ME-OW! Cougars are attractive older women over the age of 35 who enjoy dating younger men, usually in their 20’s. This kind of dating behavior is becoming more acceptable in North American society; just look at Ashton Kutcher who married Demi Moore. Ashton went from being a single, good-looking, popular movie star, to marrying a woman 15 years his senior with 2 kids. Hey Ashton, life just called: YOU GOT PUNK’D. But on the other hand, Demi got exactly what she wanted; something shiny on the outside and hollow on the inside. Now if you’re an older woman, particularly a South Asian woman, you might be thinking, “BILLAL! I don’t care how empty his head is! I want my very own Shahid Kapoor!”  Well you’re in luck! (although I can’t say the same for Shahid). Forty year old cougar Rita Sangha, through her “cougar camp” teaches older women techniques to attract younger men (“cubs” as she calls them)

But why would an older woman prefer a younger man? According to Rita Sangha, older women are more comfortable with their sexuality, while younger men are better at performing sexually. By that logic one really wonders how older men get younger women, oh wait, that’s right, CASH! Moving on, Rita says that older men are less dynamic, boring, and have a jaded view of life. I’m not a Doctor, but these seem to be the classic symptoms of a condition known as a “marriage”.

Rita stresses these cougar-cub relationships can be more than just a matter of sexual fulfillment, and that some women have actually fallen in love and gotten married to their younger men. Rita says that she herself does not feel her own age, and actually has more in common with a generation 15-20 years younger. Admittedly, she is a serial cougar having dated a number of cubs, the youngest being 17 years old. Seven-teen may seem like a very tender age, but I’m sure this brave youth will recover from the “traumatic” experience.  Most men are offering him their support and condolences in the form of high-fives.

Now I don’t want you to get the wrong impression; Rita is a feminist at heart and sees herself as a role model. You have to keep in mind that the South Asian community is much more accepting of an older man dating a younger woman than the reverse. Due to her strong views and subsequent career path, Rita finds that she is an outcast in her own cultural community. She prefers not to attend South Asian functions as she quickly becomes a negative, albeit popular topic of conversation.

Rita views the trend of older women dating younger men as a shift in gender roles and power. She feels the South Asian community, as well was the community at large are still adjusting to this shift. Rita says she wants to help women realize that they have certain sexual desires, and that these desires are entirely natural. They shouldn’t cause you guilt, and you shouldn’t have to repress them to appease what she calls a “patriarchal society.”

As personal taste goes, Rita prefers NOT to date young South Asian men referring to them as “immature” (keeping in mind this is on top of being in their 20’s and male). As a young South Asian male I was insulted by that comment, however I then reread all the jokes in this article and decided that maybe, just maybe, she had a point.

On a side note, I personally think the word “cougar” is only associated with older, attractive, WHITE women. We as South Asians need our own way of branding older attractive women as predatory felines. I suggest we call South Asian cougars, “Tigers”, although this may cause unnecessary conflict if the “Tiger” in question happens to be Tamil. You generally run into a similar problem when you refer to Black cougars as “Black Panthers”. As for Asians, the term “Asian Cougar” is an oxy-moron as it is a demonstrable scientific fact that Asian people do not age.

Now for what you’ve been waiting for, here are some of Rita Sangha’s patented tips for getting a younger man:

1. Act like a doormat and you’ll end up on the floor. Never call him, never ask to see him, and never say you love him first. It’s essential to make a younger man think you have a busy life even if you don’t.

2. Never mother him.

3. Make the first move. There is no harm in approaching a younger guy in a bar. Why not try this pick-up line: “I think you should ask me out. This is a limited and exclusive offer.”

4. Get in touch with your sexual being. Visit a Sex shop or take up a sexy pastime like pole dancing.

If you would like to learn more about Rita Sangha visit her website, and join her “cougar camp” at:

http://www.womenwholoveyoungermen.com/

Contact, criticize, converse, or even compliment Billal M. Sarwar at:

bms041788@hotmail.com

Author: Billal Sarwar

At Pearson, Uncle Dardiwala sat with a passenger in the waiting lounge, the mister in an oversized tweed coat and unchi shalwar. Mr. Islamic shalwar sighed “we are forty minutes late for boarding; I hope the plane reaches in time. Uncle Dardiwala joked “array miyan, time chordo plane sahi jaga ponch jaye yahi bardi baat hai!” (Oh mister, forget time, the plane reaches the correct destination, itself is a big thing). I had to laugh with the uncle; travelling alone makes you want some company, however old or odd. Soon, horribly clad green shalwar kameezs with floral mismatched dupattas and caked with red lipstick, aunties greeted us. They showed us to our respective seats.

If your bladder does not cooperate avoid taking the window seats. The menu is a scam. It’s bigger than the illuminati. That over boiled rice and leftover korma pieces is not biriyani. Strange, I was expecting a ‘lohta’ in the washrooms; disappointment. Luggage was not a problem. Once it was, coming back, the conveyer belt came to a halt, cargo was shifted, suitcase by suitcase, manually. There is a very bad collection of movies, and not enough good songs. No stickers or souvenirs. There is gossip, clatter, smelly babies and duas among the plane turbulence. The relaxing chairs will give you osteoporosis if you sit for a few hours longer. When you land, be prepared to walk a mile to customs, see them straighten up as they glance at your blue passport, and wait a lifetime for your bags to come.

Don’t wear skinny jeans and put on your fake Gucci glasses. But when you reach the glass doors, you will feel the heat, smell the earth, and see the very unfamiliar, familiar faces. Welcome home. PIA flight PK 703 has landed in Karachi @ Jinnah International Airport.

Author: Fatima Kazmi

Twitter should be very proud of getting ahead of facebook in helping the authorities in New York City to track down the suspect of the home-made car bomb.

A group that you-know-who claimed responsibility for making this home-made bomb to teach a lesson to the “Shatan’s” USA all the way from Pakistan.

Woohooo! Way to go man! I am thoroughly impressed! In a land where these days you have to ‘buy’ drinking water in scorching equator heat, there is no electricity for the most part of the day, where there is load-shedding of natural gas and no way to cook your meals, where there is hardly internet available (I know because I haven’t webcamed with my long distance boyfriend in over 3 weeks), these people living in rocky mountains have TWITTER! Gosh! Talk about the world being a global village and talk about being technologically savvy.

I wonder how they did that? Constructed a home-made computer by using the TV from 1940’s? Oh, my bad, they don’t watch TV there, only Satin appears on TV. So where did the computer come from? Maybe I am over looking things; the cell phone is the culprit!

One thing they do have in abundance in that over populated country is a lot of CONSUMERS! So they have millions of cell phones and millions of cell phone users and thousands of packages to choose from to call within the country (If only I were there, my long distance relationship would have reached a very mature level by now).

So, the cell phone companies don’t fight over No Contract advertisements and they always have more customers than they can cater to. Imagine this, they don’t even need any customer service; if the customer is not satisfied, he can leave and they will very easily have another one. I would love working for such a company where I can tell the really upset customers to f off! Now that’s a very successful capitalist society.

So, my best guess how Twitter got to them is through cell phone! You-know-who must have spent more than a year to learn how to use and make a Twitter account. But I am thoroughly disappointed!

How low have they stooped from their values, they are making use of the Satin’s device and Satin’s technology to pass on their message. Shame on them for being a part of the Twitter cult!

They were successful to keep their women inside the sacred boundaries of the homes away from the clutches of any sort of Satin shadowed western or eastern knowledge, they were successful to burn down the schools that were the breeding grounds to spread Satin’s words, they were successful to throw out the Jeans and Shirts, the Satin’s dress (oh wait, does Satin wear clothes?), they were successful to finally FIND the HOME of the Satin: the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, and now they have finally given up  their fundamental values. Those shameful people have used technology, tainted their innocent minds with the jargon of technology, learnt English, Satin’s language and OH MY GOD, even USED it to communicate. HOW SHAMEFUL!

They even got the recipe to make the home-made bomb off the internet. Tsk, Tsk Tsk. The Satin has taken over their minds. They will be forced to hell now and how badly would they miss those beautiful damsels that they were promised they would get in heaven. Those pretty women with big eyes and beautiful skin. How hard they try to keep away from them in this world and how badly they desire them in the afterlife. Hypocrites! Shameless people who have been taken over by the Satin.

I think they should point their guns towards cell phone companies. They seduced them with their cheap affordable packages and lured them into using the Satin’s technology and introducing them to the sins of Twitter, Facebook and Youtube.

Talking about YouTube, I really wonder if they are already enjoying the glimpses of those pretty damsels with big eyes on their little cell phone screens. I wonder if Sasha Grey has made her appearance or are they still content by just looking at Malika Sherawat? I really wonder.

But wait, I really feel I am living in the 16^th century as compared to those technologically advanced you-know-who who are using the satellite internet. Why does my iphone (3GS) still lack a Twitter application? Holy Jesus (I mean Holy Allah), I need to hurry and update myself, I am soooo living in the tenth century.

But wait, how do you make a Twitter account again?

Author :Saniya Zahid

Experience teaches through tests and it does not take a sage to warn you of a possible test in your own life. Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts is one such book that reflects on the examining tendencies of experience and if you are living the life you claim to be, then this book is one which you must pick up right away.

Having picked up the book on the advice of a much respected friend, I initially had no clue of what to expect. The title suggested a book derived from sub-continent sources, yet nothing prepared me for the actual material worded in this 900 page–worth every blink of the eye–novel.

Based on a real event in a person’s life, Shantaram is a novel which deserves the respect of all those people who value experience. Gregory David Roberts, a convicted drug addict, escaped a prison cell in Australia whilst serving his sentence, ultimately transporting himself illegally to India. In a bid to stay alive and keep up with life he finds himself involved in a variety of activities and it is this journey to his current position as a writer which gives this book its unique flavor.

Through the novel we are made to relive his experiences and in the process we realize the lessons he learned in the toughest ways possible. Life in India, particular for a foreigner, can be conceived of in a variety of ways–yet when the author finds himself living in a dilapidated slum in the suburbs of Mumbai, you soon come to realize that this is one foreigner who was thrust into an extremely alien system. The novel generates excitement from the very onset and the adventures of a foreigner in a land many of us know quite well, simply teases imagination and gets you reading for more.

The entire novel sees the author sharing his experience with us; his experience is such that it opens the mind and heart to reality. The power of the book lies fundamentally in this experience and the charm comes from the fact that the author borrows from nothing imaginary. Instead, the novel can be seen as one fellow human being simply narrating his experiences on earth. Yet the experience is so unique and turbulent that it necessarily warrants attention: the exciting experience the novel refers to gives this book a vibe of its own.

The novel runs through culture and society ultimately making it easier to relate to. To me the book feels close to home and the lessons to be derived from the author’s experience can productively facilitate dialogue and contemplation. For the reader there lies a perfect combination of adventure, travel, mystery and horror, coupled with lessons in philosophy which cleverly disguise the morale of the story. The author shows a clever writing ethic and more than anything the author exemplifies the power of experience on the human mind.

The novel shall soon be converted into a film and I advise any active mind to arrange for a one-to-one meet with Shantaram.

Author: Ali Abbas

The Diary of a Social Butterfly by Moni Mohsin was published by Random House India in 2009. It is a hilarious chronicle of events through the point of view of a young woman that reads quite like a diary entry from a Gossip Girl. Much of the written language sounds almost like my mesh of Urdu-english at home (Can you garam it for me, Ma? I’m phooking him now…etc) or like friends and acquaintances who grew up in Pakistan but are now living abroad and have a continuous flow between Urdu and English, yet also many mistakes and mix-ups. Towards the middle, I thought it started to drag a little bit due to its repetitive content. I don’t usually have to force myself to read a good book, but this was one of the few I had to really pay attention to because it is awfully satirical and you can easily miss the critique if you don’t pay attention to everything that’s going on. There are also tons of characters and comic episodes that it’s almost exhausting to keep track of it all. But by the end, I realized why the author had been repetitive.

Butterfly, the main character, can appear a stereotypical elite Pakistani young woman, but her personality allows for different types of people to relate to her.

For example, many people criticize Butterfly’s marriage and ask Mohsin why Janoo chooses to stay with Butterly. While they disagreed on many things, I believe they have enough in common to live happily as individuals doing what they are most passionate about. Not once does Janoo really cut off Butterfly’s spending and Butterfly never forbids Janoo from  pursuing his humanitarian efforts. Their son also doesn’t seem to be living amidst a dysfunctional family, which proved to me that the couple knew each other well. At times, I even saw romance between them. I saw Butterfly sticking up for her husband in public and protecting him from embarrassment and Janoo appreciating his wife when she did say something intelligent. I mean, we have to look at their social and cultural context. Butterfly may have come from a well-to-do family, but she went to Kannaird College while her husband went to Oxford. Of course, she’s going to mix up words. And she has been reared since she was a little child to be an expert in makeup, clothing and protecting one’s interests and family, which she does quite well. Her relationship with her husband Janoo was not superficial, but very real. I have seen many couples interacting they way they do in the novel and have even realized that while my husband and I were raised in the same country, we have different outlooks on life–from where to buy the groceries to our future children’s education to other lifestyle options. We all have our comfort zones and levels of extravagance and fluff, but Mohsin writes Butterfly as somebody with multiple levels, which allows many of us to connect with her. I even saw my own relatives in her.

At first, one diary entry a month seemed ridiculous. Who writes only once a month? But after learning that the book was inspired by a monthly newspaper column, the entries actually showed change and movement. Butterfly in 2008 was not the same as the Butterfly in 2001–she had grown and evolved with Pakistan and the events that had been thrust upon the people of that country. So I think Butterfly could easily have been based on many of us. And as the author says, a lot of her content and columns were based on things she picked up/overheard real people participating in.

I won’t divulge anything more. Go out and read the book from wherever you can find it and let me know if you agree with my above relationship analysis. I am curious to know how many people in Pakistan have read this book and what they think of it. As well, I am interested in reading more of what Random House India has published—I think more of their books should be carried in Canadian bookstores.

Author:Iqra Azhar

Unknowingly, unwontedly, I stumbled upon a mighty foe

A bastard child of sheer ignorance and hatred, ye know

A monster that ruthlessly tears the frail fabric of the society

Fed lovingly by the mainstream media, prejudices & false notoriety

An ideology lovingly propagated by popular culture of some

A chameleon that deceptively changes colors to BeComE

A deceptive snake writing within naïve hearts and minds

A deceptive snake writhing within naïve hearts and minds

They boast that they are magically superior somehow

Race, culture, ethnicity, technology & wealth, oh wow!

Their list of useless reasons just continues & is expanded upon

Implicitly & explicitly in attitude, lingo, education and tone

A social construct it is, falsely believed to be a scientific one

A construct that brutally silences the meek and weak, my hun

Encouraging the feeble-minded to hostility and “sleep”

A different sort of a psychopath that regularly brutalizes the weak

You foolish Racist!  Remember the “Roots”

“Roots” of the past, tomorrow and of forever

“Roots” that intertwine like those of the tree

Holding strongly to give life and strength, to the “free”

Oh, why your inner disease infects the “Roots” of the trees?

Leading to unwanted infection and decay, of their a.b.c.s

And eventually, among us, a noiseless sound EchOS

As the tree falls to the ground—a silent pathos

A blackened heart

A broken heart

Some blackened hearts

Some broken hearts

Countless blackened hearts

Countless broken hearts

Now, oh racist, do you see?

Do you see, or are you still blind?

Ridicules so casually thrown at a person by a person

“Why are you living here? Go back to your country, you bison”

Ridicules sung in foreign languages by old ladies on the sidewalks

Harassments so casually tolerated by the “colored”; thoughts that stalk

Legal decisions carefully & pointlessly drafted on termination papers

“Unfortunately, the contract has ended because of such and such”

Huh! Decisions are Silent Derisions

Racial profiling and media propaganda eventually turns into

A war machine maniacally designed for genocide, just to subdue

“Social coloniasm” gradually colonizes the “Others”

As the “dominant ones” foolishly marginalize their own brothers

Creating societal power differences within this so-called “democracy”

Creating socioeconomic disparities, disabling “minorities”, such hypocrisy

Senselessly creating “poverty” despite beautifully rich “diversity”

Marginalizing “Others” to the extent of retardation, oh a perversity

The “perpetrators” have no skin, they have no skin

The “perpetrators” have no skin, they have no skin

“They” took my voice, so I spoke with pen, paper and ink

“They” took my voice, so I spoke with pen, paper and ink

Racism

As Wanda says: “I find it in my mouth

When I speak of other things”

Author:Arzoo Zaheer

Stephenie Meyer has yet again painlessly brought a fantastical world to life. This time it wasn’t vampires or any mythical creation of her own, it was something that each of us contain within ourselves, the soul. A mysterious journey through the distinct worlds of human and soul societies, Meyer has created another different ambience in which she envelops the reader.

Although she has already tried the one-girl-two-guys plot in her soon to be quadrology, The Host does not lose its audience due to repetition. Maybe it was the success of the theme that allowed her to repeat so comfortably.

The Host has its two main characters trapped within the same mind, the host Melanie and the initially unwanted predator Wanda. It was unusual for any host to survive for as long as Melanie did, but the humans invaded later, had stronger wills to survive. In a quest to hide their secrets from one another, both create walls within their shared mind, trying to block the other out. But a common enemy, the seeker, brings them together. The coalition soon transforms into an unusual friendship, headed by the mission of finding Melanie’s loved ones. Despite their differences in ideology and lifestyles, they reach stalemate when it comes to dealing with Melanie’s painful memories of Jared and her younger brother Jamie.

The journey of escaping the grasps of the seeker, finding Melanie’s family and fitting into the space no one would provide her with, Wanda felt like an outsider in a world in which her kind was the majority. The acceptance of strong emotions as part of her being was a big step for Wanda, but being accepted as an identity on her own was bigger. But not everyone who matters to Melanie is able to willingly accept the pest.

The clash of Melanie and Wanda’s personalities as well as their compromises make the book an interesting read. The book is full of emotion from the first page despite souls being immune to the very concept on their own. It emphasizes the strength of the human and what is unique about them. Yet at the same time it magnificently highlights their hostile nature and consent to violence as their ultimate weakness, which leads them to their downfall.

It is almost a philosophical image of what the human world is truly about; the concepts of love, hate, anger and revenge all part of the circle of life. But the most important aspect of her book is balance.  With her twilight series turning into a string of movies, Meyer’s fame is sky-rocketing. The Host adds to her credibility as an author able to put life into unwarranted and uncharted worlds. An effort that should grasp its audience just the way her previous books have done.

Author: Farheen Anwar

Comforting Snow

Falls from the Endless sky,

Out from the folded clouds

Snow – a thousand white flowers.

Silently and softly,

Showered from the heavens beyond

Each snowflake is a falling star

Expression of smiling beauty sent from afar

Innocent, pretty and a gentle whisper to humanity below

It is the touch of those who love us

It is the significance of all that is around us

And I feel miraculous warmth in my heart

The comfort, which is indefinable

That Comfort of feeling secure with the people who love me

Of those who I cherish,

Knowing they will be always there for me.

Behind the silver veil

As the sun sets,
And a vast golden curtain falls down,
Courteously the colors fade to sombre blue.
Graciously, mutely now the moon ,
Walk the night in her silver robe,
With a tinge of mystic blue and orange.
Along with shining pale beams, which lights its way,
It smoothly sails amid the starry heaven,
Where life secrets unfold and are told.
As you peek out from the veil of the night,
As a frost of thought and pearl of delight,
It sparkles and beams into my soul.
With twirls and uncontrollable glee,
It shimmers, and my heart glimmers,
As I witness the unknown delight.
Senses shiver, and flow,
And leave me with a feeling of calmness.

Author:Mansee Mongia

In Memory of mothers battered, bruised and betrayed

The ocean is salty from the tears they have shed

the four winds of corruption separate them:

greed, hatred, corruption, deception

Unique is their pain

but equal is their love

for each other

for the Mother Earth from whence they came

for their children who continue to sin against them

and each other.

So exhausted from centuries of loss

Neither sister has the strength to swim.

Mother India has no arms to hold her children

Her children just fight

And starve

nothing pains a mother more than knowing

that no matter how much she gives

she cannot feed all her children

She has shed tears

a monsoon of tears

and still her children thirst

most for water

some for gold.

She has spilled blood

Rivers of blood that once carried the bodies of stolen lives.

The current is still driven by her anguished screams.

her bloodshed

her tears

persist today

And in her loneliness

She aches for her sisters

ravaged by the same pains

segregated and separated.

And she remembers…

…beloved Bangladesh,

She is still cleaved from neck to thigh.

Once her children were silenced

now cannot cease these accusations

The heartbreaking corruption fills her house

the only truth is,

that there is none

No better than a courtesan

She relies on the princes of this so called “developed world”

She sings them her sad songs

and they anoint her body with the sickened oil of corruption

Beauty though she is,

her body is funded by their pity

and her hair is groomed by their greed.

And though her golden bangles are rusted,

she has some lingering hope…

Sister Pakistan clings to the crescent moon

The only jewels she has left

is the single star left in the sky

The Mosque is red from the rivers of blood she sheds daily

when her daughters are raped

and her sons are slaughtered

in the name of those foreign gods she does not know.

She has been raped by militancy

over and over again

Foreigners have cut holes in her body and filled it with gun powder and nuclear radiation

dare she embrace her children?

All promises made to her were lies

Her children,

love her in principle

but not practice

There is no room for love when there is money to be made

And even in her moment of terror, she thinks of her sisters…

…Mother Sri Lanka deteriorates in a Cancer ward

There is no treatment for this

Metastatic cancers rampant in her frail body.

She bleeds

She cries

She is kidnapped by Poverty

hands tied,

floating on that lotus petal

far from the mainland

She hears the cries of her sisters

distant echoes she may be imagining

She cannot move toward them

so she cries more

and the red tide flows.

The gunshots within her are incapacitating

blow after blow

her heart breaks

her body weakens

Her estranged children fight oceans away

where they cannot see her state.

…and still she breathes on.

Immobilized,

Four sisters lie alone, listlessly.

Even if it happens in another life,

do their children intend to reunite their mothers

in their time of great pain?

Or is the world so deaf

Does money speak louder than the agony

of separated sisters?

In times like these,

Mothers who have sisters,

need each other more than they need anyone else.

Author:Jacquelin Chatterpaul

Dedicated:  I have dedicated this poem to all Muslim men who do not enforce the hijab on women rather advice and let them choose for themselves. It is also dedicated to all individuals from different faiths who do not judge, seclude or oppress a Muslim woman due to their choice of dress code.  Lastly and most importantly it is dedicated to my family members esp. my parents who recognize that hijab is a very personal choice of mine.

Crushed soul

Crushed – for they drill a hole

Creating void, a black hole

Knock Knock

Who’s there?

Victim

Of what?

(silence )

Victim of what?

(silence)

Prithee share, I won’t cut

Steely stares at my dress

Sense of seclusion they impress

Hijab, an issue they address

Us, they ignorantly oppress

Oh, a shallow look that regress

Me further into deeper stress

Sadness overcomes as I digress

This sorry situation; I must contest

Silence, I am silent

BUT, not acquiescent

Tolerating, finally I just had to

Let it out or simply stay blue

Wishing to find a cure, to undo

The damage done to moi, by you

For I am truly falling through

Listening to the lies you brew

Would you cure it, would you?

Answer me, in words that are true

Sethe’s chokecherry tree; what a mess

I carry one as well, oh yes

Beloved; sixty million and more…God bless!

Moi, another human; I must impress

We suffer at our own hands; I protest

Our weaknesses we must repress

Sostoris drew a blank card, I assess

A blank card people; just digress

Would you cure it, would you?

Answer me, in words that are true

Author:Arzoo Zaheer