'BHAABI'

‘Bhaabi’  –  that saintly and praiseworthy figure which has a remarkable impact on all those with whom this high stature dignitary is closely associated and linked. ‘Bhaabi’ – that glorious and charismatic personality which every nine out of ten guys are privileged to have and is that admirable as well as the notable figure which shadows upon the heads of every guy with the ultimate respect and affection, that is well and truly comparable to that they have for their mothers; well that’s an exaggeration. Such is the esteem of ‘Bhaabi’  - the Sister-in-Law, and as we call it in Urdu language.

‘Bhaabi’ is classified into two main types. First is the one which is related to one’s blood; A brother’s wife. Although this specie of ‘Bhaabi’ is endangered these days, they still acquire a very high rank in a family. This kind of ‘Bhaabi’ attains this high status after going through a long and systematic process of various customs and traditions. This class remains permanent throughout life on most occasions so we can most certainly say about this type of ‘Bhaabi’ that “Once a Bhaabi, Always a Bhaabi”.

The first type is followed by the all important second type of ‘Bhaabi’. These ‘Bhaabies’ can be found in any college or university campus, or they may be found in the academies and even in the public residence areas in homes. This Type of ‘Bhaabi’ have more extensive features and characteristics than the first type may be due to the fact that they have been’ investigated’ more thoroughly. This ‘Bhaabi’ is reversible, mostly more than one, but will always be called as ‘Bhaabi’  and never  by her name even if she is younger to the person whose ‘Bhaabi’ she is.  This is a significant kind of respect. This type of ‘Bhaabi’ is further subdivided into other types as well. Let’s have a closer look at the subdivisions of the most prevalent type of ‘Bhaabi’ that we have.

This type of ‘Bhaabi’ can be any one out of:  a) the genuine Bhaabi  (b) the forced or superimposed Bhaabi and (c) the poke-fun-at Bhaabi.

“The Genuine Bhaabi” is  the subtype of second type of’ Bhaabi’ in which there is mutual consent and expression of feelings between the guy and the girl, hence the girl becomes the ‘Bhaabi’ of the friends of the guy she likes.  This is the simplest type of ‘Bhaabi’ without any complications. Such a ‘Bhaabi’ is the most respected one by the friends of the guy who’s in relationship with that girl a.k.a the ‘Bhaabi”. To disrespect, disobey and dishonor ‘the Genuine Bhaabi’ is considered as a grave sin and such instances may lead to bitter fights among the friends. ‘The Genuine Bhaabi’ can be very dangerous, dominant and possessive hence the friends of the guy are often seen warning him about the risky steps not to be taken as the ‘Bhaabi’ may not like them. The friends are vary of the mood swings of ‘the Genuine Bhaabi’ and they caution their friend about the possibilities of a fight so they are often seen confronting their friend on various issues so that the ‘Bhaabi’ is not hurt by any means. ‘The Genuine Bhaabi’ is taken care of a lot so this line is often heard when the friends say to the guy that: ‘Yaar bhaabi naraaz hojayegi un se ek baar pooch lo!’

Another subdivision is the ‘forced or superimposed bhaabi’. In this type, the girl doesn’t know that she has been given this noble title. The guy likes a girl and in order to make his notorious friends stay away from her, he superimposes his authority and convinces them psychologically that the girl really belongs to him.  He does that by continuously referring her as his friend’s ‘Bhaabi’ by saying things like:  ‘oye sharam karo bhaabi pe ghalat nazar??’ and ‘yaar tumhari bhaabi aayi hai aaj ya nahi?? And ‘bhaaiyo tumhari  bhaabi aaj bohat pyaari lag rahi hai mashaAllah’….There comes a point that the friends are psychologically brainwashed and manipulated to such an extent that they consider this manipulation as the reality and they start calling that girl ‘Bhaabi’,  hence the ‘forced or superimposed bhaabi’ is formed.

The third subtype is the ‘poke-fun-at Bhaabi’. This existence of this type of ‘Bhaabi’ comes up out of mocking and teasing by a group of friends to any particular friend just for the sake of fun. The friends pick out the most annoying or the most unattractive girl from a group and associate her with the targeted friend. Some of the lines are like this: When the girl makes an entry in class- ‘Oye yaar daikh hamari bhaabi aagayi’ or ‘check kar bhaabi tujhay daikh rahy hai’ or ‘oye hoye aaj tou barri matching ki hui hai dono ne :P’. Although such self created ‘bhaabies’ are not the actual ones, they fit in the above mentioned definition of ‘Bhaabi’ quite well as they are eventually respected in the same manner as the genuine ones, subconsciously.

‘Bhaabi’ of main second category is found everywhere, in every house, in every class, in every college and in every set up. Each female is a ‘Bhaabi’ to somebody in any one way or the other out of the above mentioned types. Women Rights activists must take a note of the respect that each ‘bhaabi’ gets from the society. The predominance of such respect and affection would be encouraging for them. A unique way of giving respect to females by our people, isn’t it?

Noisy Niazi

She walks like a guy, talks like a guy and gawks like a guy. She's the MAN of her group. She has everything in her style which discriminates her from being a girl. She's Bossy, She has a masculine gait, She's high on pranks, She's always over the top with her voice - She is a 'Noisy Niazi'.

On a tense day of an Exam while students are going through last-minute revision, the Niazi leads her group into the cafe with her characteristic care-free gait, headphones in her ear and hands inside the pockets of her jeans. She orders a cup of tea, sits back and shuffles the play-list on her Ipod while her friends are suffering from pre-exam panic disorder. She grabs a book about 10 minutes before the start of exam; goes through the pages halfheartedly; cheats to the maximum fearlessly in the examination hall and eventually gets more marks than her friends. She celebrates her 'minimum input maximum output' effort in a loud voice - She's a 'Noisy Niazi'.


She's notorious. She has a dominant personality but there's the other side of coin too. The Noisiness of Niazi is restricted to the premises of University only. Back home is a complete turn around of her personality. She restricts herself to her room. The play-list shifts from heavy metal to sentimental. The notorious spark of eyes are transformed into tears. The person, who boss around others during the day, has almost no control over her own emotions back home.


She's very much a girl for her close friends. She speaks softly in a beautiful voice. She likes to dress and wear make up like a girl. She likes to be looked after. She's caring and she has a quality to absorb the pain of others. She has a soft heart; Not-so-Noisy Niazi.

The reason for this split personality is even unknown to her. Even if it is a broken heart or any familial problem, one thing is clear for sure; a person, who tries to be strong in front of others having a fake smile, is the one who is empty inside. She may sound noisy to other but deep inside, she is as calm as standing water. Although the Niazi is noisy for others, so is the Volcano, which remains silent for most of its life.

Son of the Soil

(A humble tribute to Pakistan Armed Forces, who are always defending our borders while we are enjoying a luxurious life)

 September the 6th, 1965- It is indeed a beautiful morning in Lahore. I have just offered my prayers and as I am about to put my heavy shoes back on, there is an ear-splitting sound- It's an attack from across the border. Without a second thought, I have swiftly picked my Kalashnikov, reciting kalma-e-shahadat and following the commands of my battalion commander. I am waiting for an order to open the fire. I can see a well-prepared army in front of my eyes who have attacked us at a time when the anticipation of such an action was least and while most of my countrymen are still asleep. Here comes the order 'In the name of Allah' to fight the enemy and protect our motherland. It is true that I have an old mother at home; a two-year old daughter who has seen me just once and a wife whose eyes are stuck at the door all the time, but all these relations have taken a back-seat right now. The only thing of my concern at the moment is to guard the honor of my motherland, and I shall do it till the very end of my life for I am a Son of the Soil- A proud soldier of Pakistan.



As the release of bullets from my Kalashnikov is steadily rising, I can unintentionally see the flashbacks in front of my eyes about some of the vague aspects of my life . When my friends were enjoying their youth in the busy streets of Lahore, I was going through a strict training routine at my Military Academy.  When they were busy in flying kites on top of roofs, I was being ordered to perform strenuous physical obligations. And now, when they must be having a tired sleep with their kids alongside them, I am trying my level best to make sure their sleep is not interrupted, for I am a Son of the Soil. 




Although I have been hit by a bullet on my right shoulder and left thigh, I am still not eager to see the angel of death as yet. I am holding the gun in my left hand. It is difficult to hold and fire from my weaker upper limb, I am still able to fire the odd shot. I am limping but I am not bothered. I am down but I still have my spirits high. I have been fighting since 4 days now; without sleep and without food. I, along with my battalion, has made sure that the enemy is unable to proceed forward even by a single meter, for I am a Son of the Soil.

Is it due to lack of sleep or is it because of excessive bleeding that I am starting to feel the darkness in front of my eyes? Whatever the reason may be, my left index finger is still up to the task. It is not until the last bullet of my gun that has crossed the border, I am now lying at the ground, unconscious and breathless, nourishing the soil with my patriotic blood; for I am a Son of the Soil.

How I Met Your Mother - 2030 version

It's a mesmerizing summer morning in Glasgow; a perfect one for a holiday. Ah, holiday! What a strange word it seems right now. When was the last time I went on a holiday? I probably must get out of my bed and think about it later as I am already late for the hospital. Following the usual routine, I am preparing a low calorie breakfast as well as a high energy breakfast simultaneously; one for me and one for Danny boy (Danish) – my 14 year old son. I am now going to his room to wake him up and it's going to take another 10 minutes to make him open his eyes. After imposing a compulsion to finish his breakfast, I am reluctantly giving him 20 pounds which he had asked for. I am not going to drop him all the way down to his school since I am already late for the hospital. Being a consultant in UK is a very hectic job. I am missing Danny's mother right now.

Danny is not happy with me as he should be. I hardly take him out because of my work commitments. He has no siblings to play with and in all these years, he has been playing the role of a post man between his mother and his father. It has been 10 years since the separation of Aaliya and me for the reasons which are still not fully understood by any of us. I had to be both father and mother for him. I have done justice with this responsibility, but I could never be like Aaliya.

'I will never make my life hell by having an arranged marriage just like you' Danny says to me out of the blue while playing PS. 'What makes you say I had an arranged marriage?' I am in a state of shock. 'Because I have never seen any love between you both, it doesn't happen in a love marriage'. Danny boy has a logical point. 'Let me tell you how I met your mother'. I've decided to reveal the untold love story to my only son.

It was a summer of 2008; 22 years back. I was a bit older than you. No, I didn’t meet her in school, college or through a friend. I met her on Facebook. Yes! Facebook. She didn't have a profile picture so I didn’t have a clue how she looked like. I used to see her comments in one of my friends wall. Out of envy, I sent her a friend request. Boyhood is an immature stage of one's life so I can only blame my immaturity for such an action. My friend was not that good looking hence I fancied my chances even more with that girl whom I didn’t even know at that stage. 'If this girl can talk to him, she can definitely talk to me'. A few days later she was in my Facebook friend list and windows live messenger. I found her very arrogant and it was always me who initiated a topic of discussion. The case was opposite on my friend's wall. There was a drastic change in her behavior with my friend. I decided to turn the tables in my favor as soon as possible. 2 months after the acceptance of my FB friend request, I asked for her digits which she rejected right away. I didn’t stop trying. On the same very day, I used the tactics of emotional blackmailing that worked in the right way. And now I had her number. Things started to change. Initially she was always in her full attitude but a month later, she used to get curious if I held back myself. Your dad used to be good with words, my son! And girls always fall for such guys who are good at this art. That's so stupid of them. Anyhow, my FB wall started to be invaded by her more frequently. After another month, I asked her out to date me, which she accepted. I was on cloud 9.

Winning a girl from another guy gives you such a triumphant feeling. We attended our high and medical schools together. Life was perfect. We both made the most happening couple of our college life. We got engaged in our final year and were tied in the most beautiful relationship – marriage; a Love Marriage.

That's how I met your mother; a couple of decades ago! I have never been as lonely as you have been watching me in all these years.  I had an impeccable love story, but it was sad for all of us that we could only be together for 5 years after marriage. Perhaps, we spent more than enough time together before we actually got married. Excess of everything is dangerous. So my dear son, it's not about love or an arrange marriage; it's about how you carry on a relationship inside a well-defined boundary. Let's go to sleep Danny boy, may you tell the same story of how you met his mother in the presence of your wife.

American Born Confused Desi ABCD

Shall I call him 'Abbu' or shall I call him 'Dad'? Shall I call her 'Daadi' or shall it be 'Grandma' in front of my friends? Shall I speak in Urdu or English with my Mother? Shall I make fun of the unusual dressing and a strange accent of those who have migrated from my mother land or shall I remain silent and think about my own distant relatives back home? Shall I enjoy the luxurious facilities at my birth place or shall I ridicule the lack of such lavishness at my parent's birth place? I am occupied with so many confusions; Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi!

You give me any gadget and I'll show how it works. You ask me all the latest about action games/movies and I'll give you each and every bit of information. You look at my music collection and you'll be amazed to find the quality of hip-hop and rock. You take away my laptop/PSP/Nintendo/Play station and I am unable to survive. You make me watch 'Gone with the Wind' and I'll say what a boring senseless movie. You make me listen to Ustaad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan or Muhammad Rafi and I'll close my ears with both hands before turning it off. I live in America in an American Style but yet I like to be known as a Pakistani - Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi!

I like the rare sunshine in my State, yet I hate the sunshine when I go to Pakistan. I hardly go there. I've just been there a couple of times for about a couple of weeks, yet I have made strong impressions about it. I have been there in summers, and I assume that the weather is always boiling hot in Pakistan. It's not my fault to make this assumption because I've never been to Pakistan in December or January. I don't like the rough condition of roads; I hate the pollution; I hate the awful smell of the feces of buffalo. This is Pakistan for me. The whole of Pakistan! It's not my fault if I haven't been to Islamabad or the posh areas of Lahore or Karachi. I assume no one in Pakistan can speak or understand English. It's not my fault if I have not been to some of the International level schools and Colleges throughout the country. I hate 'daal-sabzi' that I used to eat or the meat which had a foul smell; I hated Pakistan even more with each bolus that I unwillingly used to swallow. It's not my fault if I haven't been told about Hardees or Nando's or McDonalds or KFC chains throughout the big cities of Pakistan. I used to hate the 'lota' system in the toilets although it is much hygienic then the 'toilet paper' system back in the America. I can drink water from the sink in America but I was dependent on mineral water throughout my stay in Pakistan; Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi!

The city of Peshawar was an hour away from the village where I was staying. The chappli kababs were so delicious that irrespective of how many my stomach would allow, my hands were unable to resist. The other day I was in hospital due to dehydration caused by diarrhea. I started the blame game. Definitely it was Pakistan that made me sick, not that the case was my over-eating; Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi!

I'll look at the snaps of the beautiful locations of Northern areas of Pakistan and I'll confuse it with any location in Switzerland because no one has ever told me about such an amazing beauty of Pakistan. Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi!

No matter how much I hate visiting Pakistan, I cry whenever Pakistan Cricket Team loses a match. Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi. I live in a place where there is no load shedding of both electricity and gas; yet I hate Zardari for the stories which I've heard about his corruption and the load shedding in Pakistan although it makes no difference to my life; Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi.

For me, Pakistan is just a small rural village which is located somewhere near the glamorous Bollywood; yet I want India to lose when it is playing against Pakistan. Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi. I can go clubbing, I can have a bit of whisky, I can obligate namaz just once in a year; yet I'll ALWAYS buy a fish burger from McDonald's- the only HALAL product they have. Yes, I am an American-Born-Confused-Desi.

If the Doctor is Handsome....

Height- 6'4; chest- broad; complexion- fair-- Yes the Doctor is Handsome! An original Marks & Spenser grayish collar shirt with a branded plain tie and a jet black dress pant with a trendy belt - Indeed the Doctor is Handsome. An expensive original Seiko hanging down to his left wrist; stylish boots of original Clarks covering his feet ; properly gelled and spiky hair; a unique framed specs along with the frangrance of Brut - Truly, the Doctor is Handsome.

Fiza, 19, has just started her Fashion designing course in one of the top Institution in this field. Happy-go-lucky by nature, she's still single and apparently, she's not planning to cry after a guy unlike most of her friends do, at least not any soon. She is social; she is out-going; she loves to party; she has a motto in her life - No love, No Tension.

Mrs. Fozan, wife of a retired bureaucrat and mother of Fiza, is a chronic hypertensive patient along with a tendency of mood-swings - probably a natural one if you have 3 daughters who are still unmarried and a retired husband at home. Fiza, the second amongst her siblings, is responsible to take her mother to the hospital on Saturdays - the day of Mrs. Fozan's appointment with her counselor.

It's Saturday. Mrs. Fozan is having an extended session with her counselor in Medical ward 4 who is trying to overcome the tendencies of her mood-swings with the help of verbal therapy. Fiza is waiting outside - not observing the hustle and bustle around her, thanks to the technology in her hand which is sending impulses to her cochlea via headphones and she's moving her lips along with the impulses that are generated. Her eyes, suddenly, perceive another stimulus. A tall, good-looking, well-dressed man in a white over-all with a stethoscope around his neck and a clip-board in his hand is seen. The impulse of her eyes has got better off the impulse of her ears. She's unable to take her eyes off the young House Officer, around 24. Surely, The Doctor is Handsome!

'Mom i guess you should start having sessions with your counselor more than once a week' says Fiza on her way back. 'Beta I don't need that much counseling, I am not in a worse stage' Mrs Fozan is satisfied with one session a week.

Mrs. Fozan is getting surprized by the concern being showed by her daughter like never before. This is the fourth cosecutive week in which Fiza has reminded her mother of her appointment while making sure that she gets ready in time. Fiza's eyes are again looking for Ahsan Khan, the only information that she has got about her love-at-first-sight. She is unable to understand the reason for her being shy in-front of him, because it is completely against her nature. It's not that she is ugly, she has rejected many decent-looking guys while she was in A-levels, and she is pretty much a beautiful looking girl. For the first time, she has admired a guy and she doesn't know how to respond.

Three months are gone without even a single chat. Mrs. Fozan is very much out of her mood-swing phases. Fiza has no choice but to go alone to the hospitals, 3-4 times a week now. She wants this mysterious feeling to end once for all. She has had many sleepless nights, many workless days, much meal-less times. She has decided to talk to the Doctor today. She is in a 'babe-look'

'Errmm Excuse me, My name is Fiza' 'How can I help you Miss?'. The reply came in a deep decent respectful voice. Truly the Doctor is Handsome. 'Well, I am having sleepless nights, I can't concentrate on anything, I am unable to remain happy even if i try to'... 'Ohh, may be you should consult a Psychiatrist, such things happen at your age, may be you are having an exam-phobia or something' Fiza was expecting a better reply from the Doc. 'No it's not related to studies, and I don't need a Psychiatrist, you are a Doctor, can't you help me out?' 'But you see I am just a house officer doing my house job, this is not my field' There was no way the Doctor was going to entertain that poor girl no matter how sweet she was trying to be. The Doctors are unromantic, she thinks.

'I think I should give him a call on the number which I got from his collegue in the hospital'. Fiza decides. 'I am sorry I didn't recognize you....Oh that young girl?? How can I serve you now?' There is a little hardening of voice from his side; he is clearly disturbed by the call. Fiza tells her that she has something for him. The last think she expects is her call being dropped. She thinks there is a network problem. She tries again. And again, and again. And finally she is surprised to find her number to be blocked. 4 months of wilderness without a success. Fiza cries and decides to lock up herself in her room.

'Am I so bad to be behaved like this by a guy?' Fiza asks her best-friend, Amina. Amina tries to cheer her up and convince her to attend her party at evening.

'Had it not been for the over-all and steths, this guy looks exactly a carbon copy of Ahsan.' Fiza is thinking after watching a guy in the party. But she is heart-broken. She is not thinking about him. She is with her friends as she hears a manly voice. 'Can i join you guys?' Amina nods. He is starting a conversation with Fiza. His name is Danial. Fiza is starting to enjoy the conversation after an initial stage of irritation. Amina and her other friends are giving them both some moments of private discussion. Life's good again.

Fiza is at this hospital. It has been a year since Mrs. Fozan last had a session with her counselor. Fiza is un-concerned with her surroundings. She is busy in texting Danial. Ahsan has probably left for his Post-Graduate training in US. As if she cares? She has got well over him.

Fiza concludes that no matter how many apples you keep away and throw in the garbage, and no matter how much the Doctor is handsome, don't go after him because he has undergone a special training of brutality being imposed over him for 5 years which ultimately turns his heart into a stone without any feelings.

The moral of the story is: Even if the Doctor is Handsome, Do Not keep the apple away. [:P]