Doom & Bloom: Transmissions From Our Futures

Transmissions From Our Futures

MUSHBA SAID

Doom & Bloom: Transmissions From Our Futures First published in Karachi, Pakistan in May 2019 Stories and logo are copyright Mushba Said Š 2019 Block 18, Gulistan-e-Jauhar, Karachi, Pakistan Cover and book design by Mushba Said Typeset by Mushba Said Typeset in Spectral and Karma www.mushbasaid.co.vu/doomandbloom

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Welcome Note

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The Saviour Saint

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The Disease

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Lift Together

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The Kajal of My Eye

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The Trail

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Hear Me Out

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The Cross

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The Jewel

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Polar Pain

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A Breath

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Moving Forward

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Goodbye

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Acknowledgements

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It seems our futures have finally aligned. Come, let’s explore.

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WELCOME NOTE Thank you for being here, we’re glad you came. What you hold in your hands is a small collection of transmissions received from the future— our futures. Some of these may not feel like the future, some of these may, that’s the fun part of these transmissions, they’re subjective just like time.

Time is not linear or simple; it is complex to the point of not being the same for everyone and everything. How you experience time holding this book, and how this book experiences time are both different. The time it takes for you the light to hit you and go past you to hit the book are both different—the book is experiencing the light of your past, even though in your head you both exist together in the present.

But the truth is, there is no such thing as the present. Yes, there is such a thing as the past and the future, and they often get intertwined.

What we view as the future is the past of someone or something else, we’re only just receiving it now, just as we’ve only just received these transmissions.

Scattered, reconstructed, deconstructed, misunderstood, not understood at all—these are the transmissions from the future, long lost signals only just reaching us. It’s okay if you don’t completely understand what they tell us of the future—remember, time is complex, just like us. Simply understand this; these are not transmissions from the future—a random future—these are transmissions from our futures, the futures that we share together, live together, await together, read together. So come, let us read what we’ve been sent.

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THE SAVIOUR SAINT Legend has it that Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s mazaar protects Karachi from water-borne natural disasters. At least it did until the complex was built around it. Now, legend has it that the corruption of the complex around it impeded the power of Ghazi’s spirituality, leading to Karachi suffering numerous disasters as climate change began to engulf the city in its wrath. And soon, the believers who crowded Ghazi’s mazaar began dispersing, cursing Ghazi for his failure to the saviour saint they believed him to be.

As the curses grew, so did the rumbling around the mazaar complex.

Probably the drilling, probably the construction, people thought. With the saint’s significance falling, New Navy Town—the very development company that built the complex around Ghazi’s mazaar—saw their chance to buy the land off from no one and inaugurate it as the site of a new mega mall.

On the day of the unveiling when the chairman stood tall and proud, announcing the new project, he happily announced that there was no longer any need for the saint; that all this magic and faith healing was useless and pointless in our era when New Navy Town had opened so many state-of-the-art hospitals and research centers.

“The saviour saint is no longer the saviour of Karachi, and he could truly rest in peace,” said the chairman sarcastically, snickering as he stretched out the final three words. That final curse was all that was needed, it seemed. With those words, the chairman had cursed the land, as the land around the complex opened wide—not like an earthquake but as if the land had been bestowed with life—with a mouth that opened and swalled everything and everyone before anyone 9

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could run. The very structures that confined the saviour saint—those stiff, concrete structures—had become flexible and malleable, arms that stopped people from escaping as the land came to swallow them next, trapping them just as the saint had been trapped for all this time.

By the time the land had finished and began to close up again, a great rumble was felt. It started at the saint’s mazaar and slowly extended throughout the city, catching speed as it demolished every building the New Navy Town had built, freeing the land from the curse of the corrupt. By the time the great rumble had finished, the mazaar stood as it used to be, the only thing in sight, with the air filled with the scent of the flowers that are set upon the grave of the Sufi saint. That was the day that Ghazi returned, Karachi’s saviour saint, unquestionable and free.

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THE DISEASE It was somewhere between the escalation of war and the women’s rights. That’s all people remember about the Zinnisa disease. Some say it was a mutation, some say it was intentionally injected by the Eastern forces into our cows.

Whatever its origins, this disease targeted the high testosterone levels of cis-het men, and depending on other male hormone factors, killed them. Symptoms included unreasonable rage, random bouts of madness that took shape in the form of breaking doors, windows, even walls; causing bodily harm to women; waking up in the night screaming; paranoia, and others smaller symptoms.

Some died within weeks, some within months. It was said that lessening the level of testosterone in the system to match that of women or the intersex would help, but men were often too proud and scared to try.

With a dwindling male population, the great rumble, and the occasional natural disaster, Karachi was changing shape with each week. With the men almost gone, many places were empty, and people relocated into those buildings, like the FTC, the courts, the police stations, and so on. All these places began to take shape as community centers as people tried to negotiate a new way to live, figuring out the messy systems the men had left behind.

“Don’t be a man”, soon became a common phrase implying either madness to the point of killing one’s self or stupidity to the point of inconveniencing others for generations, depending on the context.

But what about the Zinnisa disease? It continued to spread. Women who had become doctors to marry well had to come out of retirement 11

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and practice again, researching for some clues on the disease. They tried to find a cure for it, but the only cure was to suppress male hormones and inject other hormones, but no one believed them. Those who did, who believed that that was the cure, had to wait for weeks because of dwindling supplies. Often times, it had to be smuggled from across the border with Hyderabad.

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LIFT TOGETHER The smog has settled down. Now is the time. Leila needs to get to the checkpoint before the other women reach it. She reaches for her father’s machete—she doesn’t need to use it, she knows, but just in case. There are still two men left in this district; there’s no knowing about their mood swings. She throws on her father’s jacket, wears the goggles. She’s lost her hazmask from the last fight she had with the men at the checkpoint, so she’ll have to make due without it.

Leila reaches the checkpoint. It is at the end of her street. The women are already there, huddled together on the left. It’s been three weeks since they last received Sui Gas. Sharmila has the wrench; she picked it up when the men knocked it out of Leila’s hands last time.

The women welcome Leila, they hug, they ask about each other’s families. And then they ask who needs the gas the most; is there someone sick? Have they run out of food? They ask these questions and plan out who will receive the gas first and for how long, in the end hand the wrench to Leila so she can start opening and closing the main valve. The other women station themselves at the community box, where the valve for each house is located. They built it themselves after the men died out… well, almost all the men.

As the women began positioning themselves, the two remaining men of the neighbourhood arrive and station themselves at the corner of the check point. Leila clutches the wrench more firmly.

The wrench is a bright red object, its handle covered in layers of cloth—pieces of colourful dupattas that the women have woven around the breaking handle it over time, the golden embroidery of sari corners peeking through. While it has been primarily used for work, there 15

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have been times when Leila has had to use it as a weapon. Today was beginning to feel like one of those times, although that’s why Leila brought her machete—they couldn’t afford to damage the wrench any further, if they did, they wouldn’t be able to find a replacement for it for weeks. The two men knew this, which is partially why they attacked Leila and the other women every other week; the two men were already struggling with the Zinnisa disease, why should these women survive with ease?

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THE KAJAL OF MY EYE It is a typical South Asian wedding, not much to say about it, but the two aunties in the corner have a lot to say.

“Arey Shamshaad, did you hear about how much jahez the boy brought with him?”

“Nahi. Was it more than what the Habib’s son-in-law brought with him last year?”

“No! Less! Only two water tankers! The Habib’s son-in-law managed to get five for his bride” “Haaww haye Salima, you can’t be serious! How will they survive the year on two water tankers? You need at least three!”

“Beherhaal Shamshaad, dekho they’re about to start the ceremony” “Uff. I don’t know how our grandmothers survived on the milk ceremony; but then again they had cows available at that time” “I wonder where they got the vintage surmadani from; I thought there were only a few left in the city—” Shamshaad aunty gestured Salima Aunty to pipe down as the spot light fell on the walkway. The couple was waiting on stage while the mother of the bride held the tray upon which sat the surmadani. It was indeed vintage, and it had taken the bride’s family almost all of their wealth to buy it off the previous family. But it was worth it because it was the perfect size. Too small, and it wouldn’t fit the nanites needed to change the groom’s point of view enough to make him amicable for the bride. Too big, and there would be too many nanites that would end up overpowering the groom, making him identical to the bride and leading to a boring relationship. But this—this was the perfect size.

Everyone could see the surmadani, embellished with floral motifs and a crown on top, brightly glowing as it was full of nanites to the brim.

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The mother of the bride presented the tray to the couple, the bride took the surmadani, took out the applicator and began applying the nanites to herself. They spread across her waterline like glitter. They changed colour as they learned how she was programmed, and soon the nanites in the bottle changed colour becoming a neon yellow. The bride passed the nanites to the groom. He took a deep breath, so as not to hesitate when he would begin applying the nanites—for that would dishonour the family. At first they softly glowed white as they learned how the groom was programmed, then slowly the glow increased as the colour changed to the neon yellow to match the bride. The groom tried hard to not blink or cry; to not flinch or fight his new life. He took deep breaths subtly, because even through the buzz of the nanites settling in his waterline he could hear the buzz of the crowd of aunties scrutinising him. By the time the buzz had ended, his mind had become numb. He smiles a wide smile, looks over to his wife and gives a chuckle. The nanites are projecting onto his retina his opinions—the ones that he used to have. The nanites tell him to unlearn it—teach him to unlearn it, and he in doing so he learns of his naivete and ignorance, and chuckles with each belief he disregards. He is almost ready. His wife smiles a wider smile.

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THE TRAIL Everyone thinks women are weak. They’re physically smaller, they’re so restricted by society and social norms—what can they wear, what can they not wear, everything is so defined they’re too busy to be strong.

I’ll tell you a little secret though. Everyone is a fool because they don’t understand what power is.

Whether you like it or not, women are powerful.

Why? Because of their long hair, because you can hide things in there.

Women are powerful because they can decorate themselves with extravagant jewellery without the fear of conforming to the wrong convention, and this is what saved us when the cure needed to be smuggled across the border from Karachi to Hyderabad.

Sawera was one of those powerful women. She hid the cure as a jhun jhun on her anklet, and her haya and sharam were so well no one ever suspected that she was smuggling anything. Even when forces got a hold of her anklets they couldn’t find it… they knew she had it but couldn’t find where. How could the cure be smuggled within those tiny things? How would someone open it? That was a skill they didn’t have, never suspecting the intricate hairpins to be tools. The benefits of years of embroidery.

On some trips, when she was feeling particularly bold, Sawera would wear a paraanda and hide the cure within that. It would allow her to smuggle a larger quantity which would make her other trips less stressful. Today’s trip was one of those bold trips. Now the problem was she didn’t always wear a paraanda, and the days that she did meant that they would notice. They would ask, flirt, stare, and try to touch the bright red paraanda, and Sawera would pass a wry smile, look the other 22

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way, and move swiftly, making sure to balance all three to create charm and not offence. What made today’s trip special was the fact that she was travelling in the evening. It meant that the horny customs officers were going to be there.

While a lot of men had died out either from riots or the Zinnisa disease, the custom officers had somehow survived in this secluded building, and of course it’s the horny, disgusting ones that survive and the nice ones that die out. Sigh…

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HEAR ME OUT “Hear me out”, he said Rani didn’t want to, but she did. She rubbed her forefingers and thumbs together and touched the last jhun jhun of her earrings; a spark travelled through the jhun jhuns and the wires and into her neurosystem. She listened for the sound—for that high-pitched noise that signalled the presence of the monster. She didn’t hear anything; it was clear.

“Ajao”, she said with great disdain.

He came out, still proud, as if he was the one who had saved them— still the asshole who shouldn’t have been saved. But she had to do it; she had to honour her role as a guardian and protect the izzat of the community, the man—this man, Mirza, one of the few remaining men of the community. If all the men were to be wiped out, they could no longer earn from the spectacle of showing them off to the outsiders from across the borders with Rajastan and Hyderabad, where the men had all been wiped out, they say. But that didn’t change the fact that he was still an asshole.

Rani was amongst the elite force of women who had enlisted to become a Jasmine Guard, the women responsible for protecting the few men. They combined their biological talent for hearing highpitched sounds with special jhumkas that helped increased their hypersensitivity to these sounds.

Why jhumkas, out of all things? Because those were one of the few things left after riots and the outbreak of the Zinnisa disease, since women’s accessories weren’t considered important enough to destroy.

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either feared the jhumkas or had good taste in jewellery, although we’ll never know for sure since very few of the Jasmine Guard had ever come into contact with the monster.

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THE CROSS “Fucking Christians and their need for a cemetery. No one cares about them when they’re living, who gives a shit about their dead. All they’re good for is cleaning up after us.” These were the comments my grandmother used to hear growing up, directed at the 70-feet-tall cross located at the center of Gora Qabristan, the largest Christian cemetery in Karachi. She laughs it off now, almost with a satisfaction. We live across from Gora Qabristan, in the FTC building, and every time she sees the cross she laughs it off because it is that very unnecessary cross that saved Karachi. Being one of the only structures that somehow wasn’t destroyed when the tremble of the Saviour Saint was felt, and since it was the highest structure left, it became the new beacon for Karachi, our only lifeline out into the world and further space.

Covered in an intricate pattern of wires and antennas, the cross was no longer a stark white structure. The lights on it flickered various shades of red at night, and if you stood outside the cemetery gate, you could hear the hum and buzz of electrical currents and long lost signals. Yes, it was wires and antennas, but no one was actually sure how the communication worked. Some days you would hear about the war between the Chinese and the Americans on the moon, other days you would hear about a desert storm ready to hit Karachi, and if you were lucky, there were days where it could catch the long lost signal of Radio Ceylon from decades ago. It’s as if the cross stood on ground that defied time and space. It had also defied a lot of calamities that had hit Karachi, from the great tremble, to numerous natural disasters, to whatever riots occasionally broke out, protected by some ‘holy power’ or ‘black magic’, depending on which community you were from.

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no one had ever seen them. All we knew was that day by day someone was drawing wires all over the cross to help Karachi stay in touch with everywhere else and survive.

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THE JEWEL Everyone knows that there are very few buildings left in Karachi after the madness that followed the outbreak of the Zinnisa disease. One of those few buildings is the National Museum of Pakistan. Not everyone has heard of it, which is probably why it was left intact. Some joke even the saviour saint hadn’t heard of it which is why the museum was safe during the great rumble, although others argue that the saint’s rumble didn’t touch the museum because it housed ancient artefacts of other faiths, and as angry as Ghazi was, he was not disrespectful.

Whichever story you believe, the National Museum of Pakistan was now a treasure chest, full of artefacts and ancient history. And with the men that run it gone, there was no one to steal those artefacts; everyone else was too busy trying to survive, and smuggling necessities was a struggle, who would bother with artefacts? And you never if they’re cursed. That’s how people felt at least; after the great rumble caused by upsetting the saviour saint of Karachi, people had a new found reverence (or fear) for holy objects of any faith, and thus the museum was left abandoned and untouched. And let us not forget that the museum housed the most precious jewel of all: Flowers.

As the Karachi air changed and disasters increased, flora began to die out or mutate beyond recognition, and the museum remained one of the few places in Karachi where any traditional flowers could be found. Traditional flowers like jasmine, bougainvillea, champa, and others. Planted in exquisite pots, housed in the Gandhara gallery, the flowers were maintained by some mystic power, and people who were devoted enough to brave the journey would make the pilgrimage to the museum, face their fears of what lurked there, in order to view the jewel—the vase of eternal flowers. If you viewed the vase, you would 35

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be blessed, but if you tried to pluck a flower, you would be cursed.

Blessings included longevity and wisdom, no one knows what the curses included because no one had been foolish enough to pluck a flower‌ yet.

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POLAR PAIN You think that being white as snow would help me to hide—it does; other animals don’t notice me when I sneak up on them, but these damn two-legged creatures keep following me around no matter how hard I try to blend in with the snow. In my defence, there isn’t much snow left for me, and I’m not as voluptuous as I used to be either—seals and fish are hard to catch, times are tough…

I don’t know what I’ll do next year when I have children—how am I going to feed them—but then again, there’s no knowing if I’ll survive until next year. I followed the two-leggeds one day—I still have some stealth left in me damn it—and I saw what they do.

They stain the snow, and not with red or green, but with black. The black stain isn’t snow, it’s too thick to be that. I don’t know what it is, all I saw was how they get it. They tear into the earth—not dig, but tear, going as deep as the coldest oceans, and you can hear the earth howling, and it just makes me wonder: How black does your heart have to be that you make the earth bleed?

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A BREATH I don’t swim. I don’t know how because I don’t want to know. Simply put, I hate water.

I hate it.

So, perhaps you can imagine my reaction when my home was flooded during the akhrat. And no, you smartass, it wasn’t fun; it wasn’t funny; it wasn’t even fucking ironic. It was terrifying. I was drowning, and what I was drowning in wasn’t even pure water. It reeked of human trash and waste. I jumped higher and higher, until I had reached the highest point in my home. I was cornered as the water began to reach the ground beneath; I had never been in a situation where I couldn’t jump away from water. But here I was, and it felt like with every inch into the water a part of my soul was being stripped away from me.

My throat closed up from the panic; my spine shivered with fear. I was finally fully submerged and I couldn’t see anything. Somehow— and I genuinely don’t know how—I began to kick my way to up to the surface, but instead of emerging into air, I emerged straight into a plastic bag. Imagine: You’re drowning; you can’t see anything; you’re fighting against a current, and you’re trying to convince your body to not freeze from fear because you don’t want to die. And where does your head get stuck? In a fucking plastic bag, which of course you end up nearly choking on because you’re breathing so hard from the panic.

You start panicking more because you still can’t see anything and you still can’t breathe. Like what the actual fuck?

I don’t know how I made it, that too with all my paws intact. The last time we were flooded like this I lost all my kittens.

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MOVING FORWARD The others talk about moving forward, but I’ve been in the same spot for over 15 years. I don’t understand why they’re so into moving forward, or moving anywhere really. Perhaps they’re not capable of staying in one spot—no, actually, I think they don’t understand the importance of staying in one spot, it’s not in them to put down roots.

Except for my people. They’ve always lived in this shelter—I believe they call it a ‘house’—since I can remember. They planted me in this yard about 15 years ago; the couple has aged, their daughter has grown— though not as tall as I, of course. I remember when I was a baby and the daughter held me in her hands as the father dug the foundation for me; I was young but I could hear them, and while those are faint memories they keep me going. That and watching how the family reacts to me. They enjoy the fruit I bear them, and in return they try their best to water me. I’ve heard them say how I’m their favourite because unlike the others, who their elder planted, I’m the one that they planted, and that’s why I bear the sweetest coconuts.

I have nothing against their elder, but I think I’ll have to agree.

Although I don’t say it out-loud or else my Sri Lankan and Paksitani yard-mates may hear.

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Until our pasts and futures collide again

Doom & Bloom

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS First and foremost, thank you to my parents for tolerating me in my existence; how they do so is as hard for me to understand as some of the stories in this little book may have been for you, reader. But know that in both cases, there is love and hope for the future involved, albeit in the strangest of ways and circumstances.

Secondly, thank you to my thesis advisor, Ms. Saima Zaidi, for tolerating my existence as her advisee, and pushing me through this thesis even at the literal eleventh hour. Words cannot express how awkward I am at being so lazy to you, or how grateful I am that you continued to believe in me and my inane ideas some form. Thank you ma’am. And yes, thank you Saadia Pathan for the pep talks outside the office and just being approachable and friendly when I was too scared to ask Ms. Saima anything.

Third, thank you to my friends: Laiba Ayub, Mariam Taufeeq, Saad Sohail Khan, Sabah Ismail, Zuha Sohail, and Zunairah Qureshi (I arranged your names in alphabetical order so no one can wonder who I love more). Thank you for supporting me in and/or against my procrastination, rolling your eyes at my procrastination, believing in me, and giving me all the love, support, flying hearts you have. You all have enriched my final year like nothing and no one else in the world, and ahem, galaxy. Additionally, thank you to Mahnoor Shoukat Bawa, my moonbeam, for shining her light on me in my final year; thank you for becoming my confidant and sister and fellow advisee and everything else I needed in these trying times. You are amazing and you literally helped me push through this thesis, or else I wouldn’t be writing these acknowledgements at 06:40 AM during Ramzan.

Special thank you to the music room for becoming a sanctuary for

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me when I needed a place to hide and work, and thank you to all the Ustaads and Chandu Lal sahab for tolerating me and taking my mind off of things. Also yes, thank you Yousuf sahab, for everything.

Lastly, thank you to you, reader. I don’t know how much of this made sense to you, but I hope it gave you something to think about.

Perhaps now when you think of the future, you think of more than just flying cars, squeaky clean labs, and Western cities. I hope you think of your own cities, your own people, impending climate change and all. I hope you find hope in the futures that await us in the Anthropocene, just as I attempted to do so with these stories. In fact, I think if you try, you’ll probably do a better job than me. But that’s only something time will tell, I suppose.

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