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Iss Des kay Desi Khanay

The show is on-aired on ARY ZAUQ on every Tuesday 6:00 pm PST. This is a food and travel show that covers various cities of Pakistan for the love of food and to content a curiosity for exploring the cultural beauty of this country.
Iss Des kay Desi Khanay is the property of ARY NETWORK.

HOSTED BY: Summiyah Malik
Asst. Director: Faisal Rahi

DIRECTED BY: Hammad Ali Khan
PRODUCED BY: Moiz Omer
SENIOR PRODUCER: Kamran Afridi

V.P ARY ZAUK: Ammad Yusaf

Link:

SHE CLINGS, HE FLINGS

Okay! This is true. They are like rubber bands and they are from Mars. They will watch the game and they will spill coke and popcorns over your newly upholstered couch. And yes, no matter how much you torment your vocal chords, they will not shave off their grating stubble on a Sunday morning, even though they know the fact that your girl friends are popping in for a regenerating brunch.

Behold ladies! This elastic Marsian is our subject. Stand in a corner and obscure your entity behind the shadows of his messy closet. What? You say it stinks. Don’t worry. It’s probably his unwashed socks that he had made a ball of, and shoved inside his shoes last night. Shocked! Don’t be; you are only his girlfriend, and if you are his wife, then you can tie the noose around his throat tomorrow morning. Shhh… look! He is yawning. It is high time he aroused. After all, the sun has begun to scorch his bed through the open draperies. Observe how he drags himself out of his bed covers, and squints his eyes at the wall clock. It’s quarter to one in the afternoon. He twists and turns his mouth in revulsion, and stretches his arms till you hear the sound of his bones cracking. You say this action disgusts you. My dear lady, we have just begun. Wait and watch. Barefoot, he hobbles towards the washroom. Looks around and sees the tap over the washbasin. Now he splashes water over his face and rinses his mouth. Ahh! Refreshing. He is still in his PJ’s and he doesn’t seem to mind that at all. Wait! what are you doing? Do not leave your position. You say he forgot to brush his teeth and shave his beard. My lady, soothe your nerves, and trust me when I tell you that it was a personal choice of his to avoid ruining the bristles of his electric brush on a holiday. Everything should relax like himself.

Step warily, and follow him. He is going towards the kitchen. But what is he doing? His eyes seem to be searching for something. Oh! He opens his mouth. He is calling out your name. The beast wants someone to feed him. But I request you not to forsake your vantage point. Let him hunt for his own meal. Aww… you feel sorry for your man. It is okay; you will not in the next five minutes. Even though he has squirmed his face in repugnance, and exasperation, he is too hungry to dwell on your thoughts. He approaches the fridge and pokes his head inside it. Yes, he seems to enjoy the cool air of the electronic box. His hands are groping for food, and he succeeds in getting hold of a packed sandwich. Not just that, he has picked out a bowl of rice, diced tomatoes, two slices of cheese, and a can of non-alcoholic bear. What do you think he will do next? You say that he will warm it up and place it in a platter. Not at all! He has already started gobbling down cold food, which he has nicely placed over your tablecloth. No, no, no…. don’t try to bash him over the head. We are observing our subject. Remain calm.

Wow! The phone buzzes. Will he receive it? It doesn’t seem so. He remains glued to his seat. Probably he deems that it might be you on the other line. Don’t look so stunned. He has his misgivings. Surely he wouldn’t want to spoil his holiday. Well guess what, he finally does shift his body to the living room. Why do you smile so much my dear lady? He is not encroaching the boundaries of this new domain to receive the phone; he is merely there because it’s time for WWE wrestling. Watch how he stretches out his legs on the table before him, and how he fixes the cushions behind his back. But he forgot something. What? The remote to the TV. Ahh!!! He wrinkles his nose in annoyance. Poor man! He will have to get up again. There, there, he finally clutches his electronic comfort. The wrestling commences. Notice how the Martian bangs his feet against your polished table. Now, the remote goes into his mouth and he bites at it in shuddering expectation of John Cena’s next move. Don’t be fidgety my friend! The remote is secure in its casing. And don’t be sorry either! I know you had been blaming your doggy “Rocky” for the chewing act.

The doorbell rings, and he hops up from the couch like a chargeable felon or more like a tormented toad. He is sure it’s you at the other end. Yes, yes he is certainly raking away the scattered crumbs of bread from the couch and his T-shirt. Look! He buries the remains of his sandwich behind the cushion. With one of his hand, he wipes off the drops of sweat from his forehead and with the other he unbolts the door. Follow him and settle down on the couch. Do you have the list in your hand? Yes! Keep it there. The doors swings open, and behold who walks in. They are his best buddies in sports wear. Oh! They plan to go out for a game of golf. He is so relieved not to see you. But would you allow him to ramble off in green lands without vacuuming your mama’s couch? You mustn’t at any rate sanction that. Ahh! He turns around and notices you. Remain calm and hand over the groceries list to him in a firm tone. Oh! He smiles adorably and winks at you. No, no… do not smile back. It is a trap. Do not be ensnared. Hand over the list to him and take your revenge. He walks towards you now. Step back! Do not let him hug you and call you honey. Wait! Why do you look at me in that manner? I am your well-wisher my friend. After all I lifted the nasty blame off “Rocky’s” collar. You say I am akin to devil. No, you are mistaking me for my brother. This is a critical moment and you mustn’t squander your time in thinking about my credentials. Hand over the list to him. WHAT! You are rushing to get him his golf club kit. But he hasn’t even hugged you yet. You say he looks adorable with that flirtatious smile hovering around his lips. Have you gone crazy? Why are you leading him and his buddies to the door and waving them good-bye. Do you even know that your moves are being read at the moment? Oops! Do not be astonished! Every Pink reader has witnessed your Achilles' heel. You cling to your weakness, and he flings his tactics on you. The Marsian knows the chink in your armour girl. Sigh! I mustn’t linger here any longer. What! You want me to stay. Why? You say I disgraced you before hundreds. But I endeavoured not to let that happen.

Why are you aiming that vase at me? You wouldn’t hit me. Would you? You say that you are going to do that in the next second. I am vanishing. Do not break the vase. BHOOOOOPPPP !!!!!

P.S: She did break the vase. After all, she is from Venus. ;)

THE THORNS OF CONTEMPT

I opened my eyes wide in horror and anticipation when my erudite English literature teacher confidently asked my dear friend whether she felt bad about being a member of the ‘minority’. Those were the good old days of college when the flippant wind drifted across the corridors and the hourly bells rhymed in unison on every floor of the reputed institution. I sat erect and stupefied on my wooden chair, and held my breath in probability of an incensed outburst of offended sentiments. The supercilious teacher, who had spent a few years of her childhood in the liberal ambience of polished English schools of Europe, skidded up her eyebrows and urged my friend to rejoin to her query. My friend threw an unexpected and self-assured smile back at our teacher and shook her head in total negation.

“NO! Are you quite sure about it miss Ashfaq?” I clearly recall my teacher exclaiming in amazement.

“I am damn sure madam.” My friend stalwartly responded as if the word ‘minority’ had totally failed to jab at her self-worth.

The teacher didn’t even make an attempt to conceal her astonishment, and vigorously shook her head, simultaneously uttering inarticulate murmurs that exuded pure discontent. In the college cafeteria, I remember my pal had gloated over the quagmire in which she had successfully pitched our teacher. What and why the erudite teacher had tried to elicit from the Shiite girl is quite ostensible. Since childhood I had been warily pursuing the ramifications of the ‘thorns of contempt’ that sprout from our hearts and oblige our fellow men and women to distance themselves from us. All red, yellow, green, blue, and black ‘thorns’ formulate their own distinct clans, and though the species and genus is the same, the level of rancour, determines the “hues of differences”. To make myself more lucid, I shall render you all with a global perspective. It is patent that there is a cold war going on between Islam and the west. The Muslims all around the world have vividly fathomed the dilemma that is going to ensnare their ensuing generations. The western media is implicitly telling their fellowmen that Muslims are obliged by their religious teachings to ‘annihilate’ them, whereas the Muslim clerics and scholars doggedly assert the existence of a Jewish lobby that is bound to ‘obliterate’ the followers of Islam. But, have you ever paused to think for once that Muslims themselves are razing each other. Muslims bear invisible “thorns of Contempt” on their bodies, which are of different colours. Birth in a Muslim family didn’t assist me in discovering my identity. I had to scrape and scratch the tenacious layers of duplicity and prejudice from the entities of those who environed me, before I was able to locate my true identity. My “Sunni” teacher considered my “Shiite” friend as being a part of minority, my “Sunni” brothers and sisters in Pakistan call the Muslims in Arabia as “Wahabi’s”, my “Bhohri” friend celebrates her Eid two days before I do, my “Shiite” friend though outwardly genial, profoundly deems that I am a non-Muslim, my “Sunni” fellowmen, unequivocally believe that all “Wahabi’s” and “Shiite’s” are non-Muslims. My “Wahabi” brothers and sisters have faith in all “Sunni’s” as being the initiators and propagators of “Bidaat” (addition of un-Islamic superfluities to the teachings of Islam), the “Berelwi” and “Deobandi” Muslims are also ideological rivals, the staunch and ascetic religious clerics denounce the “Sufi saints” of the sub-continent, and the followers of the Sufi’s turn a blind eye to the religious corruption that billows out in the masses.

After inquiring about my name, an aged woman in a wedding ceremony asked me who was I. I got a trifle flabbergasted as I had already introduced my name to her.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Are you are Sunni?” she insipidly inquired.

“No I am not.” I endeavoured to remain appeased at her obscenity.

“Oh!” she sighed in disappointment and continued, “ Actually I am looking for a pretty girl to marry my son with, but every time either the girl is not pretty or she is a Sunni.”

Poor woman! Even if she had named all the sects of Islam before me, she would have heard the same response, a clear “no”, because I am none. Who am I then? Well, I am a “Muslim” and that is my identity, nothing more, and nothing less. Every time I walk past a “Sunni mosque” in Karachi, an advanced and Industrial city of Pakistan, I hear the cleric cussing out the non-believers and urging the Muslims to unite against the ominous western forces. Dear readers, I inwardly laugh at his juvenile desires and his ludicrous standpoint, as he is the same cleric who has banned the “Shia’s” to enter his mosque. Every time I pass across a Shia “Imambargah” (mosque), I hear the cleric vociferating his wrath against the Sunni’s, telling the swarms of Shiite’s:

“Sunni’s tag us as ‘minority’ but are unaware of the fact that God has tagged them for hell”.

The irony of the condition: ‘ you will not encroach our domain, and we will abstain from encroaching yours, but we will unite against a common evil’, makes me twitch in my seat. We are quite satisfied with the disparate “colours” of thorns as long as we remain “thorns”. Black thorns protrude out of ones body and red thorns from the others, but we are still the “Muslim Ummah”. My dear readers, there is no “Muslim Ummah”. “Unity” is the prerequisite of the formation of a stalwart clan, but our disparate hues of thorns ensure that this qualification is never achieved. The west is not our enemy; we are our own enemies. Mutual dissidence in practices and beliefs has ripped us apart from each other’s hearts. We are surviving on a precarious manifestation of ‘defence’ that will fall and shatter any minute. One Muslim woman bends and kisses the sod of a grave; the other depreciates even the thought of entering a graveyard. Muslims embrace each other on Eid but refuse to offer prayers in the same mosque. Voluntarily, the Muslims are gradually grinding themselves in the mill of contempt. Will Muslims ever be able to blot out their differences? What are they waiting for? Are they waiting for another century to unravel the knots of disparities, or do they await an acerbic disaster to jolt them out of their slumber? Whatever it might be; I am sure of one thing that only the Muslim unity can assist in contriving ways of amendments, which would lead to prosperity. And ‘prosperity’ my dear readers, is the foundation of peace.

HEAVEN UNDER ATTACK:

NOTE: The article is old and is being republished with minor amendments.

She didn't know where she was going. She had no idea of what she would be doing the very next minute. The vivid image of the cold, consternated and torpid head of her senile father impaled onto the tip of the spear was still horrendously vivid in her memory. She only knew one truth, the truth that this image had only been engraved on the crevasses of her brain to haunt her for the rest of her life. The recollection of the grotesque and monstrous face of the Uzbek man, who was an uninvited and unwelcome alien in her picturesque land 'Swat', sent shudders down her spine. She escalated the speed of her fragile, fair feet in a futile attempt to evade the trepidation that loomed about the rocky path on which she was running. The breath taking beauty of the 'Swat valley' could leave any sensitive soul awe-struck. Fruits and nuts grew here in abundance, flowers bloomed and kissed the sweet tender breeze that swept past them, the mountains broke and cracked into falls and streams of cold fresh water and thick green woods stamped the seal of magnificence and purity on this heavenly land located in the northern province of Pakistan. The girl had now reached the stream of crystal clear water that glimmered like infinite diamonds when the rays of the sun hit its surface. She swiveled her head from side to side and upon being assured of her solitude, sat down at the edge of the stream, dipping her feet into the cool water, and wriggling her toes to feel its velvety touch. The Uzbeks and Arabs had encroached her heaven. They had escaped from the hell in Afghanistan, their hearts and brainwashed minds seething with infernal vengeance. The girl had no place to go, the devils had butchered her old father right in front of her eyes. They slashed his head off from his juddering body and pitched it on top of their spear. One of them had sighted her at the entrance door. She had just returned from her 'girls school' with her dowdy satchel slung diagonally across her chest when she witnessed the devilish act. The 'devil' waved his sword in the air and pounced in her direction. The girl didn't even have time to vociferate her wrath and agony in a hurry to save her own life. They kept chasing her deep into the valley and then lost track and stamina to pursue any further. Now she reposed near the stream, tears rolling down her cheeks, fusing into the flowing waves. Only a short while had elapsed when she heard the faint sound of chopper blades oscillating swiftly about their axis. A cry of relief escaped her constricted throat upon seeing the vivid insignia of 'Pakistan Army'. The gunship helicopters had arrived. She abruptly stood up and commenced gesticulating her arms from side to side in an attempt to draw the attention of the choppers that now hovered right above her head. But perhaps she was too late. A sharp spasm of pain streaked through her and her face went ashen. She lowered her face and saw the pointed head of the sword being pulled back from her stomach.

The terrorist had murdered her.

The valley echoed with the ear-splitting sound of bullets. It was over.

Dear readers, the bloody incursion of the Talibaan into the 'Swat Valley' have forced the natives to abandon their homes. The situation in the mountains has acutely escalated. Girl schools are being burnt down, women are being shoved into the darkness of Stone Age and men are been butchered and slaughtered. The government of Pakistan or Musharraf regime is ostensibly trying to alleviate the consequences of the civil disorder, but I am afraid, they are not putting in enough effort. The Talibaan have gradually commenced encroachment into the city of Rawalpindi and are carrying out sporadic suicide attacks.

How much more "unjust" could the system be? The Army Generals who had cultivated and nourished the Talibaan in their tribal areas are sipping wine in the presidential house, and the poor civilians of Swat valley are paying the price of the grave blunders made by the drunken dictators. The rulers of the state of Pakistan albeit are fighting terrorist in Swat, but not as a foremost priority. The anarchy seems interminable and it is really heart rending for an onlooker to observe such a nonchalant attitude of the Musharraf regime. The Army had to dispatch gunship helicopters into their own land as a futile attempt to handle the rampant turmoil. The regime is allowing the situation to slip out of their hands. The result of keeping the masses ignorant and uneducated is evincing itself in a hideous manner as the natives of the swat valley are gradually succumbing to the reprobated Talibaan because their hopes of recommencing a normal life is annihilating. Could the state of affairs be more deplorable?

It is evident that the militants desire to gradually move from northern mountainous regions of the country to the southern shores of the state, and have practically commenced the implication of their malevolent plan by taking a domineering command over the 'Swat Valley'. Situation is constantly going down the hill as the armed militants up there have made a number of members of the 'security forces' their hostage. The victimized citizens of Pakistan patiently wait for the moment when the self-imposed leader of the country will jolt out of his selfish intoxication and rescue the natives of Swat. Only God knows how long they will have to wait. Unfortunately President Musharraf could only think of imposing a state of EMERGENCY in the country, blatantly thrusting the common man deeper into the pit of helplessness.

BE BLESSED.

WHY SHE WANTS TO DIE?

A cherished friend of mine often tells me that she wants to die. And whenever I enquire after the motive, she confides in a dejected tone that she abhors her entity. When I again ask about the rationale behind orchestrating such a horrid self-image, she explicates that firstly she is whacked-out and secondly she is hacked off at the stifling realities of life that are too scathing to be gulped down. When I remind her of her blooming youth and the ludicrousness of the delusion of being “whacked-out”, she vociferates in retaliation, throwing the following veracity in my face:

“Youth without bright prospects is worst than a sound repose under the grave.”

Her rebuttal is quite valid my dear readers, but for how long? Hasn’t she failed to comprehend that one needs to make a shot to generate prospects. I tried to make her understand my point, but she repudiated it by evincing an adamant faith in fortune. I wish I could convolute the same defiant will into a passion for obtaining the means to build up ‘doors of prospects’. I also recall a morning when a similar excuse was presented to me by a twenty-five year old young man over random chat on msn. This young man detested himself and when I asked him the reason, he told me that he always floundered and made blunders with his tasks, he is laid-back by nature and has been flunking in his exams since his 7^th school standard. He further said that he has never been able engrave a laudable impression on the minds of his parents, and it might be probable that they psychologically disparage him. Now, my dear readers, the only common point between both of them was that they were relying entirely on fortune to knock on their doors. And, the only disparity between my friend and that stranger was this that the latter desired a positive push on the back to commence running on the track of a complacent life, whereas my former has completely refused to allow anyone to give her a push.

I often wonder why we exasperate fortune while deeming that fortune is exasperating us. We wait for fortune to knock at our doors and fortune keeps waiting for us to stand up and build a door for it to enter. Such scenarios often remind me of Holy Mary who although was promised nourishment from Heaven during her pregnancy, had to get up and shake the 'date tree' so that it could shower its sweet fruit upon her.

I had hammered this fact down the head of the Msn stranger and he had pledged to make attempts, or in other words, build doors so that fortune could find a passage of entry into his life. I never encountered that stranger again but deep inside my heart, I know that I had rescued a dying soul.

My friend still talks of death, she wants to die, she is dejected and worn-out. She had cremated her soul long ago, and now she wishes to decay her body. Through various excuses, I am stalling her deep-rooted desire but I do not know how long would I be able to obviate the imminent consequence of such a grim resolution because where there is no will, there certainly is no way.

BE BLESSED.

WHAT MAKES A MAN GREAT? MONEY OR CHARACTER.

I SAY: Filling up the dickey of my dad’s car with overloaded bags of goodies, I had little disposition of swivelling my head towards the scintillating glass casements of the super mall. However, dad directed me to open the door of the backseat and dump the remaining groceries there. The boisterous crowd of Pakistan’s bourgeois were ever so readily pulling out their wallets and opening their handbags to hand over ‘that’ one out of a few cards to the man behind the counter, which shall further ram them down into the quicksand of “Debt”. I wondered how much the ‘Bankers’ with a capital ‘B’ would have relished upon viewing such a patent exhibition of commitment, sincerity and devotion from their Moron clients who succumbed to their implicit mercenary offer. That calls for a thank you token. So if a Banker with a capital ‘B’ was actually among the swarm of the middle class, he must have sent bouquets of red roses to our governmental economists who assiduously scarifice their days and nights, oops! Sorry only “Days”, to leave the bourgeois with no choice or option but to convert into “obligated morons”. Anyways, returning from my vain rambling, I delivered the groceries onto the backseat, and as I twisted my head inadvertently towards the glimmering mall, I noticed a young man clad in sordid shalwar kameez with worn-out shoes over his feet. His wife, who was ascetically sheathed behind a Black overall and a headscarf, accompanied him. A small child of about three years or less held the corner of his mother’s sagging outfit. The couple was a picture of the poverty stricken lower class from the three categories of social stratification. I wondered what ‘they’ were doing at the super mall. Nevertheless, I was relieved of the pains of contemplation soon, as the woman lifted her child in her arms and spread out her grubby palm in front of her husband. “THEY ARE HERE FOR SHOPPING”! I beg your pardon reader, but I couldn’t abstain myself from exclaiming out my inference. Dad stared at me a trifle exasperated but thankfully he didn’t do anything other that throwing a ‘glare’ at me. Self-assured as I am in my dealings, I cheekily pointed my finger towards the young couple and swiftly riveted by gaze back on the objects of my intrigue. The young man initially gazed at the palm spread before him, then put his own hand into the pocket of his kameez, and drew out a wallet. A glint of exhilaration and anticipation rendered itself in his wife’s eyes but the same had forsaken his. He initially used his forefingers to tickle the contours of the cavernous wallet and then pulled out a “ten rupee” note from it. The woman scowled at the sight of the meager currency but nonetheless grabbed it. The man was about to place the wallet back into his pocket when the woman again poked at his arm and with the gesticulation of her fingers, demanded more cash. The man furrowed his eyebrows and fiercely shook his wallet in front of her face, turning it upside down to mutely elucidate that he had no more. The wife was severely disappointed at such a disheartening display of reality, and turned her face away from her husband in disgust. I am not sure if the tears in her eyes were in the pipe but my dad did urge me to step inside the car. As I followed the instructions, I noticed that the trio perched themselves on a bench, which was rooted within the vicinity of the mall, and ostensibly decided to squander the rest of the evening watching other folks living their fantasies. I remember asking my dad if we could help them a little. Judicious as my dad is often, he told me that the poverty stricken couple were not beggars; they had self-esteem and gargantuan supply of patience that assisted them not to ebb from what dignity they possessed.

This entire incident raised one particular question in my mind:

“What makes a man great? Money or character.”

It would certainly be unfair to incline partially towards any one of the two options. Both money and character make a man great in their respective ways. Let us look at money first; who doesn’t like to look at money? Money gives birth to prosperity and prosperity gives birth to desirability. All the prosperous countries of the world are like tantalizing Popsicles for malnourished countries and their masses. America might have set Afghanistan and Iraq ablaze, it might have maligned Islam and Muslims, it also might have fooled the naive populace of this world, but still, America is desirable for every under-developed country as much as it is for a plain Mexican. Students of “Karachi University” might recklessly walk over the American flag painted on the campus road, but majority of them will not refuse an American visa. Money bestows power. Power ascertains superiority and superiority guarantees inexorable command and grants a license to exercise the attained relentless authority. This particular license will oblige the con man to obey and the one who is being obeyed is GREAT my dear readers.

ABOVE: A photograph of Karachi University showing the American flag painted on the road.

Money can buy you comforts of life; it has the power to obliterate the sense of worthlessness. It can incessantly cater to both: imperatives and ostentations. And guess what? We can never get enough of it. At this stage, I must express my gratitude to our Lord who created me in the present era or else, Confucius, Hypocrites, Plato and Aristotle would have strangled me to death after reading what I have written above.

Now we shall turn to character. Many events have occurred in my life that have consolidated my opinion that:

We are what we stand for.

Readers! Our choices cement our character. Harsher the choices are, stronger is the character. The pharaoh reigning over the Israelites was great, but Moses (P.B.U.H) strength of character and dogged adherence to his beliefs emancipated the Israelite clan from the clutches of his malevolence. The prosperous Quraishi tribe was callous and racist, but the strength of prophet Muhammad’s (P.B.U.H) character and tenacious sense of justice crippled their double standards, compelling the Chieftains to annihilate racial discrimination. These and other prophets were not rich, but they certainly were Glorious. One’s character can make a heaven out of hell for him. Perhaps character is one of the few impalpable abstractions that our ever so enticing ‘Money’ cannot buy. Our character dear readers establish the pivotal disparity between humans and animals. The existence of a strong character in a human being is the pinnacle of his spiritual evolution.

It is now time to take a U-turn, and peer at the drawbacks of both our options. Money can pump us with contemptible vanity. It can make us lose our conscience. It can place our character on crutches dear reader! Yes ‘crutches’! Money can create delusions for us and needlessly accelerate conceit. It can make our creativity torpid and rob us of our strength of meditation. Grotesque as it is, we cannot deny that a weak conscience always remains vulnerable to the exploitations of money. This further implies that money has the strength to batter and mar ‘character’ until it becomes precarious enough to eventually self-destruct. But can we denounce one and live with the other? A swaybacked character would famish our soul and a hunch-backed economy would emaciate our body.

The above debate, albeit is inadequate, it has assisted me into inferring that the alternating events that environ us, are the key factors which determine our pick.

Both character and money can make a man great. In actuality, we are obligated to choose one out of the two to conquer Greatness.

STAY TOP-NOTCH ;)