half past nomad

I’ve been an avid user of MovableType for over 2 years now and have loved every minute of it. This amazing publishing tool has done what Blogger stopped doing for me. It actually made my writing feel welcomed in its little grey text boxes. For me, that is important. It had these little messages which you could customize for greeting purposes. I ran my personal and profesionnal writings on this baby. Because my baby treated me well and in turn, I treated my baby well. Face it, our blogs mean this to much us.

I was in TypePad’s beta testing team and I was an eager tester for their new version 3.0 as well but wasn’t picked. They had millions of eager testers possibly. Over a week ago, they finally released their new edition but with nothing less then an accidental stab to many loyal users. For they switched to a paid edition; their free version carries a tiny tiny usage possible (1 user, 3 blogs max and I’m already past that).

Across the globe, thousands of users mourned the loss of a loyal friend, of a toy their baby loved feverishly and prayed in silence.

Anyways, the time has come to on. Fortunately, an open source project by the name of WordPress shows great promise, with add-ons that I was desperately needing, such as better comment management, greater control of administration, RSS feeds, XHTML compliance and yes, PhotoLog add-ons.

With a new simpler layout, a firmer control of comment spamming and much more in actual development, I’ve decided to push up HPNv2.0 release and slowly implement add-ons as time truthfully trickles.

Go on. Say it with me: Insha-allah.

I write for a reason.

It’s 3AM, and I’m standing out in the cold with a brother. He cannot believe I’m flying out the next morning, barely 20 hours after I broke the news to him. We’re talking fast, we’re talking excitedly, we’re talking like shaken bottles of pop, bubbling, fizzling, overflowing. We’re trying to say everything and everything we need to, had to. And in the midst of this, he tells me a fact:
“Waleed, Asia, Pakistan, doesn’t know who Waleed is. Waleed can be anybody he wants to. Waleed can do whatever Waleed wants, and Waleed can blow away anybody he wants to”.

All I had to do was change my mind.

Pakistan was a fight. A giant fight. It’s always a fight. Between the punches, I pause time and breath. Between wounds landing on me, I pray to my Lord. All in the space between.

I’m sitting at a wedding, the daytime in between these crazy nights. A distant relative advises me soberly “Here in Pakistan, everything is like boxing. Either you land a bigger punch or your opponent will. Either you punch first or get punched first”. And this man worked hard at providing for his family.

I’m sitting in my house, the one room we had momentarily. And I’m trying to understand this country, these people, this blood that apparently flows in me and you both the same. I half succeed, I half fail. I don’t know how much I even wish to connect to them. Lying back, I seek guidance from the Prophet (pbuh) and the Sahaba’s. Eyes closed, I try to float amongst facts and will to myself an appropriate hadith or event.

I’m reading a book on my laptop. Around the time when Khalid bin Waleed was removed as the Commander of the Armies, his second in command signed a treaty that went against the wishes of Khalid. However, it being the treaty of this specific man, he respected it, and gave the occupants of the city the 3 days to pack up and leave, with all the war booty that was supposed to be theirs.
He waited the 3 days as he had promised.
And then he attacked. He and his men rode out the journey of those 3 days like lightening, struck and gained back all that war booty.

I’m in my village, my 2nd visit in life. In punjabi, it’s called pind. I’m standing at the edge of this house and staring at vast growths that are supposed to be mine, lands that I own. Lands I’ve never stood upon. Next to me stands my dad’s cousin, with a passion for our family history. He’s dug up almost everything about us prior to Pakistan, and traced our family tree back over 7 generations.
We were Arabs once. Called over by the Moghuls, we sailed over to teach Islam, Quran and Arabic to the locals. My ancestor settled down locally and we’re direct descendants. Direct descendants of a man who belonged to the tribe of Khalid bin Waleed, The Sword of Allah.

And that, m’dear, explains why I look more Arab then Pakistani.

ps: For the record, we were all really really excited to hear this.
I hope you are too.

This blog entry came to you from seat 35E of GulfAir, headed out of Lahore to the Middle East. It took only 6 weeks.

I have many phrases, many dialogues, many many a conversation pieces that I could tell you about.
I may even do that. But not now.
Now, I’m speechless, expressionless, a mute sigh that is understood in a glance.

For the moment, I need to set down that I’m out of Pakistan, safely, alhamdulilah. I’m sitting here in this seat, whilst simultaneously, my mother is on another flight which too is headed to the same destination.

I know.

We had the airport staff baffled, the porters very confused, and a travel agent who really really really wanted to do things her way but we always do things our own style.

A little whilst ago, I called up my dad from the plane.
I think it’s only fair that he comes pick me up from the airport.
He was definitely asleep.
Now he’s definitely astonished.

Alright folks, the flight attendant wants me to wrap this baby up.
It’s time to land.

I’ve been up all night and now face a dilemma: Shall I stay up, eat breakfast and try to get my study on or shall I sleep, perchance to dream and get my nap on?

update: akds slept. And all was good.