And now what...

I am guilty of moving on.

I am guilty of immersing myself in the madness that is my life, getting caught up in the endless list of things to do, the daily war with traffic and deadlines. I sat yesterday with this blog in front of me, immobile. We are like fish who have lost their home...like water that begs to be contained. Rayika says we blazed with love and longing. I want to know who put out the fire.

A few nights back Sadaf and I went to a gathering of Karachi's old school literatti: an unspoken familiarity sat between those who stayed until the end of the evening. I wondered about us in a few years. Where will be after the book has been written? Will we hold on to monthly meetings like high school reunions, where we recall the past that hangs between us? I thought reminiscing was left for the old...young people should be busy making memories, not sharing them.

I find comfort in knowing that we will never be far from each other. Pakistan is highly incestuous. You are separated from everyone through six degrees of love, hate, partying, sex and work.

And the Bol group? Are we just black words printed on a flat white page? Can we move on? Will we grow? Can we arrange evenings in cafes to gather and read or perform and share and carry the buzz back into everyday life? Or are we just ashes on grass, separated by self imposed distance and time?

Hmmmm......

Jibran's class has a mini-thesis up on Friday the 7th. I will be at Indus until late in the afternoon, working on an article. It would be lovely to meet there.