Nazim atpınar posts
Yahoo News PHOTOS: Forty-three-year-old background actor Nazim Cihan’s parrot, Pasha, attracts people’s attention in Istanbul.
Life with a parrot in Istanbul
yahoo.com
Forty-three-year-old background actor Nazim Cihan’s parrot, Pasha, attracts people’s attention in Istanbul. Cihan, an Ottoman Empire enthusiast, wears Ottoman-style clothes in his daily life.
108 months ago
Misuse of Authority A humiliating and devastating incident in Punjab, Pakistan violating Human Rights
20 October 2015: On 6th Muharram, the auspicious occasion of Baba Fareed’s 773 Death Anniversary(Urs) celebrations at his shrine, its very clearly seen in the video Read more ... that Devaan Azmat is hitting and abusing an 80 year old devotee of Baba Fareed alongwith his thugs and henchmen inside the shrine during the festivities. Devaan Azmat is General (R) Perviaz Musharraf’s very close friend and ex-Tehsil Nazim PakPattan appointed by General Musharraf and now has joined PTI. His brother-in-law Ali was also at the forefront in assisting Devaan Azmat in this vicious act. The 80 year old devotee whom Devaan Azmat is viciously hitting and verbally abusing is a heart patient and is a resident of Gawal Mandi in Lahore.
The old man is a known supporter of PLM(N) and Prime Minister of Pakistan, Mian Muhammad Nawaz Shareef and Mian Muhammad Shehbaz Shareef. The old man can be heard in the video defending himself and urging Deevan Azmat to stop this barbaric act of torture and abuses. This old man is seen respecting the occasion of ceremony by saying “stop son stop” to continuous bullying.Devan Azmat and his brother-in-law Ali have mistreated this aged gentleman who had traveled from Lahore with no reason else than that the old man vehemently supports PLM(N). Devaan Azmat and his thugs also had weapons with them and kept waving them in the air.The presence of District Police Officer Pakpattan and police contingent can be seen clearly who are standing as mere helpless spectators infront of the aggressive behaviour of Devaan Azmat. The meditation devotees wearing Blue Turbans on their heads from Lahore, in love and respect of ceremony, are seen to be respectfully trying to resolve the matter to avoid dis-order while DPO Pakpattan and his policemen refrain from intervening to subdue the matter.
Devan Azmat with his gang has been repeatedly ,bullying and abusing people visiting Baba Fareed Death Anniversary (Urs) ceremonies with his own will. Not only is the Police quietly witnessing this barbaric act but where is Department of Auqaf and Religious Affairs which runs the management of Shrines across Punjab? The reporters of News Channels were also there but misusing authority Devaan Azmat influenced the news reporters not to publish this incident and forced this clip to be deleted from the TV Channels. The old Devotee was injured and treated by RESCUE 1122 for his injuries. Government must check the full footage through CCTV cameras.
Harassment and torture is prohibited under international law and it is considered to be a violation of human rights, and is declared to be unacceptable by Article 5 of the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights. National and international legal prohibitions on torture derive from a consensus that torture and similar physical and verbal abuses are immoral, as well as impractical.
This an appeal to strengthen the Department of Auqaf and Religious Affairs and bring an end to this hooliganism at the Shrine of Baba Fareed from this self-appointed Gaddi Nasheen(Care taker) Devan Azmat.Please Clean and free the Shrine of Baba Fareed Ganj-e-Shakar from the cruelty of this savage Devan Azmat and his brother-in-law Ali.
125 months ago
Zaroori Tha Bonds of blood
By K Ali
Adjust Font Size The Friday Times The Friday Times
A painting depicting women in a village in Punjab
A taanga in Old Lahore
Pattoki
Village Carpenter, oil on board – Badar M Read more ... oinuddin
Every day I would smoke a Gold Leaf cigarette, drink a cup of tea, and munch on at least one Tulsi supari. I was a member of the Muslim Students Federation and got into many fights, and was known among my peers for once having split open the heads of the bus conductor and driver because they didn’t stop the bus when I asked them to
Badar immediately understood the purpose of my visit. When he saw me enter the room with the girl he didn’t stand up in greeting. He just took a slow, suave drag of his cigarette. It was his way of addressing the prostitute, for whom he felt, like all the others before him, a most empowering blend of desire and contempt
t was winter. I was 19 years old and living in a small Punjabi village. My father was a day laborer in the Army Welfare Trust factory (it made pharmaceuticals) and every other day I would take some money from my mother and go off to spend it on my own amusement. It was a strange time: I was young, restless, angry, and deeply anxious about my prospects. In the city I used to see the well-kept faces of low-level bureaucrats and worry about myself: I had bad teeth, and I feared that they would prevent me from getting a government job.
In those days I was quite taken with the idea of becoming a schoolteacher. In the morning I would take a horse-drawn taanga from the village to the town, and from there a bus to the Government Degree College in Pattoki, where I pretended to be a student: I was not enrolled in the college, but I was friendly with a professor who taught there and he allowed me to sit in his class. His name was Rana Taufeeq; he had studied in Lahore and wore stylish spectacles. Everyone said he looked like the actor Shahid. He had specialized in English Literature and loved explaining the meanings of obscure phrases: “cult of beauty” and “new year’s resolution” are two I still remember. Once in class he read out a poem called ‘The Rebel’, and to animate the idea he gave the example of the politician Javed Hashmi, who had just been arrested by General Musharraf. A rebel was a man who wore long hair when the society around him wore it short, who kept a French beard when the society kept full ones, who wore black clothes when the society wore white.
Every day I would smoke a Gold Leaf cigarette, drink a cup of tea, and munch on at least one Tulsi supari. I was a member of the Muslim Students Federation and got into many fights, and was known among my peers for once having split open the heads of the bus conductor and driver because they didn’t stop the bus when I asked them to.
One day I found my friends gathered outside the principal’s office. My friend Amin (a rich boy, the son of a gambling zamindar) was saying that he needed to have sex with a girl. He gave me Rs 1500 and said to make arrangements. I took the money; I couldn’t have declined it; Amin and his friends were richer than me, and I felt vital hanging around them. This was an opportunity to prove my worth. And I was almost grateful when Amin said I could take his motorbike to procure the girl.
I drove it back to my village and parked it outside the house of my friend Rauf. He was an idler; he spent his time drinking alcohol and betting on the flights of pigeons. He knew about prostitutes too. I asked him now to take me to a brothel.
We went on the motorbike to a well-known adda about a 20-minute drive from the village: it comprised a petrol pump, a Public Call Office, a small kiryana store and a few houses. In one of these houses lived Guddo, a stout black Musalli-ish woman who ran a brothel. This had caused her some trouble: the local nazim had raided her house once and thrashed her in public. But she bribed the police and got out of that situation, and carried on despite these lurking dangers with her business.
She opened the door now and let us in: Rauf and I sat on a charpai on the bare mud floor, beneath unplastered walls.
Rauf asked if there were any girls in the house.
Guddo said, “What’s your problem? Sit a while. So restless.”
I didn’t want to sit in the brothel too long; I was afraid the police might come in.
Guddo summoned two girls into the room: one was black and plump; the other was fair and had beautiful hips that I noted right away.
Rauf consulted me and I told him to select the second girl.
He turned to Guddo and said, “We want this one.” He motioned with his hand to the fair girl.
Guddo said, “We can’t send out our girls at night. Everyone here wants to trap us. The nazim is clinging to me like a hungry dog.”
She was making it sound tortuous and rare just to raise the rate.
The main door opened and a tall balding man with red eyes came into the room. He must have been a truck driver. He gave Guddo some money. Now Guddo nodded at the fair-complexioned girl, who took the man’s hand and led him into the adjoining room.
Our desire heightened by this little performance, Rauf and I negotiated quickly with Guddo. We settled on Rs 1300: we would give her 900 now and the remaining 400 when she delivered the girl outside the Suleiman Textile Mill, which was close to my house in the village.
It was evening when they arrived. And it was terribly cold: Rauf and I were standing outside the textile mill in big jackets. Guddo and her girl stepped out of a bus, Guddo wrapped in a black shawl, the girl wearing a niqab. I gave Guddo the remaining Rs 400.
Rauf said, in front of Guddo and the girl, that he wanted to have a go before I took the girl to my friends.
Guddo didn’t object. Her job was done and she was waiting to catch the next bus.
The girl’s expression was unreadable behind her niqab.
I said, “Don’t be crazy. It’s not my money. Those guys are my friends.”
Rauf became angry. He called me many nasty things. I kept saying that Amin, who had paid for the girl, was my very good friend. Rauf knew that Amin was the son of a landlord but he was in a vile mood; he had facilitated the pick-up and wanted a piece of the action. Soon I lost my patience with him; I put the girl on the motorbike and drove off.
She was sitting behind me like a typical village girl, with her legs on either side of the seat (and not folded elegantly on one side, as is the custom among city women). Her hands were on my shoulders.
I told her to press her chest into my back.
In less than 20 minutes we had reached Amin’s medical store. (Like all big landlords, his father owned small shops around the town.) Amin was sitting inside with his friends. They stopped talking when we entered and stared unabashedly at the girl, who had removed her niqab.
Amin asked his friends to leave. Soon only his store manager remained. He was a short, dark-featured bodybuilder called Nadeem, and it was his job to close the shop every night. Now the four of us (Amin, Nadeem, myself and the girl) left for Nadeem’s house: I went on Amin’s motorbike and the other three went in his car (it was a white Toyota Corolla in the ‘87 model). We were going to Nadeem’s house because Amin didn’t want to alert his parents in his own house.
Nadeem lived in the city. A small baithak was attached to his house. It was a single room with a beautiful big bed, a 14-inch TV in one corner, a sofa set, and a framed portrait of the Quaid-e-Azam on one wall. Nadeem switched on the lights and we all sat down: Amin, Nadeem and I sat on the sofa, while the girl sat on the bed with her torso thrust out and her palms placed flat on the mattress. Suddenly Nadeem said that I should go to Shadda’s kabab shop and fetch food for all of them. I couldn’t argue with him – Nadeem was the son of a doctor who worked in Saudi Arabia – so I took the motorbike once again and drove it to the restaurant. But this was a popular restaurant and there were lots of people here, and I had to wait a full hour before my order arrived. When I brought it back to Nadeem’s house, I saw that Amin had left. He was too tired and had gone home to sleep. Only Nadeem and the girl were in the room. Nadeem was leaning back in the sofa, looking utterly relaxed, with the ankle of one muscled leg resting casually on the knee of the other. He was watching Indian songs on the TV; and the girl was sitting on the bed in the same expectant posture but with a wet face that had just been washed.
Nadeem snatched the bag of food from my hand and began to eat greedily from it.
The girl was watching him without feeling.
He said, “Go. Take the girl.”
I was hungry – I hadn’t eaten since the morning – but I could tell that Nadeem was in no mood to share his meal. I didn’t want to ask him for it and then be told that I couldn’t have it, not in front of the girl.
“Come,” I said to the girl, more aggressively than I had intended.
She got up and followed me outside. I put her on the motorbike once again and drove off. My mind was racing: where could I take her at this hour? (It was past midnight.) My own family lived in a cramped room in the village; I couldn’t even think of taking her there. So now I decided to visit another friend, a boy called Badar who lived on a farm nearby.
Badar was sitting with a servant boy in the room where he kept his chickens. The boys were smoking cigarettes; the chickens were wandering around them, pecking at the feed that was sprinkled for them on the floor.
Badar immediately understood the purpose of my visit. When he saw me enter the room with the girl he didn’t stand up in greeting. He just took a slow, suave drag of his cigarette. It was his way of addressing the prostitute, for whom he felt, like all the others before him, a most empowering blend of desire and contempt.
We sat on the charpai. Badar ordered the servant boy, who was no more than sixteen years old, to go into a shack at the back of the house and make tea.
“So?” said Badar. “What brings you here?” He knew the answer but was posing the question just to establish my desperation.
I said, as casually as I could: “I need your room.”
“Is that right?” he said with a sidelong glance, as though it was a ludicrous idea.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I need to use it right now.”
The girl was sitting next to us on the charpai, mesmerized by the movement of the chickens, communing with them through her glassy gaze.
Badar said, “These bad habits of yours… I hope you’re aware of the scheduled punishments!” He laughed and moved a palm slowly along his knee.
I said, “I’m really tired. I’m going into your room.”
He put out his cigarette on the floor and said, “Not so fast. Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Drink tea and get fresh.”
He looked at the girl and inclined his head.
She stood up.
I said, “No, you can’t, I’ll go first.”
And he said, “What’s a girl like this between two friends?”
I had no answer to that. I also needed his room.
I looked at the girl’s face for some sign of encouragement, some show of support, but she only stared back at me with fixed, stony eyes.
That made me angrier.
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Okay,” I said. “You have a go first.”
And Badar took her into the other room.
It took them no more than 20 minutes. But it seemed like an age to me: I remained sitting on the charpai and was soon joined by the young servant boy, who in the brief absence of his master was liberated and full of questions: he gulped down two cups of tea and asked me about the girl, where I had got her from and how much I had paid for her, whether I thought she was a virgin, whether one could purchase a virgin from a brothel (he had heard somewhere that one could) and how much one would have to pay for that. I barely answered him – I was thinking ahead to my turn – but he seemed satisfied and kept nodding gravely long after we had stopped talking to one another.
At last Badar emerged from the other room. He was still tying the nala of his shalwar. His movements were relaxed and sleepy.
“I’m done,” he said and yawned.
I went into the next room.
It was dim, with only one lightbulb and a single mattress on the floor. The girl was lying on it with her head turned to one side.
I lowered myself on to the mattress.
She didn’t look at me.
I undid my shalwar.
Throughout the procedure she kept her eyes shut and her lips pressed into one another. It was an indeterminate expression, the look of someone who is suppressing either a laugh or a yelp of pain. The more I looked at her, the more difficult it became for me to concentrate, and that made me rougher.
At one point I felt something on myself, and when I looked I saw that she was bleeding. Her blood was all over me.
In panic I retreated.
She opened her eyes and said, “What happened?”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, unable to hide the disgust in my voice.
She was frightened. “I don’t know what happened.” The fright on her face was the first sign of emotion she had shown all night.
Quickly I tied the nala of my shalwar. “Wash up,” I commanded. “Move now.”
It was almost dawn when we returned to the room with the chickens. Badar had gone home to sleep; only the servant boy was sitting on the charpai. I told him to get up and climbed onto it. I was ready to sleep. It was the only kind of release I could have now, and I went for it like it was my reward.
Amid the sound of clucking chickens I fell asleep.
But I was woken in no time by the loud azaan.
The girl was sitting next to me on the charpai. She held a chicken in her lap and was stroking its wing. The servant boy was asleep in the next room with his mouth wide open.
Outside, everything was blindingly clear. On the motorbike we drove along the little dirt road, me with my eyes barely opened, she with her niqab (it was back across her face) trembling in the light wind. She sat behind me in the same way, with her hands on my shoulders, but I felt them now on my body like claws making a horrible claim.
We stopped at the bus station. When the bus came it was full of people who were heading to their jobs in the town. She climbed into it and sat in the front seat, next to the few women. She was the only woman in a niqab, and it made her look more dignified than the others, like a princess in disguise.
I wanted her to look at me just once but she didn’t.
And I knew then that the servant boy too had had his go.
I forgot about the blood until it came back to me after some nights. I awoke with a fearsome burning in my loins. When I stepped into the bathroom light to look, I saw that I was covered with little yellow pustules, little dots like the chicken feed I had seen on the floor of that farmhouse, and I saw that they covered the whole part of me that had entered the blood.
The pustules stayed with me and made themselves known in the difficult days that followed. They would swell and burn every time I suffered an erection, and the pain would cause me to shrink with fear.
Of course I didn’t mention this to my friends when I went back to the college. At the canteen, with my cigarette and my cup of tea, I pretended to be the same man, the same young rebel. But I was burning inside. And from the contemptuous remarks they made about the girl, as well as from their generally hostile and pained demeanors, I could tell that my friends too had touched blood and were now living with the burning evidence. ali-raza123@hotmail.com
127 months ago
Gulzar Khan Bonds of blood
By K Ali
Adjust Font Size The Friday Times The Friday Times
A painting depicting women in a village in Punjab
A taanga in Old Lahore
Pattoki
Village Carpenter, oil on board – Badar M Read more ... oinuddin
Every day I would smoke a Gold Leaf cigarette, drink a cup of tea, and munch on at least one Tulsi supari. I was a member of the Muslim Students Federation and got into many fights, and was known among my peers for once having split open the heads of the bus conductor and driver because they didn’t stop the bus when I asked them to
Badar immediately understood the purpose of my visit. When he saw me enter the room with the girl he didn’t stand up in greeting. He just took a slow, suave drag of his cigarette. It was his way of addressing the prostitute, for whom he felt, like all the others before him, a most empowering blend of desire and contempt
t was winter. I was 19 years old and living in a small Punjabi village. My father was a day laborer in the Army Welfare Trust factory (it made pharmaceuticals) and every other day I would take some money from my mother and go off to spend it on my own amusement. It was a strange time: I was young, restless, angry, and deeply anxious about my prospects. In the city I used to see the well-kept faces of low-level bureaucrats and worry about myself: I had bad teeth, and I feared that they would prevent me from getting a government job.
In those days I was quite taken with the idea of becoming a schoolteacher. In the morning I would take a horse-drawn taanga from the village to the town, and from there a bus to the Government Degree College in Pattoki, where I pretended to be a student: I was not enrolled in the college, but I was friendly with a professor who taught there and he allowed me to sit in his class. His name was Rana Taufeeq; he had studied in Lahore and wore stylish spectacles. Everyone said he looked like the actor Shahid. He had specialized in English Literature and loved explaining the meanings of obscure phrases: “cult of beauty” and “new year’s resolution” are two I still remember. Once in class he read out a poem called ‘The Rebel’, and to animate the idea he gave the example of the politician Javed Hashmi, who had just been arrested by General Musharraf. A rebel was a man who wore long hair when the society around him wore it short, who kept a French beard when the society kept full ones, who wore black clothes when the society wore white.
Every day I would smoke a Gold Leaf cigarette, drink a cup of tea, and munch on at least one Tulsi supari. I was a member of the Muslim Students Federation and got into many fights, and was known among my peers for once having split open the heads of the bus conductor and driver because they didn’t stop the bus when I asked them to.
One day I found my friends gathered outside the principal’s office. My friend Amin (a rich boy, the son of a gambling zamindar) was saying that he needed to have sex with a girl. He gave me Rs 1500 and said to make arrangements. I took the money; I couldn’t have declined it; Amin and his friends were richer than me, and I felt vital hanging around them. This was an opportunity to prove my worth. And I was almost grateful when Amin said I could take his motorbike to procure the girl.
I drove it back to my village and parked it outside the house of my friend Rauf. He was an idler; he spent his time drinking alcohol and betting on the flights of pigeons. He knew about prostitutes too. I asked him now to take me to a brothel.
We went on the motorbike to a well-known adda about a 20-minute drive from the village: it comprised a petrol pump, a Public Call Office, a small kiryana store and a few houses. In one of these houses lived Guddo, a stout black Musalli-ish woman who ran a brothel. This had caused her some trouble: the local nazim had raided her house once and thrashed her in public. But she bribed the police and got out of that situation, and carried on despite these lurking dangers with her business.
She opened the door now and let us in: Rauf and I sat on a charpai on the bare mud floor, beneath unplastered walls.
Rauf asked if there were any girls in the house.
Guddo said, “What’s your problem? Sit a while. So restless.”
I didn’t want to sit in the brothel too long; I was afraid the police might come in.
Guddo summoned two girls into the room: one was black and plump; the other was fair and had beautiful hips that I noted right away.
Rauf consulted me and I told him to select the second girl.
He turned to Guddo and said, “We want this one.” He motioned with his hand to the fair girl.
Guddo said, “We can’t send out our girls at night. Everyone here wants to trap us. The nazim is clinging to me like a hungry dog.”
She was making it sound tortuous and rare just to raise the rate.
The main door opened and a tall balding man with red eyes came into the room. He must have been a truck driver. He gave Guddo some money. Now Guddo nodded at the fair-complexioned girl, who took the man’s hand and led him into the adjoining room.
Our desire heightened by this little performance, Rauf and I negotiated quickly with Guddo. We settled on Rs 1300: we would give her 900 now and the remaining 400 when she delivered the girl outside the Suleiman Textile Mill, which was close to my house in the village.
It was evening when they arrived. And it was terribly cold: Rauf and I were standing outside the textile mill in big jackets. Guddo and her girl stepped out of a bus, Guddo wrapped in a black shawl, the girl wearing a niqab. I gave Guddo the remaining Rs 400.
Rauf said, in front of Guddo and the girl, that he wanted to have a go before I took the girl to my friends.
Guddo didn’t object. Her job was done and she was waiting to catch the next bus.
The girl’s expression was unreadable behind her niqab.
I said, “Don’t be crazy. It’s not my money. Those guys are my friends.”
Rauf became angry. He called me many nasty things. I kept saying that Amin, who had paid for the girl, was my very good friend. Rauf knew that Amin was the son of a landlord but he was in a vile mood; he had facilitated the pick-up and wanted a piece of the action. Soon I lost my patience with him; I put the girl on the motorbike and drove off.
She was sitting behind me like a typical village girl, with her legs on either side of the seat (and not folded elegantly on one side, as is the custom among city women). Her hands were on my shoulders.
I told her to press her chest into my back.
In less than 20 minutes we had reached Amin’s medical store. (Like all big landlords, his father owned small shops around the town.) Amin was sitting inside with his friends. They stopped talking when we entered and stared unabashedly at the girl, who had removed her niqab.
Amin asked his friends to leave. Soon only his store manager remained. He was a short, dark-featured bodybuilder called Nadeem, and it was his job to close the shop every night. Now the four of us (Amin, Nadeem, myself and the girl) left for Nadeem’s house: I went on Amin’s motorbike and the other three went in his car (it was a white Toyota Corolla in the ‘87 model). We were going to Nadeem’s house because Amin didn’t want to alert his parents in his own house.
Nadeem lived in the city. A small baithak was attached to his house. It was a single room with a beautiful big bed, a 14-inch TV in one corner, a sofa set, and a framed portrait of the Quaid-e-Azam on one wall. Nadeem switched on the lights and we all sat down: Amin, Nadeem and I sat on the sofa, while the girl sat on the bed with her torso thrust out and her palms placed flat on the mattress. Suddenly Nadeem said that I should go to Shadda’s kabab shop and fetch food for all of them. I couldn’t argue with him – Nadeem was the son of a doctor who worked in Saudi Arabia – so I took the motorbike once again and drove it to the restaurant. But this was a popular restaurant and there were lots of people here, and I had to wait a full hour before my order arrived. When I brought it back to Nadeem’s house, I saw that Amin had left. He was too tired and had gone home to sleep. Only Nadeem and the girl were in the room. Nadeem was leaning back in the sofa, looking utterly relaxed, with the ankle of one muscled leg resting casually on the knee of the other. He was watching Indian songs on the TV; and the girl was sitting on the bed in the same expectant posture but with a wet face that had just been washed.
Nadeem snatched the bag of food from my hand and began to eat greedily from it.
The girl was watching him without feeling.
He said, “Go. Take the girl.”
I was hungry – I hadn’t eaten since the morning – but I could tell that Nadeem was in no mood to share his meal. I didn’t want to ask him for it and then be told that I couldn’t have it, not in front of the girl.
“Come,” I said to the girl, more aggressively than I had intended.
She got up and followed me outside. I put her on the motorbike once again and drove off. My mind was racing: where could I take her at this hour? (It was past midnight.) My own family lived in a cramped room in the village; I couldn’t even think of taking her there. So now I decided to visit another friend, a boy called Badar who lived on a farm nearby.
Badar was sitting with a servant boy in the room where he kept his chickens. The boys were smoking cigarettes; the chickens were wandering around them, pecking at the feed that was sprinkled for them on the floor.
Badar immediately understood the purpose of my visit. When he saw me enter the room with the girl he didn’t stand up in greeting. He just took a slow, suave drag of his cigarette. It was his way of addressing the prostitute, for whom he felt, like all the others before him, a most empowering blend of desire and contempt.
We sat on the charpai. Badar ordered the servant boy, who was no more than sixteen years old, to go into a shack at the back of the house and make tea.
“So?” said Badar. “What brings you here?” He knew the answer but was posing the question just to establish my desperation.
I said, as casually as I could: “I need your room.”
“Is that right?” he said with a sidelong glance, as though it was a ludicrous idea.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I need to use it right now.”
The girl was sitting next to us on the charpai, mesmerized by the movement of the chickens, communing with them through her glassy gaze.
Badar said, “These bad habits of yours… I hope you’re aware of the scheduled punishments!” He laughed and moved a palm slowly along his knee.
I said, “I’m really tired. I’m going into your room.”
He put out his cigarette on the floor and said, “Not so fast. Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Drink tea and get fresh.”
He looked at the girl and inclined his head.
She stood up.
I said, “No, you can’t, I’ll go first.”
And he said, “What’s a girl like this between two friends?”
I had no answer to that. I also needed his room.
I looked at the girl’s face for some sign of encouragement, some show of support, but she only stared back at me with fixed, stony eyes.
That made me angrier.
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Okay,” I said. “You have a go first.”
And Badar took her into the other room.
It took them no more than 20 minutes. But it seemed like an age to me: I remained sitting on the charpai and was soon joined by the young servant boy, who in the brief absence of his master was liberated and full of questions: he gulped down two cups of tea and asked me about the girl, where I had got her from and how much I had paid for her, whether I thought she was a virgin, whether one could purchase a virgin from a brothel (he had heard somewhere that one could) and how much one would have to pay for that. I barely answered him – I was thinking ahead to my turn – but he seemed satisfied and kept nodding gravely long after we had stopped talking to one another.
At last Badar emerged from the other room. He was still tying the nala of his shalwar. His movements were relaxed and sleepy.
“I’m done,” he said and yawned.
I went into the next room.
It was dim, with only one lightbulb and a single mattress on the floor. The girl was lying on it with her head turned to one side.
I lowered myself on to the mattress.
She didn’t look at me.
I undid my shalwar.
Throughout the procedure she kept her eyes shut and her lips pressed into one another. It was an indeterminate expression, the look of someone who is suppressing either a laugh or a yelp of pain. The more I looked at her, the more difficult it became for me to concentrate, and that made me rougher.
At one point I felt something on myself, and when I looked I saw that she was bleeding. Her blood was all over me.
In panic I retreated.
She opened her eyes and said, “What happened?”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, unable to hide the disgust in my voice.
She was frightened. “I don’t know what happened.” The fright on her face was the first sign of emotion she had shown all night.
Quickly I tied the nala of my shalwar. “Wash up,” I commanded. “Move now.”
It was almost dawn when we returned to the room with the chickens. Badar had gone home to sleep; only the servant boy was sitting on the charpai. I told him to get up and climbed onto it. I was ready to sleep. It was the only kind of release I could have now, and I went for it like it was my reward.
Amid the sound of clucking chickens I fell asleep.
But I was woken in no time by the loud azaan.
The girl was sitting next to me on the charpai. She held a chicken in her lap and was stroking its wing. The servant boy was asleep in the next room with his mouth wide open.
Outside, everything was blindingly clear. On the motorbike we drove along the little dirt road, me with my eyes barely opened, she with her niqab (it was back across her face) trembling in the light wind. She sat behind me in the same way, with her hands on my shoulders, but I felt them now on my body like claws making a horrible claim.
We stopped at the bus station. When the bus came it was full of people who were heading to their jobs in the town. She climbed into it and sat in the front seat, next to the few women. She was the only woman in a niqab, and it made her look more dignified than the others, like a princess in disguise.
I wanted her to look at me just once but she didn’t.
And I knew then that the servant boy too had had his go.
I forgot about the blood until it came back to me after some nights. I awoke with a fearsome burning in my loins. When I stepped into the bathroom light to look, I saw that I was covered with little yellow pustules, little dots like the chicken feed I had seen on the floor of that farmhouse, and I saw that they covered the whole part of me that had entered the blood.
The pustules stayed with me and made themselves known in the difficult days that followed. They would swell and burn every time I suffered an erection, and the pain would cause me to shrink with fear.
Of course I didn’t mention this to my friends when I went back to the college. At the canteen, with my cigarette and my cup of tea, I pretended to be the same man, the same young rebel. But I was burning inside. And from the contemptuous remarks they made about the girl, as well as from their generally hostile and pained demeanors, I could tell that my friends too had touched blood and were now living with the burning evidence. ali-raza123@hotmail.com
129 months ago
DrPhillip Ofume SHARE EVERYWHERE
EMERGENCY BREAKING NEWS:
FINAL OPTION OF JONATHAN & PDP TO WIN ELECTIONS 2015 WITHOUT MERIT EXPOSED BY INSIDERS
APC HRSJC Brussels, 23 March, 2015
President and First Lady Goodluck/Patience Jonathan thought that they were worki Read more ... ng with trusted selected associates.
Alternative option exposed and the latter-time negotiation to price and purchase lgas, state and federal electoral officers prevailed which have been advanced to implementation stage on March 28, 2015, etc.
APC HRSJC exposed and published Goodluck/Patience Jonathan’s option to spend billion of naira to directly and indirectly price and purchase all the PVC of the eligible voters in Nigeria. See https://groups.google.com/forum/ #!topic/ soc.org. nonprofit/Iavuac6DsXk
Goodluck/Patience Jonathan blocked several leaders of PDP from attending all the secret meeting to work on options to win election 2015 even when there were no voting, they declared an uncontested win. Time to time, Alhaji Mujahid Asari-Dokubo propounded this win without election to national and international communities. Alhaji Asari-Dokubo is not lying.
SMART DEMAGOGY & CONCLUDED PLANS:
Jonathan and PDP were advised by US, UK, oil/gas companies and other contributors to use “defuse method” to divert the attention of APC and other onlookers. And confuse the cordial relationship between Jonathan and Jega.
They enlisted and widely publicized the propaganda to replace Prof. Jega and used Prof. Nazim Mimiko as the emerging INEC boss and also organized thugs and others to organize anti-Jega protests across Nigeria.
All these are ruses to deceive APC and others and make them believe that Jega is with APC and in dispute with Jonathan and PDP, whereas Jeja and other INEC members have signed secret deal with Jonathan, PDP, DSS, Police, Army, etc to organize dramatic rigging during the lga, State and federal elections and return Jonathan to third term.
According to these covert operatives, each state election commissioner received N63million, returning officers received $45million and local government coordinators received N34million, etc. DSS, Army, and Police chief election officers in collaboration with their heads received N90million.
Other registered political parties have negotiated with Jonathan and his allies and payment issued same way as the above with cash not disclosed to the external parties and operatives including side agreement to waive protest and litigation.
APC SIDETRACKED BY OTHER POLITICAL PARTIES:
This reason why PDP and other parties are not campaigning because the deal has been made and endorsed and their members are left in the middle of the uncertain road and decamping to APC to seek protection. APC has several contra-measures to stop this fraud put in place by PDP and its allies. APC HRSJC and associates have sent and published score of PDP election rigging information to APC headquarters.
Posted by:
Election Monitor International (Havana, Cuba); Global Coalition for Women Leadership & Civil Liberty, Inc.; APC Human Rights and Social Justice Coalition (APC HRSJC); Prof.(Dr.) Phillip C. Ofume & Associates, Inc.; International Endowment for Democracy & Transparency (TEID) ; MEND (Nat & Intl. Civilian Chapters); Niger Delta Inter-national Liberation Force (NDLIF) in collaboration with APC ORGANIZING FOR NEW FED-ERAL UNION OF NIGERIA & over 5million APC Experts inside and out-side Nigeria.
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132 months ago
Refinery29 These epic photos are basically Frozen IRL
15 Photos That Prove We Are Living In A Giant Ice Cube
refinery29.com
The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen. A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the queen. Sure, you know those words as the opening lines of the Idina Menzel (Adele Nazim for you, Travolta) ballad Let It Go, b Read more ... ut they are also the never-ending mantra
133 months ago
Refinery29 From NY to Boston to Philly, we. Feel. You.
15 Photos That Prove You Are Living In A Giant Ice Cube
refinery29.com
The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen. A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the queen. Sure, you know those words as the opening lines of the Idina Menzel (Adele Nazim for you, Travolta) ballad Let It Go, b Read more ... ut they are also the never-ending mantra
133 months ago