dastarkhwan resembled a sprawled out canvas.

But Arsalan still had Baba Jee on his mind.

His mother was waiting to hear her son appreciate her effort.

“Khwand e nishta? (not good?)”, she asked in a worried tone.

“No, no, it’s awesome… it’s just that…..”

“What’s wrong?” asked his father.

“Well.. I… I saw this old man…”. He continued with how he felt about the condition of the old man and how he wanted to bring him home.

“If this was America”, he said, getting worked up, “he would have ended up in a senior citizen home. But THIS, THIS !!! Everything is so messed up here!”

“Heh, well, why don’t you help him out then?” smiled his father.

“You mean we can bring him here!?!?”

“Well no, I mean YOU. Why don’t YOU help him out?”

“Huh!? What can I do, I don’t even have a job! You have all the money. I can’t even…”

“Here’s the deal”, said his father. “Sell your motorcycle and give me the money, then that old man can live the rest of his days here. Deal?”

Arsalan gulped.

His father peered over his glasses with a wry smile.

“You don’t have to make a decision right now, you can tell me tomorrow.”

Arsalan stopped eating, and his mom cursed her husband for ruining her son’s dinner.

Arsalan was oblivious to this one sided altercation between his parents. The guilt that he felt outside the tanoor was back, gnawing at his heart again. His motorcycle could generate enough money on which the Baba Jee could die a peaceful , not like an unwanted rabid dog on a footpath.

But then the motor cycle – he loved his motorcycle! He got it after such a long wait. All his friends had the same model and the same color. Every Chaand Raat and 14th of August, he would take out its silencer and race down the GT road and do wheelies in Hayatabad. He couldn’t think of any friend of his who didn’t have a motorcycle at least. Losing it meant he would completely lose his current social standing.

But then the Baba jee….

Caught in this internal struggle he picked up the remote and turned the on.

ARY NEWS: There was a report on a recent addition to the Navy. An agusta class submarine.

Agusta!?! thought Arsalan. Sounds good. Army sure is getting better! Screw !

He smiled and changed the channel.


CNBC: Mujahid Barailvi was engaged in a heated argument with Imran Khan.

“Jamhooriyaat! Haqiqi jamhoriyaat!!”, demanded the passionate Khan.

Yes, thought Arsalan, Musharraf is the root cause of all this strife. is the only solution. No wonder we are such a pathetic nation! Sharfu! Kuta murdabaad!


GEO : Amir Liaquat Hussain was going on and on about the importance of nimaaz – how essential it was and how sad it was that people missed this imperative ritual. One of Amir’s guests spoke about the importance of building mosques and how one would be rewarded for such a deed.

Arsalan made a promise to himself – before he died, he would have to build at least one mosque. Ah, Jannat! That would be the life.

He smiled again.


GEO News: Hamid Mir was showing the destruction of Lebanese apartment complexes. He showed some half burnt Qurans as well as a totally demolished mosque.

Arsalan gritted his teeth and clinched his fists.

One mushroom cloud over Tel Aviv and all the problems of this world will be solved!


PTV: A respected intellectual of yesteryear was explaining the difference between a Kafir and a Muslim in their propensity to be bay haya (lewd).

“Kafir”, said the old sage “is like the joti (shoe), it doesn’t matter how muddy a joti gets. It is destined to be like that. But the Muslim is like a Pagri (head gear), it is to be placed on the head, and even a little bit of mud on it would be a source of shame.”

SubhanAllah! Wah wah!


B4U : The song was Ishq Kamina. For the next two minutes Arsalan could not take his eyes of Aishwariya’s navel.

Shahrukh just melts into the background in this one, he thought.




Indus : Fasi Zaka and Nadeem Farooq Paracha were lamenting the rise of the Cola culture in the Pakistani industry.

Hmmm, thought Arsalan, is there any Pepsi left in the fridge or did dad drink it all?


Khyber : A girl was dancing around in man’s clothes wielding an AK 47.

“Beware of me”, she sang. “I have a blood feud. I won’t kill you with my eyes but instead with my machine (AK-47)..”

Arsalan cursed himself for buying that wretched shotgun. It doesn’t matter how loud it is, it just isn’t as sexy as an AK-47 with a folding butt..


BBC : Rick Stein was taking a baking dish out of the oven. The meat looked awesome as it crackled under the weight of Rick’s knife.

“Roasted belly of pork with rosemary potatoes” said the beaming chef.

“Akh, thoo!” spat Arsalan, as his stomach gave a loud growl.


BBC PRIME: Jeremy Clarkson was test driving the Ferrari Enzo “ORGASMIC! DIVINE!….. I AM…. A !!!!” screamed Clarkson.

Arsalan had never felt more like a mere mortal.


Arsalan dozed off….


He was in the mosque that he had built and Amir Liaquat Hussain was leading the prayer – strangely, they were the only two people there. As soon as Amir said the final salam, Arsalan heard footsteps behind him.

It was Aishwariya and she had an AK-47 slung across her shoulder. She bit her lip at him, and suddenly a song started playing in the background. For some odd reason the lyrics were Main kamina, main kamina!

The two of them stepped out onto the veranda of the mosque and started dancing.

In a corner Rick Stein was making chapli kababs.

“Minced Israeli meat, with a splash of American bone marrow” he said proudly.

“Jazak Allah!!” said Arsalan as he wrapped his arm around Aishwariya’s back and pulled her close.

The two of them started walking towards the exit; he could see his Ferrari Enzo, parked right outside the gate.

Suddenly Baba Jee appeared in the gate of the mosque.

Arsalan felt uneasy.


And the Baba Jee was gone.

First published on under my pen name Adam Khan on 17th of October 2006

Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 5:08 pm  Leave a Comment  

Socialist Yuppies 2: Hanging Crowd


Khasi: A Fulbright scholar, Harvard graduate, Marxist, Teaches marketing for a living.
Khabees: Super rich and good looking, thought he knew everything until he met Khasi.

At a Dunkin’ Donuts outlet in Islamabad

Khasi: The problem with Peshawar in particular and in general is that we are under the iron grip of the Mullah, religious extremism is seen as a virtue and simple pleasures of life like dance and are banned under the puritanical interpretation that is being enforced upon us. The total absence of leftist politics is providing the mullah with a level playing field and he is changing the norms of this society.

Khabees: Exactly my point, we need the dance parties in Peshawar.

Khasi: The main benefit of such activities is that it opens up the society as a whole and prepares it for integration into the global culture. is one that any and every nation in the world understands. Besides this up gradation of our international image, these parties help people to pursue their own sexual preferences and as such helps people like gays and lesbians to come out of the closet, something that the Mullah doesn’t want happening in the society.

Khabees: That is what I was talking about. All Mullah are homosexual in childhood, their heads should be chopped off.

Khasi: errrr okay…. Is your friend going to call or not?

Khabees: Tu hosla ker yaar, eat another donut *bzzzzzz bzzzzzzzz* Oh! talking of green eyes devil here he is.

*Khabees talking on his mobile*

Khabees: Biryanii sahibbbb, we are here in your city brother. Where do we go? Acha acha thank you jigar we will be there. See you then hain. Okay yo, laters alligators.

Khasi: Who is this Biryani?

Khabees: His name is Bubber Sher Biryani… bohat chutiya insaan hai. He is from Peshawar, Magar he is in in Islamabad’s hanging crowd… you know, party people. One thing about him, he constantly spits in your face when he is talking. So you have to keep smiling even when he is doing that.

Khasi: Nice name, has he got any chicks?

Khabees: No the chicks has got him. Ahahahahaha. *ahem* what I am saying is dat he would not let any of his chicks go. But he loves to showing them off, and that is where our chance happens. *Rubs his hands together*

Khasi: Yes, Islamabadi babes can never resist Peshawari studs. *evil laugh*

Khabees: Especially the ones with the Gul Agha wali charas. *pats his pocket*

Khasi: Shush! Man, Big Brother is listening.

Khabees: Hain? Magar bhai jan is in Lundon.

Khasi: *Sigh* LISTEN man, first thing first its London, not Lundon. And the other thing is that when the girls come, you just keep smiling your pretty smile and let me do the talking. OKAY?

Khabees: ub aisee bhi koi baat nahi hai. I have had girlfriends too acha jee. *pout*

Khasi: errr yeah, the one who had a crush on Ajay Devgan?

Khabees: *Gulp*

Khasi: listen man, we are moving up in life, you have got to adapt to new things, just sit back and relax while the maestro is at work.

Khabees: *Nod*

Khasi: okay now let’s get going.

*A house in a posh neighborhood in Islamabad. Loud and dim lights*

Khabees: Fuck Man!! This is life, when will Peshawar be this maad-run?

Khasi: Soon man soon…. We offer the best charas in that must account for something. *Another evil laugh*

Khabees: Yeah man, OH LOOK there is Biryani, lets meet the bhainchood.

Biryani: Hellooooo, Helloooooooo, Hellooooooooooooooooo

Khabees: What is up my knee-ger?

Khasi: *growl*

Khabees: *Blush* aaa ahem, errr Biryani bhai, this is my good friend Khasi from Peshawar.

Biryani: AKHAAA!! Khashi. Aap shay milnay ka mujhay bara Ishfaq tha. *splutter splutter* At lashtly we have meaten.

Khabees: hahahahaha Ishfaq nahi hota Ishtiyaaq hota hai chutiyay.

Biryani: Oye, tu nay palty may rehna hai ya nahi hain? You third world, third glade pelson. *splutter splutter*

Khabees: Acha Acha meray baap. Tu jo kahay theek hai, bus?

Biryani: heh, chall theek hay *splutter*, she you Khashi. *splutter* Enjoy the evening. I will shpeshally put on Shakila for you.

*Both Khasi and Khabees wipe their faces*

Khasi: Who the fuck is Shakila?

Khabees: I think he meant Shakira, hahahahaha.

*A chick passes right in front of them*

Khasi: my o my, check out that denim my brother.

Khabees: Shit mara, Why did I wear my new jeans, you think I should tear mine quickly quickly?

Khasi: NO! listen, you go and start talking to her I will join you guys when you are in the flow. This is your training ground Khabees, just go for it, JUST DO IT.

Khabees: *gulp* YES. training! Fauji training!! okay. Ahemm

*Khabees walks towards the Islamabadi chick muttering “just do it, just do it.”*

*Loud in the back ground*

Khabees: ahem, excuse me!

*Chick keeps dancing*

Khabees: EXCUSE ME!!

Chick: huh? Yes?

Khabees: My name is Khabees, I belong to Peshawar.

Chick: Yeah? so?

Khabees: Do you have wrist watch?

Chick: HUH? Yeah?

Khabees: Will you give me some time??

Chick: OH fuck off!!

*Khabees runs towards Khasi*

Khabees: *panting* oye khasi, oye khasi, yaaaaaar bachi phans gai yaar.

Khasi: huh? Seriously? What did she say?

Khabees: *pant pant* she said “fuck you.”

Khasi: *SIGH* I told you NOT to talk to them, you are cramping up my style man..

Khabees: But butt..

Khasi: NO BUTTS. Sheeesh! Man, just stand back and let them come to us.

*Khabees pouts and looks longingly at that great piece of denim*

*After an hour of blink less staring*

Khasi: *frustrated* these shallow bourgeois bitches, time for plan B, take out the joints.

Khabees: Hain? Kiss kay joints??

Khasi: DAMN! Khabees, whats wrong with you? The charas wali K-2 you dumb fuck.

Khabees: oh acha acha, tu aisa bole na.

Khasi: Now listen you have to blow the smoke as far as u can, lets stench up the place they will come crawling on their knees.

*After four cigarettes of pure Gul Agha Marka chars, and not even a single girl interested*

Khabees: *dizzy* Khasi, yaar I think I am drunk.

Khasi: huh? We haven’t had a single can yet, what are u talking about?

Khabees: o nahi yaar, main charas pee ker drunk ho gaya hoon. Haiiii

Khasi: Chup chup, Bubber Sher is coming this way, act all cool.

Biryani: Showw!, whats happenin my dawgs? *splutter splutter*

Khabees: We want girls, GIRLS!!!! I say.

Biryani: SHUT UP! *SPLUTTER* Am I looking like pimp daddy to you? HAIN?

Khabees: Tu shut up kameenay, give me girls or I break your face.

Biryani: Hain!?!? break mine face?? HAAN MINE FASHE? *SPLUTTER SPLUTTER*

Khabees: Why you throw spitting in my face? Kuttay!

*Khabees spits on Biryani and then hides behind Khasi*

Biryani: huh? *growl* LUB NAWAZ!! GULAM RASHOOL!! Bahir phainko issay. And Khashi you get out as well. OUT OUT I SHAY!!! *splutter splutter*

*Khasi and Khabees sit stoned in their car, driving back to Peshawar*

Khabees: Bayghairat loag, this is not how u treat guests hain Khasi?

Khasi: heh fucking Punjabis, bayghairats. All they do is fart and dance.

Khabees: I think saved us from all the gandi larkis of Islamabad. I was disgusted with that place when I got there man. Mera tu dil kharab ho raha tha. These people don’t even keep roza during Ramazan you know. Very disgusting.

Khasi: Yeah man, those girls would have been all over us if we had lit one more joint, a few of them noticed us by the 3rd one.

Khabees: Allah maaf karay, what bayghairat people mara, how can they let their dance like that? And I wanted to kick Biryani’s butt, but then I thought that Holy Prophet (P.B.U.H.) always forgave his dushmans. Afoo and Durguzar you know. These people will burn in hell because na mahrums are not allowed to dance together in . I have seen it in the Quran.

Khasi: Thank Peshawar is safe from such filth.

Khabees: *Contented Smile* Alhumdullilah! We are not hypocrites like them.

First published on under my pen name Adam Khan on August 6th 2006.

Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 1:05 pm  Leave a Comment  

A Desi Dilemma

With a contented smile Darya Khan beamed at the hodgepodge of houses and shops from the safety of his window seat in the airplane. He couldn’t wait to be with his kinfolk and walk proudly among his Muslim and Pathan brethren.

With a jerk the plane landed and despite repeated requests from the

air hostesses as well as the pilot, most of Darya’s brethren got up from their seats and tried to shove past each other in order to reach the closed gate of the plane that was still in motion.

Still smiling, Darya woke up his 10 year old son, to tell him that they were back home, back to the N.W.F.P. His son was taken aback by this sudden disorderly outbreak, and he was further confused by his father’s beaming smile, wondering what exactly made him so happy. But his father had more than enough reasons to be contented.

Darya Khan was a Pathan from the tribal belt of N.W.F.P. He came to the United States during the early 90s. The beginning days were really tough for him, but thanks to the co-operation among the fledgling community he was able to get better paying jobs and cut his expenses down as well.

Darya Khan’s turned him into a workaholic, with a diligent routine and negligible expenses he was soon able to buy a taxi of his own. From that point his fortunes took a turn and within a span of 15 years he was the owner of a grocery store. Soon he arranged for his wife to be brought to the U.S.

Before long he was the proud father of a son as well as a worried father of a daughter. Ever since the birth of Nabeela, Darya had been caught in a very dilemma. What happens when she grows up?

He knew that he had to go back to , but it was “when” that he was confused about. Although he had done really well, he still lived in an apartment and drove only a Toyota Corolla. The problem with that was that, he wanted more; he wanted the great American dream, a suburban house with a white picket fence and a big SUV. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before he would be able to buy all these things, but at what cost? At the cost of his ghairat?

“What if I have all these things but my daughter turns out to be like these American girls?” He would say to himself “Na, Na Tobah Tobah. Its not worth it then.”

It was this squabble inside of him that was tearing him apart. One day coming back from his store he saw his ten year old son Yasir talking to the neighbor’s daughter. He frowned and quickened his pace, the girl’s name was Sally and she was the only daughter of a lesbian couple. In Darya Khan’s book of this was as bad an influence as there ever could be.

Suddenly, Sally hugged Yasir and then kissed him on the cheek. Darya Khan’s heart sank as all his worries materialized in front of his eyes. He was horrified at the scene. What if it was his own daughter was doing that to some guy.

“THE KHAR BACHIYA!!! (You son of a donkey)” Roared Darya Khan as he slapped Yasir across the face.

Sally screamed and ran up stairs, Yasir ran after her.

Darya Khan stumbled on Sally’s skateboard.

Both Sally and Yasir locked themselves inside Sally’s apartment while Darya Khan pounded on the door. One of Sally’s mothers called the police and Darya Khan was arrested.

The legal proceedings astounded Darya, he felt helpless. What a bayghairat system? But he swallowed his pride and bore the brunt of his action. As soon as things had settled down, Darya sold his store, his apartment and with his said good bye to America for ever.

Darya had come back to Peshawar after 15 years and he couldn’t wait to see his brothers and his cousins. An entourage of about 25 men and boys had come to receive him on the airport. With garlands and tight hugs they welcomed him, and in a convoy of cars and pick up trucks they left for their village.

He was amazed at the way that things had changed in Peshawar. The traffic jams, the new buildings, the beards, the billboards, and yes the billboards with defaced !?!?

“Why have they done that?” He asked his cousin Younis Khan.

“This is a very good thing Lala jee, the Jews and the Hindus want to corrupt our morals, but Mashallah the MMA has foiled their plans.” He said proudly.

For the first time in his life, Darya Khan found himself guilty of having a liberal opinion and liberal in his subconscious had always been synonymous with bayghairat. He moved uneasily in his seat as he forced himself to agree with Younis Khan.

Darya Khan’s village had not changed much in its outlook, but the villagers had definitely changed in their appearance. To his horror Darya Khan discovered that he was the only clean shaven man in the whole village. His brothers were very cross with him for coming to the village without a beard. They barred him from leaving the Hujra (the men only section of the house) till his beard grew back.

Darya’s son Yasir was also having trouble fitting in; his elder cousins gave him an AK-47 as a welcome present. Yasir gave his father a perplexed look as in school he had always been told that guns were bad. Darya Khan’s nod of approval came as a surprise to Yasir, he picked up the gun and looked innocently at his cousins. One of his cousins who was Yasir’s age demonstrated how to load the gun and fired a few shots in the air. Yasir clung to his dad in fear and started crying.

After two weeks of self imposed imprisonment, and when his stubble started resembling a beard, Darya decided to pay a visit to his ageing cousin Khan Lala.

Khan Lala was a local celebrity and had had a somewhat “full” life. Over the course of his 70 years of life he had managed to kill a total of twelve men. He still cherished the memory of each of his murders and was well respected for his exploits as well as his short temper.

That day Khan Lala’s hujra had all of its regulars; these included the yes-men of his and his close relatives who still owed him for avenging their murdered brothers or fathers. Almost everyone had a white beard and with a hint of grey in his beard, Darya Khan didn’t feel himself that out of place.

The whole gathering rose up to greet Darya Khan, but he ran towards Khan Lala and stopped him from getting up. Khan Lala hugged his cousin, after which Darya Khan individually hugged everyone else. All of them had the same complaint Darya was either too busy or too rich to meet them. With bombardment from every side, all Darya could do was smile his fake smile and blush uncontrollably.

Finally Khan Lala changed the topic and asked him about things at home and how Yasir liked the village. With the pleasantries exchanged it wasn’t long before the topic changed to international politics.

“So how did u like America?” asked Khan Lala

“A nation of bayghairats” replied Darya, nodding his head in disapproval.

“Well what can we expect from Kafirs?” asked Khan Lala ” They have to be bayghairats because they have no Eman.”

“Bay Shuck Bay Shuck” chanted the chorus of yes-men.

“But there are bigger bayghairats than these Kafirs” said Khan Lala looking at everyone in the audience “Ask me who?”

“Who are they?” came a mix of voices

“It is YOU, it is ME, it is everyone who has said the Kalima Shahadah” he said in a calm voice “Ask me how so?”

“How so?” came a much synchronized reply

“because they make BETTER WEAPONS THAN US” Screamed Khan Lala

“Look at their inventions, they made grenades, they made Klashnikov, they made atom bum” contined Khan Lala “What do we make? replicas? that dont even work properly?”

Khan Lala stopped for a breath and then said,”Ask me how they invented their weapons”

“How did they invent them?” asked Darya Khan before anyone else could.

“Heh. They learnt it from the Holy Quran.” said Khan Lala as he beamed at everyone, daring them to disagree with him.

“Subhan Allah, Subhan Allah” came the reply.

“They used OUR Quran to make air planes and atom bombs and then they use it against us” said Khan Lala “Arent we the bayghairat ones? We should have had all this , but we gave it to them. Just because we are too lazy to read the Quran.”

“But how did they learn it from the Quran?” Asked a confused Darya Khan.

“Well how else do you think they came up with it?” Asked Khan Lala in a stern voice

“mmm gulp!” went Darya Khan

“I will tell you how” said Khan Lala,”when the Mongols conquered Baghdad, they threw all the books of Muslims in the sea. When the British heard that, they immediately sent their ships and took all the books of with them. The Quran has survived because of all the hafiz-a-Qurans, if it weren’t for them we would have lost the Quran as well, BUT we were lucky to only loose the translations and not the real book”

Khan Lala looked again for approval from his audience and it came in waves.

“That is why we have become their slaves” finished a saddened Khan Lala.

“Astaghfirullah! Lala jee, What are you saying?” asked Khan Lala’s younger brother Younis Khan

“Allah has put everything in this world to serve the Muslims,” he explained “These Kafirs are serving us by inventing things.”

With questioning gazes from every side, Younis continued his sermon.

“We are destined to rule these Kafirs, the Kafirs in turn are destined to serve us. The Kafirs are doing their duty by inventing new things to facilitate the life of the Muslim. But it’s the Muslim who has overlooked his duty to conquer the Kafir and impose Sharia in this world.”

He stopped for a breath and then continued “So you are right when you say that we Muslims are bayghairats but we are definetly not their slaves, compare our society with theirs look at their and then at ours, in no way can we be considered their slaves.”

“That is so true” added Darya Khan “Their level of morality is that of animals, they have no haya in them.”

One of Khan Lala’s oldest friends Gulzar Shah had always been intrigued by the west, especially their sexual freedoms. He pounced on this opportunity and said “Well Darya Khana, how about telling us a garma garam qissa (story) from America.”

The whole gathering broke into a loud laugh at the lewd tone in Gulzar’s voice.

“Well” said a blushing Darya Khan “The building in which I lived had two who were married to each other.”

There was a moment’s pause and then the whole crowd broke into another loud laugh.

Darya Khan repeatedly said qasams of every sort but to no avail.

“Well you didn’t have to make a qissa up” said Gulzar Shah wiping tears from his eyes. “All you had to do was to say that you didn’t have a qissa.”

“How can be married to each other?” asked a bewildered and highly amused Khan Lala.

“I swear they were married they even had a daughter” replied an exasperated Darya Khan

The crowd broke into an even louder laugh.

Suddenly Khan Lala realized that there were outsiders in the gathering who were laughing at his cousin’s expense.

gave way to honour as Khan Lala cleared his throat and looked at everyone with a solemn gaze. The laughing stopped immediately.

A flustered Darya Khan continued, “Well their have had enough of their men, they have had so much sex with men that men can not satisfy them anymore.”

This point made sense and the audience became more attentive.

“So that’s why” continued Darya Khan “Their have started to lust after their while their men are going after each other”

With this analogy everything became clear. As a loud Ah! Of epiphany was followed by a *tut tut* of disappointment, which was in fact concealing extreme inquisitiveness.

Darya Khan avenged his earlier humiliation by ending his story and staring at the ground. He knew that they wanted to know more but he wanted to be asked for it.

“I still don’t get one thing” asked a confused Gulzar Shah “How did they conceive a daughter?”

“Well” said Darya Khan “One of the got divorced from her husband and brought her daughter along with her.”

“That bayghairat let her have his daughter!?!??” asked a disgusted Khan Lala.

“Yes,” replied Darya Khan ”A husband cant do anything there, if you even lay a hand on your wife they would put you in jail”

“HUH!” came a unified statement of shock from everyone

“What INJUSTICE!” exclaimed Khan Lala

“Heh, and then they call them selves civilized and modern” sighed a gloating Younis Khan “Is this modernity? If a man can’t discipline his wife then he is definitely not a man.”

“You know, they say that if didn’t have noses, they wouldn’t mind eating cow dung” added a thoughtful Gulzar Shah.

“Woman is a fitnah” said Khan Lala in a profound manner “If you don’t give her a regular thrashing now and then, she will ruin your life.”

“Their daughter was a slut as well” said Darya Khan with gritted teeth “I caught her hugging my son.”

“Oh Kherrr” came a cheer from everyone “Mashallah! Yasir Khan has grown as well”

Darya Khan laughed with them and for the first time he saw that whole incident in a different light.

“Actually this is why I left that country; it is no place to bring up a daughter.” said Darya Khan, but he regretted saying it as soon as he had said it, because to mention his own daughter in a discussion of this sort was a big bayghairati.

Younis Khan came to the rescue of his cousin and said,”No! tell us about Yasir was this the only girl he ensnared?”

Everyone laughed out loudly at the innocent image of Yasir making out with American sluts of his own age.

“So how is he now?” asked a concerned Khan Lala “I have heard that he doesn’t like guns?!?!”

“Ha Ha” went a sheepish Darya Khan, “Actually the schools there teach them that guns are bad and stuff. He will get over it.”

“You have to make sure that he does” said Khan Lala “What is a man without a gun eh?”

He looked around at the approving nods and the instinctive curling of the moustaches.

“Hey!!, Did ever you give him those Polio drops?” asked Younis Khan in a concerned tone
“Errr Yes…” replied Darya Khan
“Na KANA!! (Oh damn!)” came a united reply.

“These polio drops are given to make our male impotent, it is a Jewish conspiracy.” Blurted Younis Khan.
Thus explaining Yasir’s aversion towards guns.

Khan Lala glared at his younger brother.

“Those drops are for only, the Jews wont give it to American .” said Khan Lala ”Besides, he is more horny than everyone in this village, look at what he did to the girl with two mothers and no father.”

Everyone broke into another loud laugh.

The servants served black tea along with the traditional Pathan sweets, these were the famous brown mithai from Rajar, as well as the heavy “Pairay” from Mardan. Darya loved both of these and told Khan Lala how he had missed them.

Darya Khan loved talking about Jewish Conspiracies a habit from his good old days, and Younis Khan was the village’s expert on it. So it wasn’t long before the discussion again focused on the latest Zionist conspiracies.

“So, is it true that the Jews are making our impotent?” asked a concerned Darya Khan.

“The Jews you see are the worst people on this planet” replied Younis “They just want to kill all the Muslims.”

“These mobile phones are invented by Jews” interjected Khan Lala “Ask me why?”
“WHY?” asked a confused Gulzar Shah as he reached for his own mobile phone.
“To bring into our mosques!!” exclaimed Khan Lala
“OH!” came a unified reply as Gulzar Shah clutched his beard

“Well don’t worry” said Younis Khan “You can replace the with an Azan.”

“Astaghfirullah! Even that is a Jewish conspiracy” said a beaming Khan Lala as he sipped his tea,“Ask me how?”

“HOW?” asked a bewildered Gulzar Shah as he tugged on his beard

“What if I call you in the middle of the night? What nimaz will you say after Isha? Haan? Answer me?” asked a defiant Khan Lala ”I shot my mobile as soon as I heard about these things. May Allah forgive me for all the calls I have attended. Ameen.”

“Well”, said Gulzar Shah “There is a vibrator option as well….”

“That is specifically for Punjabi Dal Khores” said a giggling Khan Lala “What if I call you in the middle of a nimaz, everyone in the mosque will think that you have farted.”

Everyone older than Gulzar Shah laughed at this joke, while the younger ones tried their best to stifle their laughter.

With all eyes on Gulzar Shah, he knew exactly what to do. He gave his beloved Nokia to one of Khan Lala’s gunmen, and watched as it was smashed into pieces with the butt of a halaal AK-47.

“So” said Khan Lala as he turned towards Darya Khan “Darya Khana! Will any one do something like that in the land of the Kafirs?”

Darya Khan felt so proud to be part of such a gathering, of such a society that would give anything in the name of tradition and . He smiled contentedly at everyone.

“I heard you were moving to Peshawar?” asked Younis Khan
“Yes, I am looking for a house there” replied a smiling Darya Khan.

“WHAT?!?” asked Khan Lala “Whats in Peshawar?”
“Well *gulp*” said Darya Khan “Yasir has to start school again”
“School?” exclaimed Khan Lala “English Medium School??!?”

“Well…. Yes” replied Darya Khan
“Why, did you come back from America then?” asked Khan Lala in a sarcastic tone

Darya gaped like a fish, as he didn’t know what to say.

“Peshawar is not the city that you knew.” said Khan Lala in a much softer tone as he placed his hand on Darya Khan’s shoulder. “It has become a center for all sorts of sexual activities.”

“Just Imagine!! Pathan , PATHAN !!!, driving cars!!, walking around in a dupata!! GOING FOR SHOPPING!!!! Out in the bazaars!!! While their men wait for them in their cars. How different is that from the Americans? Haan? Tell me?” Khan Lala was getting worked up and everyone had to listen intently.
“And its not only that, those filthy Persian speaking Kabulis UGH! Their stand on every corner waiting for a car to stop by. I am telling you Peshawar has become a hellhole, you don’t want to live in that sea of bay hayaee”

There was silence for a minute.

“But… I want him to… to get an .” stammered Darya Khan

“Offcourse! You do, but why teach him the of Quadianis, Jews and Ismailis? All of these English medium schools are built to turn our into Quadianis.” Khan Lala continued with a question “Tell me, do you want to go to Janat?”

“Yes offcourse I do” replied a bewildered Darya Khan

“Then turn him into a Hafiz-e-Quran, he will take you with him to Janat. Forget about this world; forget about these worldly jobs and this lust for material wants. Think about the streams of milk and honey, the furniture of gems and gold, the orchards of fruits, the HOORS and the GHILMANS. Forget about this world, you have enough for this world make your son a hafiz and you will have more than enough for the next world as well”

Khan Lala smiled contently as he saw the glint in Darya Khan’s eyes. He was sure that he would be one of the other people whom Yasir will take with him to Janat.

Darya Khan rushed home after dinner, this was a win win situation he thought. How na�ve was he to put his son into the same vile again. As Khan Lala had so eloquently said “Paatay duniya da” (this world is a temporary phase), Darya Khan hurried home to save himself and his son from the fires of hell.

Yasir was coloring a book that they gave him on the plane. He missed the days when he had so many interesting things to do, and most of all he missed his friends. The kids here were weird.

His mother Shireen was putting oil in her hair and smiling peacefully at her son, she cherished the fact that he didn’t like guns. She knew for sure that he was not going to end up like most young men in her village.

Suddenly the door opened and Darya Khan barged in, Shireen reached for her dupata while Yasir sat up straight.

Darya Khan snatched the coloring book out of Yasir’s hands and tore it into pieces.

“You are not going to read this filth AGAIN, UNDERSTAND?” He screamed.
“Yes… Baba!” answered a confused Yasir.
Shireen wanted to say something but she couldn’t.
Darya Khan turned towards Shireen, and said “Pack all his clothes he is going to school tomorrow.”

And so the very next day, Yasir was carted to a Madrassah near Peshawar. Darya met Yasir’s future teacher. The Molana sahib had a long grey beard, he smiled at Darya but glared at Yasir. With no paperwork Yasir was admitted into the madrassah.


Darya Khan had settled in his village, with his American money he bought some property in Peshawar and rented it out. His income made him the richest man in his village by far. Yasir came home every other weekend, Shireen was pregnant with Darya’s third child and five year old Nabeela had been “reserved” for Khan Lala’s 8 year old grandson. Life was pretty dull and the high point of Darya Khan’s day was his visit to the hujra of Khan Lala. He loved going through Urdu news papers and discussing the latest events with his jingoistic cousins.

When Darya Khan entered the hujra that day, Khan Lala was waving a newspaper in his hand. he showed him a photo and asked “Are these, those neighbors of yours? The two who got married?”

Darya Khan looked at the photo and laughed, it was an lesbian couple and the newspaper had printed the picture in color to show the level of of the society.

“No Khan lala” he replied, ”This is a couple from Europe, there is no shortage of bayghairat people in the west.”

“UFFF!!” exclaimed Khan Lala “If I become the King of America or England I will personally slaughter all of these people. Shukar Alahumdulillah we are not like them.”

Darya Khan laughed and glanced through other news items. One small headline caught his eye.

“RANGEEN MOLVI: Aik molvi apnay kum-sin shagird kay saath rung ruliyaan manata hua pakra gaya.” (A Molvi had been caught red handed frolicking with his underage student)

Next to the headline were the pictures of both the Molvi and his Student.

Darya Khan’s heart sank as the newspaper dropped out of his hands.

First published on on June 29 2006, under my pen name Adam Khan

Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 12:59 pm  Leave a Comment  

Socialist Yuppies


Khasi: A Fulbright scholar, Harvard graduate, Marxist, Teaches marketing for a living.

Khabees: Super rich and good looking, thought he knew everything until he met Khasi.

Somewhere in Peshawar…

Khabees: Yo Khasi what is up man?

Khasi: Nothing much… *yawn*

*Khabees looks all concerned*

Khabees: Did you get enough sleep at night? Chatting is bad for .

Khasi: Ahan.

Khabees: Say some intelligent thing.

Khasi: Socialism is the solution to all problems that the humankind has created over the years and the promised utopia is not that distant a dream, if only the proletariat could rise up and grab the bourgeoisie by the neck and make them pay for the decadence that they have been spreading over the years. has reduced our morality to the level of the Neanderthals we don’t deserve to be called humans, our ways are defying evolution.

Khabees: Hmmm you are right, exactly my point, I am socialist and I am proud of it.

Khasi: *Yawn* Yeah man that’s cool, hey btw I heard they closed down Subway? Is it true?

Khabees: You know Khasi the problem with Peshawar is that we are dead city, so many paindo Pathans. We needs socialism.

Khasi: *Heh heh* waisay the KFC is bound to meet the same , they should offer a lunch deal, that way they will maximize their sales and as a result make the most of their untimely investment in this backward little place. It should specifically target the working professional who has an appetite for good wholesome American . And who can appreciate the effort behind it.

Khabees: Hmmm I thought the same idea. You know my chacha key Sali key friend’s husband is owning the place. Very nice chap, I told him to do that on wed-nus-day. You know the Subway in is selling like a hotcake man. It makes more money than the Pizza hut in Peshawar, yahan per logon ko samajh he nahi aati. Kher chalo lets go there before they close it down.

*Khasi and Khabees walk towards Khabees’s car.*

Khabees: Clean car is sign of sick mind, hain Khasi?? Hehehehe

Khasi: I think the recent growth in manufacturing thanks to the timely leasing facilities provided by the banking sector has opened a gateway for car manufacturers to invest in , in the coming years I am sure Honda will become a second tier brand as the and American car makers will target the Pakistani market and provide good competition to their Japanese rivals.

Khabees: Yes, exactly my point, competition! Honda is Better than Toyota. Very good power steering.

Khasi: *smirk* ahan.

*Khabees gets uncomfortable again, turns on his CD player *

*aja meri gaadi may baith jaa dhish dhish,
aja meri gaadi may baith ja dhish dhish*

Khasi: What the fuck are u listening to man??

Khabees: Huh? Wha? Haaan??

Khasi: Jeeez! Whats wrong with you? You listening to INDIAN!?!? songs???

Khabees: Huh, yes, NO! no marrra my fucking fucked up driver, he is keeping his CD in my CD changer. I will tell daddy to fire him away. I don’t use these bloody two number CDs.

*turns the player off*

Khasi: *heh heh* Soooooo Khabees listens to Indian songs eh??

Khabees: Oh yaaar, bachoon wali batian na kur, I only listen to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the rest is all commercial yaar, I know that, I know…

Khasi: You should try Jethro Tull some time…..

Khabees: Hain? Who?

Khasi: JETHRO Tull.

Khabees: Oh yes yes, I used to hear it when I was in school. Very good songs, great guitaring.

Khasi: Errrr okay.

Khabees: So Khasi how do we make a socialism state?

Khasi: SOCIALIST state.

Khabees: Haan wohi wohi. Aik tu khafa bari jaldi ho jata hai yaar.

Khasi: Listen man, I am a Marxist and Karl Marx is my prophet, so WATCH IT.

Khabees: Huh?? But you said dat you were socialist??

Khasi: Errr? Whats the difference??

Khabees: *blush* Spellings??

Khasi: C’mon man, whats wrong with you? Marxism is a sub-branch of Socialism as advocated by the Great Karl Marx. He drew his thesis from the philosophy of Hegel, the economics of Ricardo and Smith as well as the French Socialism of the 19th century to come up with a critique of society. It has the potential to bring about revolutions and thus it is revolutionary, and also it is based on so that makes it scientific as well.

Khabees: *gulp* he must be Muslim.

Khasi: No he was a Jew who criticized Jews.

Khabees: Exactly my point, that make him a Muslim.

Khasi: HUH!?!? Listen dude, don’t bring into these things.

Khabees: But…. but… you said he was your prophet? How can you have Jew-ey prophet?

Khasi: I did? WHEN DID I SAY THAT? I only believe in Allah and his one last messenger Mohammad. hmm errrr lets not talk about shall we? Gives me indigestion.

Khabees: Phew! Yes yaar we should not discuss things that we do not know about. Allah maaf karay, oye my ami goes to Al Huda academy, she gave me wazeefa for indigestion. Want it?

Khasi: No thanks.

Khabees: Kher don’t worry I will chooof it on your Pepsi, Ami says it works better with sharbats, and Pepsi is a sharbat. Hay na?

Khasi: ?

Khabees: Acha sorry sorry man. We are Marxists, hanging crowd man hanging crowd. You know, party people, Islamabad crowd.

Khasi: Did your brother send you that t-shirt?

Khabees: Konsi wali? The one with the picture of Issa alayhay salaam?

Khasi: Sigh! That’s not Jesus man! Its Che Guevara.

Khabees: Huh? ‘6’ what?

Khasi: CHE GUEVARA!!!! CHE! CHE! CHE! That famous Cuban guerilla

Khabees: No, I think so he looks like man.

Khasi: Sigh!!! *slap on the forehead* he was Fidel Castro’s top lieutenant, I that guy he personified superman; good looks, principled, died for a cause. *sigh* wish I could have been like him. Look around you man, look at this filth, everyone is in this empty pursuit of riches, conformism runs in the blood of this nation, we blindly follow the image set to us by the corporations through their advertising and the Mullah by his loud speakers. The middle man is growing richer and fatter as we watch hopelessly, the MNCs are knocking on our doorstep, this will reach its crescendo and then there will be NOTHING, AND I MEAN NOTHING. The only that us Pakistanis have is that distant faint light of Marxism… that one tiny little that we have *SIGH* waisay what color did he send it in?

Khabees: Pink.

Khasi: PINK!?!

Khabees: Yes man, latest in Paris is pink shirt with white trousers.

Khasi: *MUAHAHHHAHAHA* Yeah for fagots it is.

Khabees: Hain?

Khasi: Are u crazy? You going to wear a PINK Guevara shirt???

Khabees: *Gulp* its made by Guki. Very expensive.

Khasi: Guki??

Khabees: Yes G. U. C. C. I.

Khasi: Hahahahahah Gucci you mean.

Khabees: *blush* nahi man, ho nahi sakta, it has double C in it.

Khasi: Khabees, LISTEN! I teach marketing for a living. I teach around 150 MBAs per year, I know my labels better than anyone else in Peshawar.

Khabees: *impressed* *blushing* waisay I am serious yaar, Mashallah you are bloody genius. *gulp* I wish I was like you, Marxist as well as a Marketing professor. Wah wah, m&m hain?

Khasi: *frown*

Khabees: Oye yaar don’t worry be happy, Allah kher karay ga. We are Marxists, party crowd, Islamabad hanging out. OYE shit oye! Bloody mullahs, why are they gathering outside KFC? Oye shit man they are breaking glasses with sticks. What is wrong with them, iss liyay tu yay mulk taraqi nahi kur sakta. I tell you Khasi these chaps are hypocrites, just simple hypocrites. Let us go to Pizza Hut.

first published on on June 13 2006, under my pen name Adam Khan

Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 12:55 pm  Leave a Comment  

Chore! Chore!

It was mid June, the city of Peshawar had been baking like an oven for the past two and half months. Most scientists were in agreement that it was the El Nino effect, most Mullahs also were in agreement that it was an Azab-e-Elahi, the Ummah in Peshawar was divided between the two effects according to their level of and exposure. For the educated as well as religious masses the resolution to this one was pretty easy, El Nino was actually an Azab-e-Elahi.

In a middle class residential area of Peshawar City, people were gathering outside the shop of Mansoor Roti Wala. Mansoor was a Hindko speaking Peshawari; no one could tell from his accent that he was one. He resented the fact that his father was Hindko speaking, and gave the reference of a distant village to be his own since he was ashamed of his Peshawari origins. Although Mansoor was facing competition from many other tanoors, his roti had a lower content of baking soda. This gave him an edge and he would exploit it by increasing the level of soda on random days and reaping his profits from his faithful customers. Apart from that, low quality flour also provided good healthy income, the dried up rotis were collected and then mashed into a powder, which was called BOORA. The mixing of this boora with regular flour also gave a sizeable margin per roti. The difference between him and the others was that he didn’t do these hanky pankies as often as they did, thus he claimed the higher moral ground. “Da eman barkatoona!” (The blessings of ) he would say under his breath as he looked contentedly at the people gathered at his tanoor.

Among the people was the local Imam, Molana Majid Mobeen Ahmad, he was from the mountains of Dir district and he came to the plains a long time ago to learn the of becoming a Molvi. He had great educational credentials as he graduated from the best Madrasah in the N.W.F.P. (the great Ameer ul Momineen Mullah Umar of the famous Talibans was also among the illustrious alumni of that institute.)

The Molana Sahib was in a hurry; he couldn’t wait to get back home. Actually had finally bestowed him with an Air Conditioner. It was a stroke of as a famous heroine smuggler once said his juma prayers in Molana Sahib’s Mosque. The Great Khan from Jamrud felt a pang of guilt as he turned on the air conditioning in his Land Cruiser. He went straight to the local LG showroom and bought 4 split-level air conditioners for the main hall, the Molana sahib gasped as he realized what had happened. Tears welled up in his eyes as he hugged his rich brother, and compared his gestures with those of Hazrat Usman and other philanthropists in the history of . The middle class regulars at the Mosque smiled jealously as they realized what had happened, the Great Khan had apparently scored big with the Almighty and was set to get houris and palaces for his effort. How they all hated their life, at their inability to do such great deeds. If only they could be like him… Land Cruisers in this life and Houris in the next one.
Since the Khan was never to return, the Molana Sahib helped himself with one of the air conditioners, the and his wife were ecstatic over this latest addition to their house. In the absence of the , the AC had become the of the house, as his would look with amazement at the swinging action of the blades. And listen with disbelief at the magical beeps that the AC would make in response to the remote. He smiled as he thought about his little angels, “Ah! Shukar Allah Shukar!” he said out loud.

Right next to the Molana Sahib was another regular at Mansoor Roti Shop, his name was Akhtar Hussain the local “Deputy Sahib”, he worked as a Deputy Superintendent in the department. Akhtar had had a tumultuous life, he started out as an aspiring teenager in the early 70s, hot headed and intelligent Akhtar always had a different opinion from his friends and relatives, and he was very vocal about it as well. He found words for his dreams when he first heard Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto speak. His life finally had a purpose when he set out on a quest for , But things did not work out as he planned, and after repeatedly being jailed and beaten up during the Zia regime, he gave up on his ideals and moral principles and stooped to the level which would have made him cringe during his jiyala days.

Deputy Sahib had had a pretty good summer; he was appointed the deputy controller for the Intermediate Examinations at Edwardes College Peshawar. The college was the preferred choice for the rich and the affluent of the city; generation upon generation of corrupt bureaucrats accredited their success to the famous (infamous?) C-Group of BA at Edwards College Peshawar. With such a history of glory and fortune, examination duties at Edwardes College were highly sought after in the department. Akhtar Sahib made the most of his stay at the missionary college and was the recipient of some very thick bundles of money, not to forget the numerous dinners and lunches at the Pearl Continental Hotel as well as the Namak Mandi.

Rubbing against Akhtar Hussain’s shoulder and whining for his roti was Mohammad Bashir aka Bashira!, he belonged to a small chuck in Northern Punjab. The daughter of his feudal master got married to the son of a very rich jeweler from Peshawar, Mohammad Bashir was part of the impressive dowry that the Chaudhary Sahib sent to the house of the Khan Sahib.

Bashira was not new to , he always thought he was lower in status because he was born poor and he had accepted the fact that he was just a kami kameen. But things only got worse for him when he came to Peshawar; as he felt a further demotion in his social standing, which he had already thought to be as the lowest of the low. He realized that not only was he the subject of pun but was also considered lower than the rest of the servants in the house because he was darker than them, as his Khan Sahib would lovingly remind him by calling him “toor kunnay (the one with the black ass)”. But this was not the only ridicule that he had to cope with, he also couldn’t speak proper pushto, no matter how hard he tried, his accent always gave him away and thus no one took him seriously. There was a third reason as well, Bashira had grown up in a surrounding that always respected Saints and Sufis, he remembered how his mother once took him to Daata Darbar when she had to accompany the Chudrain. He felt so lucky at the opportunity as it was said that it was the next best thing to hajj. But in Peshawar he was astonished at how people ridiculed these practices.

Bashira knew that he could never be white neither could he learn asli Pushto BUT he sure could despise the “Jahiliyaat” that was practiced by his villagers. Bashira clung on to this one point to create some respect for himself, he would pray 5 times a day and listen to one tableeghi jumaat after another. Now he craved for the day that he would go back permanently and change the fortune of his villagers by them how not to go to darbars. Because according to his newfound understanding, this was the only reason that was stopping the Muslims from getting ahead in life.

Recently in a stroke of , Bashira while passing by the Khan Sahib’s car noticed that the master had forgotten his wallet in there. In a flash, Bashira grabbed for the wallet, took a Rs.1000 note out. Later on, the driver was fired.
Bashir was excited; Khan sahib had allowed him to visit his village, in his Punjabi accent he cried “Zeer Kuwa, Zeer Kuwa” (hurry up, hurry up), every one broke into a condescending laughter, Mansoor the roti wala replied with a vulgar gesture and sneered at him. “Chup Sha! Da Punjabi bachiya!” (Shut up you son of a Punjabi). The whole crowd broke into another big laugh, and Bashir smiled sheepishly at Mansoor.

Laughing harder than the rest was Zaryab Khan, Zaryab was from the cold mountains of Chitral. He hated Peshwar and hated its heat. Although he was not a Pathan as well, his condition wasn’t as bad as Bashir’s. The reason was that Zaryab was much fairer than the average Peshawari, and thus more readily accepted. But there was a catch to this acceptance, which was a lot of unwanted attention from horny middle-aged guys.

Zaryab couldn’t wait to go back to his home in Chitral, the cool shade of the trees, the cold running water of the streams, the tall mountains, the arid climate and above all his own sweet , he hated this hellhole. He worked at a petrol station, apart from the colorful uniform and the timely paychecks this job was helping him inch closer towards his ultimate goal. Which was to have a medicine store in Chitral, he had the required amount in his mind and according to his calculations he had around 6 to 7 more months to gather it.

The calculations were not just based upon his monthly paycheck, as the attendants at his station had an ingenious method of milking the system. They would rob unsuspecting motorists by not resetting the meter; they also would at times mix fake currency notes among the bundles that were at their disposal. The daily loot was divided at the end of the shift and Zaryab had ways of ensuring that he got more than his fair share.

Over the years and after numerous episodes of sexual he had learned that he could turn this curse of standing out into a blessing and thus he would efficiently manipulate the frustrated men around him by doing them sexual favors. His ability to manipulate covered by his shy demeanor helped him rake in more and more money every day. Just a few more months he would console himself, just a few more months…

Some one patted Zaryab on the shoulder, it was Hashim Khan the traffic sergeant. Hashim’s duty was in the square right next to Zaryab’s petrol station. Hashim Khan was from the fertile region of Swabi, his father had been a serf on the local feudal’s land and he had worked extra time to enable his eldest son Hashim to get his . Hashim never was interested in school but he still managed to clear matric on his 3rd attempt. This enabled him to get a job at the traffic police department all thanks to his local MNA. The local MNA in return got the votes of Hashim and his father’s extended , which included his two mothers and his other brothers all of whom grew up working the land of the feudal because Hashim’s father could only afford the of his eldest son.

This particular square was one of his favorites as many un-suspecting and overloaded tongas, Suzukis and Mazdas took it as a short cut and thus were at the mercy of Hashim and his challan book. The money was good, sharing it with the seniors was a pain but still he would make enough for himself as well as his . It went all the way up to the IG they would say, he knew that he would be happy as long as he kept the senior officers happy.

The other attraction at this square was Zaryab, he couldn’t help grining at the ivory skinned Chitrali boy. Hashim’s twisted logic was that since illicit sex with a woman is a much bigger sin than sex with a boy, one should always go for boys. Since he couldn’t afford to get married at his current income level, his sexual escapades mostly involved boys of all ages, Zaryab was his next target and he followed him to Mansoor’s roti shop.

Zaryab greeted Hashim with a long “Pakhairrr” as per custom of the people of Peshawar. Hashim held him close to his chest while asking Mansoor for a glass of cold water with a bit of salt in it. Hashim was sweating profusely and the stench was choking Zaryab, who tried his best not to wriggle away. Mansoor sprang into action and reached for his water cooler and the bag of salt right next to it. Bashira looked around grinning to see if anyone else noticed the big sweaty embrace that was heating up the tanoor even further. Molana Sahib cleared his throat, while Akhtar Hussain the jiyala continuously stared at the ground. No one spoke as all they wanted was a roti and that was it. Finally Hashim Khan broke away and looked around him, he shook hands with the Molana sahib, glared at Bashir, ignored Akhtar Hussain, and didn’t thank Mansoor for his glass of water.

Oblivious to everyone was an 18 year old boy from a nearby village, his name was Maskeen Khan. Maskeen belonged to a of tonga owners, he had had a good childhood. His father admitted him in school when he was 6, this was unusual in his extended and his uncle was disgusted with his father for doing that.

struck their little when he was 15 years old, his father’s tonga was crushed by an over speeding Afghan trawler. Maskeen’s father and Maskeen’s horse Moati were both reduced to mangled piles of meat. He was devastated, his two best friends in the world had simply gone away. His father received a proper funeral, but the corpse of Moati was left to rot on the road, waiting for the Peshawar Municipality to be cleaned up. As the accident happened near their house, Maskeen frequently passed by Moati’s rotting corpse as he ran back and forth carrying out preparations for his father’s funeral. After the Qul ceremony Maskeen single handedly dug a grave for Moati and dragged the horse into it. During the whole ordeal which took him one whole day he threw up several times but being a Pukhtoon he had to repay Moati for all the favors he bestowed upon him and his .

Things got worse when his uncle took Maskeen’s mother as his third wife (in the name of honor). Maskeen was devastated, he cried his heart out at his father’s grave; he felt humiliated, he felt like a bayghairat, he felt that a great injustice had been done to his father and he was too weak to correct this wrong.

After his mother’s wedding Maskeen was subject to ridicule and torture in every thing he did, he had to discontinue his studies and he went on working as a laborer. After 3 years of humiliation Maskeen finally burst out, he slapped his uncle across the face. The Uncle and his sons ganged up on Maskeen and thrashed him till his mother begged them with a Koran in her hand.

He ran out, swearing never to come back. It had been three days since that happened. He had slept in parks and under sheds, he was too proud to go to any of his relatives, he had eaten nothing since the last meal that his mother had made for him. He still carried his head up high, as he was too proud to beg. He looked for work, asked for work, begged for work but to no avail. But he still was too proud to beg for , all the poetry of Ghani Khan that he had learnt to , all the high standards of conduct and the code of Pukhtoonwali that his father had inculcated in him, the teachings of the Quran and Hadith, all the Indian that he had seen, a cumulative effect of all these things kept him going. He had to carry on, had to fight his urges, had to hold his head up high. Like a Man, like a Muslim, LIKE A PUKHTOON!!

Suddenly he saw a pile of rotis, one roti after another was being piled up on Molana Sahibs dastarkhwan, Maskeen’s heart started pounding frantically as his stomach gave the loudest of growls in three days. Suddenly all the for his uncle, despair for his misfortune, the and respect for his ideals, all of it was gone. All he could see was a roti, only a roti. No verse of Ghani Khan, or any verse from the Quran could relieve the pain in his stomach, which blackened his mind. He became totally focused on one round piece of bread, one piece of bread that could provide relief from all his worries. The pain that was clogging his mind would go away with that one piece of bread. Things suddenly started to make sense, just one piece of bread and everything would be okay. He suddenly found a new in his hands and feet as he ran his tongue on his crackled lips and slowly moved towards the bread. Hypnotised. Paralysed. Dumbstruck. He had never wanted anything more in life. Never ever had a simple roti meant so much to him. He didn’t see anyone around the tanoor – all he saw and smelt was the bread.

As soon as Molana Sahib turned around to shake hands with Hashim Khan, Maskeen darted at the pile, snatched the hot roti and bolted away. It took about 3 to 4 seconds for the whole gathering to realize what had happened.

“PAKRO!!!” cried Bashira as he sprinted after Maskeen.
“CHORE!! CHORE!!” shouted Zaryab and sprang into action.
Hashim Khan instinctively blew on his whistle.
“Astaghfirullah!!!” shouted Molana sahib, “WAY NEESAY ALAKA!!” (GET HIM BOYS)

Maskeen’s dash of desperation didn’t take him much farther. He didn’t see the open manhole and as his left leg went in, the roti flew from his hand, hitting a dog sleeping under a nearby tree. The dog woke up with a yelp, grabbed the roti and ran away.

Bashira was the first one to grab Maskeen by his collar and he frantically started kicking him in the chest while Maskeen was still stuck in the manhole.
Next to follow was Zaryab still shouting Chore! Chore! he too started pounding at Maskeen.
Molana Sahib and Mansoor came next.

Mansoor had a long iron bar in his hand and he prodded Maskeen with it.
“Take his clothes off” screamed Mansoor, “he should be paraded naked in the street.”
“NO NO” shouted Molana Sahib “That’s fahashi and is not allowed in .”
Instead he took a step forward, while both Zaryab and Bashir held Maskeen for him. He slapped Maskeen across the face and screamed “WHY DID YOU DO IT??? HAVE YOU NO FEAR OF ALLAH?? HAAAN!?!?!?”

Akhtar Hussain the former jiyala and Hashim Khan the constable were the final two to arrive.
Hashim grabbed Maskeen by the throat and asked him his name.
Maskeen growled and kicked the constable on his knee,
“HOW DARE YOU CALL MY FATHER A PIG? YOU SON OF A BITCH.” he screamed in his thoughts as he didn’t have the strength to say it out loud.

Bashira “the nokar” didn’t waste a second and started pounding on Maskeen again.
Zaryab “the chokra” joined in to avenge his favorite police constable.

Akhtar Hussain “the jiyala” was reminded of his own and he shuddered at the thought of what had happened to him after he kicked a police constable during one of the anti Marshal rallies. He stepped back in horror and watched the proceedings with a pounding heart, and a dry throat.

Hashim Khan the constable recovered quickly from the kick, he slowly patted the dirt off his trousers and then came up to Maskeen and started pounding on him while calling him all sorts of names and belittling Maskeen’s father and mother in the most creative manner. Maskeen didn’t have the strength to reply and he passed out while the three kept kicking at his frail frame.

The mobile police squad aka the “GASHTI party” came and took Maskeen away.

Hashim Khan turned around and patted Zaryab on the back, “Shabash!” he said as he smiled at the fair skinned boy.

“How your cheeks have gone red” as he slowly brushed Zaryab’s cheeks. The boy went scarlet.

Bashira kept repeating his story again and again as to how HE WAS the one who caught the thief first. The gathering crowd of curious onlookers didn’t mind his accent this time and for the first time in his stay in Peshawar, Bashira had an audience that actually did take him seriously.

Molana Sahib kept shaking his head in dismay,
“WHAT IS THIS COUNTRY COMING TO?” He screamed out loud and poor Bashira HAD TO stop as Molana sahib followed his question with a few Ahadith and verses from the Holy Quran.
“THESE ARE THE SIGNS OF QAYYAMMAT!!” He screamed “right in front of the was a roti snatched.” and he pointed at Hashim Khan.

Hashim Khan took his arm off Zaryabs shoulder and stood straight and nodded in affirmation.

“This country needs SHARIAH!!” continued the Molana Sahib “ If only his hands are chopped off no one would DARE commit something like this again. That is the only solution we have.”

“Bay shuck! Bay shuck!” chanted Mansoor the roti wala, as he felt a pang in his own wrists.
“Inshallah! Inshallah!” shouted Bashira the nokar as he instinctively reached for the Rs. 1000 note in his pocket.
“mmm mmm” mumbled Zaryab as he choked on the stench of Hashim Khan’s armpits as he wraped his arm around Zaryab’s back.

“Gulp” went Akhtar Hussain the jiyala as he was still forcing himself to concentrate on the roti, that he came out for, and the kapra that his wife gave him to wrap the roti in and the makaan that he had to go back to.

Published in: on January 7, 2010 at 8:02 am  Comments (6)