I wish that I lived in a world where hashtags were limited to Instagram bloggers trying to get more likes on their photos so Khadi might eventually sponsor them. You could be the one to post your picture, the quote that makes no sense with it, and finish it off with a #IslamabadFashion or #RichLife - knowing that there’s going to be a mass of people searching for the next person they can objectify. In my world, hashtags have become the last gasps of air that those struggling to find meaning can breathe. When your only reaction is to beg for justice into the void of Twitter. It’s the equivalent of “thoughts and prayers”, but with gritted teeth, balled up fists and bloodshot eyes. Our system and country have turned us into roadside beggars. We’re drawing hashtags on the windows of every newspaper, every police station, every politician to beg for accountability, to beg for justice. The newspapers can’t hear us over their clacking typewriters rushing to the press to talk about how Maryam ...
He missed her funeral. Not physically of course. Not even the grim reaper himself could have stopped him from being at that funeral. He just wished he could be there again. It really was a grand old time. She wrote a eulogy for herself, for him to read out. It was his last performance on stage. When you get to an event as morose as a funeral, the last thing you expect is for a little boy to accidentally roll into - what was later found to be - another person’s to-be-grave because of his mother’s overwhelmingly shocked expression. Little children are interesting. He found them abhorrent. She flip flopped between trying to choke one with love and trying to choke one with well... Whatever it is you choke people with. It really was interesting to watch her argue with her husband about the prospect of having children. They seemed to always be on the opposite page about it. Whenever the poor chap wanted a child, she insisted against it, yet when he wanted to put his career first - it was...