Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2003 12:47:37 -0800 Subject: Re: Zero Arrival From: Tim Bradner&Shehla Anjum <anjum-AT-alaska.net> Your piece is interesting, but can use a bit more editing and the removal of some scaffolding (and cliches) that detracts from your writing. Loved the bit about signifiers was nice. I like the use of the second person, it made the piece very immediate and draws a reader into the moment. As veteran of dozens of late-night arrivals at Karachi airport, I found your descriptions and images quite palpable. There seems to be something missing in your posting. I deliberately left your post in this message so you can what didn't come through. Good luck with your writing. Shehla Anjum > From: saeed urrehman <urrehman-AT-myrealbox.com> > Reply-To: postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu > Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2003 17:21:19 +0000 > To: postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu > Subject: Zero Arrival > > All comments on this piece of writing are welcome. > > saeed > > ------------ > Zero Arrival > by Saeed Ur Rehman > > It is raining down below on the tarmac. You can see it on the TFT monitor as > the crew announces things about turbulence and seatbelts. You follow all > instructions without thinking about them. The night sky glows with lightening > through the windows. The plane shudders and sinks. A heavy muffled thud and > the sound of tyres trying to stop. A 4:30 am landing at Islamabad airport. > Scampering after the cabin luggage. Long queues in the aisles. Instant > formations of amphibian creatures. Your turn at the stairs. Down below, you > can see a red fire engine leave, unwanted. A bus takes everybody to the main > building. Waiting for the luggage. Shuffling of feet and suitcases. Trundling > of trolleys. X-ray machines scanning the bags. Sky blue shirts and dark blue > trousers with badges on their shoulders rub sleep off their eyes and > monitoring screens. Outside. Worried haggling with a taxi driver about the > fare to the Daewoo Bus Terminal on Peshawar Road, Rawalpindi. 300 rupees. > Shuttling in a rickety > > The Daewoo Bus Terminal. Magazine stalls. Public telephone points with > operators dozing at the counters. Efficiency and early morning drowsiness. One > ticket to Lahore please. 390 rupees for our super-luxury bus service. What > does that involve? A meal and a lot of legroom. Does it have a toilet? No. > What kind of luxury is this? Isnt Daewoo a multinational presence? No, it has > localized itself by simultaneously upgrading the standard of Pakistani > transport industry and downgrading the international buses. Your ticket > please. Oh who is this woman? Our ground hostess. What is her function? She > makes announcements and serves food while college boys enjoy their risque > laughter. The road is smooth. It is the motorway: Pakistans symbol of clean > modernity that bypasses all other symbols (cities full of horse-driven tongas) > on the way to Lahore. Above the driver, ads and entertainment silently > interrupt each other on the TV in a programme called Consumer Plus. If you put > the headphones on, you > anizing. > > is the problem. Somewhere deep down you know that you are using lazy > metaphors. Dead signifiers are the best shortcuts to the death of your own > thought. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Listen to the prayer calls. Listen to the > sound of honking horns of commuter vans. See. You are made of dust that is why > you have to inhale smoke. Dust to dust. Ashes to smoke. There is no logic. The > demand for logic itself is illogical. Your one dimensional ifs, whys, buts and > therefores will be surpassed by the implacable logic of things. Contradictions > make the social sphere persist like the hands of the beggars at traffic > signals. > > Enter home. Lie to your parents. About what you have been doing in the > seductive and horrible Australia, a Western country in the middle of the > Pacific. You never made love, never drank and became a vegetarian because > Halal meat was difficult to find. Take a shower. Find an empty room. Bolt the > door. Sleep. Sleep through all the prayer calls, pretending not to hear them. > Come out in the middle of the night when everybody is sleeping. Go to the roof > of the house. Not a single star in the sky. Human beings have eaten the stars > while running on the roads. Night thoughts. The sounds of tyres cutting the > heart of tarmac in the distance. Sit for a while on a chair broken by the > inclemencies of life. Your words sentence yourself. Go downstairs. Sleep again > through the prayer calls till late in the morning. Breakfast table. One > relative tells you that it maybe possible to get a good job through some of > his connections. You are divided among many people and you are being spoken in > many voices > > > > > --- from list postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu --- --- from list postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu ---
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