I'll be back inshaAllah

Salaam readers, I have to study for my A Levels, and so will be taking a long hiatus from this blog. InshaAllah, there will be a post around mid June now.
Don't go away. We have some great posts coming up, including some on:
1. Music in Islam
2. Celebrating Birthdays
3. Growing a beard
4. The end of my school life

The Exuberance of a Multifaceted Youth (whatever that means)

I just finished reading a book, “The Best of Modern Humour”, compiled by well known Canadian author Mordecai Richler (published by Penguin), a thick anthology of the 19^th and 20^th centuries' funniest short stories from both sides of the Atlantic, or what Mr. Richler considers to be the funniest. I bought it about a month ago from the Sunday Bazaar for Rs. 250, after much haggling (got it down by just 50 bucks-I'm very charitable to shopkeepers). Leafing through the contents pages, I saw that it contained much promise, with works of P.G. Wodehouse, Woody Allen, Truman Capote and the inimitable Groucho Marx and Art Buchwald included. Judging by this, I felt Rs. 250 was a steal. I was to learn that one must never judge a book by its cover and especially not its content pages. While the first story (Stephen Leacock's 'Gertrude the Governess or Simple Seventeen') foretold great things to come, it was all downhill from there. Whereas the above mentioned authors (plus a handful of others) delivered, I failed to even guffaw at the rest of the 60+ stories, managing an enforced smile at best. It was when I was about half-way through the book that I chose to read the back-cover. It all became clear when I read the words, “Here are stories, plays and letters chosen by a connoisseur of high-calibre humour,...” Lesson 2: Judge a book by its back-cover instead. Of course! A very intelligent marketing gimmick. Include the words high-calibre, sophisticated, bohemian and/or esoteric and Weelah! People have to buy the book. “Have to?” you cry. Exactly. See, people will go to great lengths to avoid being caught looking like the ignorant philistines that they are. Some will even spend Rs. 250 if they must. Just look at their masses of fancy titles, lying untouched in bookshelves or on coffee tables for show, gathering dust. Their ego is at stake here. “Excuse me, Mr. Richler, are you saying that I'm too run of the mill to read high-calibre humour? I'll show you yet that I can go beyond innuendo and double entendres." And you buy the book, instead of the Captain America comic you had originally planned to purchase. It will be interesting to note, my 'enforced smiles' increased exponentially after I read the back-cover. I was actually finding humourous meaning where there was none.

Well, it was only a matter of time. I'm surprised no one saw it coming, considering my father is a practitioner of this age-old scam (for the most part). Since this is the reason I can afford to sit in front of a laptop screen with DSL internet and impart my wisdom to my readers, naturally, this topic is very important to me. Art, dear reader, has been abused. (A disclaimer about my dad is in order: in the 18 years I have known him, I have seen that he loves art because of the thrill it gives him, and not to look pompous or artsier-than-thou)

I extrapolate the above paragraph about 'The Best of Modern Humour' to include art in all its forms. I want to expose this scam for what it is. There are four main components of this big rip off- the artist, the patron, the critic and the common man. And they are all linked in a vicious cycle. I will discuss them turn by turn:

The artist: He usually, but not always, unwittingly plays a part in this scheme. Yet he is the most vital, obviously. He paints/writes/cross-dresses because it gives him some sort of emotional satisfaction. The kick other people get from bungee-jumping, he gets from manifesting his emotions in some form. Of course, you have those artists who end up churning out pulp-art to pay the rent or to make some big time moolah. His art is only bought by the public if he has reputation. And reputation is built by the art critic and the patron.

The art critic: Arguably the worst of the lot. To understand what I mean, think of that food critic in Ratatouille. Art critics tend to be full of themselves. They take upon themselves the role of the Oracle, self-righteously translating the works of the demagogue artist to a language understandable to the common man. Or more correctly, they spoonfeed into our mouths the viewpoint we should have about a certain artist. They pen down criticisms of the art in fancy words (The bold strokes of XYZ's pen clearly reflect the exuberance of his multifaceted youth), and the common man just regurgitates everything he reads. Thomas Carlyle said that the critics of his day were like sheep; place a stick in their path, and the lead sheep jumps over it. Remove the stick, and the rest of the herd does so too, even though there is nothing to jump over! Howard Bloom (former publicist of ZZ Top-the Texan band with the long beards) says: 

'Everything you’ve ever heard about pack journalism is true. In fact, it’s an understatement. Though journalists pride themselves on their intellectual independence, they are neither very intellectual nor even marginally independent. They are animals. In fact, they operate on the same herd instincts that guide ants, hoofed mammals, and numerous other social creatures.... If the key critics at the New York Times, the Village Voice, and Rolling Stone fall in love with a musical artist, every other critic in the country will follow their lead. On the other hand, if these lead sheep say an artist is worthless, every other woolly-minded critic from Portland to Pretoria will miraculously draw the same conclusion.'

He then goes onto relate his experience with the band. At its Minneapolis concert in 1976, two of the city's top critics were present. At the start of the concert, one was reading the New York Times' reviews and the other the Village Voice's (it had called ZZ Top's music 'hammered s**t'), gathering hints on what they should think of ZZ Top. Apropos to what they read, they cranked out damning reviews of the band, despite the crowd having gone wild in the concert (they called it a collective descent into tastlessness). Bloom then writes: 'For the first few years, the press continued to sneer whenever the

group’s name came up. But gradually, I got a few lead sheep by the horns (do sheep have horns?) and turned them around. The rest of the herd followed. One result: For the next ten years, ZZ Top became one of the few bands of its genre to command genuine, unadulterated press respect.

Eventually, the group didn’t need me anymore. They don’t to this day. The press is now ZZ Top’s best publicist. Say something nasty at a press party about this band, and those in the know will turn around and snarl, forgetting that over a decade ago they would have growled if you’d even confessed to listening to one of the Texas band’s LPs.'

See? Oh, and did you know, 'the' Picasso was reviled in his time? Then what happened? A repeat of the ZZ Top story. Did his art change? No, he had died by the time his work became popular.

The patron: He finances the artist. He picks an artist, mostly based on the critics' reviews he reads, and commissions him to continue his art under his financial aegis. He is usually a tycoon. He is the type whose home is dotted by pieces specially commissioned by him, so he can have something to brag about when the guests (the common people) come over.

The common man: You and I. The patron and the art critic work together to sell us (or not) an artist's product. And as mentioned at the beginning of the article, we want to look as sophisticated as these art connoisseurs. So we lap it all up, regurgitating the art critics' words (word for word) when looking at the paintings at the patron's house in order to impress him ('Yes, I can clearly see that the bold strokes of XYZ's pen clearly reflect the exuberance of his multifaceted youth). The patron has read the reviews too and knows exactly whom you're quoting, and feels very smug at his superiority. We, the Toms, Dicks and Harrys have forgotten the real purpose of art; not one-upmanship (though that is an art in itself), but simply to have fun. We feel the need to conform to society's opinions of a certain art form, even if it means praising something we detest deep inside. For example, I love Marcel Duchamp's abstract painting, 'Nude Walking down a Staircase'. For some reason, it reminds me of bio-physics (I first saw it in a physics textbook), so it fires my brain's pleasure centres. I love it because it makes me feel good. I don't know who the heck Duchamp is/was, and I have never heard or read reviews of his works in my life.

Marcel Duchamp, Nude Descending a Staircase, No.2 (1912)

Let's look at English Literature courses in schools and colleges today. I have been told that the purpose of English Literature is to learn to express ourselves by reading books by the greatest authors of history...like Shakespeare. With all due respect to him, NO ONE writes like Shakespeare anymore. You would be mad to, because no one would get a word you're saying. Sure, we can learn something from him, but how much? Yet, students everywhere are forced to read his works and comment about them like they understand them. If my readers like my writing-style, they should know that I have been influenced by the likes of Douglas Adams (of Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy fame) and The Harvard Lampoon, and not Byron or Tennyson.

I have one request to you. Get off the bandwagon, and make your own. Also, I'm sure you've noticed that I have dotted this article with obscure cultural references and have dropped some big names like Buchwald and Duchamp. It's a little sociological experiment I am conducting. Will my readers go out of their way to comment on this post, and maybe drop a few names of their own, just to show that they too, are art aficionados? Will they be verbose, like art critics? Let's see. I love being proven right. Who knows, if my blog makes it to the big time inshaAllah, I may be reading a review of this post soon (His self-righteous rantings about art bring to the limelight not only the hypocrisy that surrounds him, but also bubbles within)

Tripping Elephants

N.B. Although I am strongly against unbridled scientific research, and that the NewScientist article lends credibility to my viewpoint, all my comments are made in light vein and are NOT to be taken seriously. It is quite possible the Oklahoma scientists were onto something. I don't know. But we can't go around jamming needles into everything in the name of science unless we have an educated hunch. And it seems to me (again, I may be wrong) that Warren and his buddies were quite vague as to the whys of their experiment.

I recently read this article in a back-issue of NewScientist ('The whacko files' 3 November 2007):

“What happens if you give an elephant LSD?

Researchers solved this mystery on Friday 3 August 1962, when Warren Thomas, director of Lincoln Park Zoo in Oklahoma City, fired a cartridge-syringe containing 297 milligrams of LSD into Tusko the elephant. With Thomas were two colleagues from the University of Oklahoma School of Medicine, Louis Jolyon West and Chester M. Pierce.

The dose was about 3000 times what a human would typically take. Thomas, West and Pierce figured that if they were going to give an elephant LSD they'd better not give it too little. They later explained that the experiment was designed to find out if LSD would induce musth in an elephant- musth being a kind of temporary madness male elephants sometimes experience during which they become highly aggressive and secrete a sticky fluid from their temporal glands. One may also suspect a small element of ghoulish curiosity was involved.

Whatever the reason for the experiment, it almost immediately went awry. Tusko reacted as if he had been shot by a gun. He trumpeted around his pen for a few minutes and then keeled over. Horrified, the researchers tried to revive him with a variety of antipsychotics, but about an hour later he was dead. In an article published four months after the event (Science, vol 138, p 1100), the three scientists sheepishly concluded: “It appears that the elephant is highly sensitive to the effects of LSD.”

The experiment instantly made headlines. Faced with a public relations disaster, the scientists protested their innocence. They had not anticipated the elephant would die, they insisted. In their experience, LSD was a powerful hallucinogen but rarely fatal. West and Pierce helpfully noted that they themselves had previously taken the drug.

Thomas tried to find a silver lining. They had learned that LSD can be lethal to elephants. So perhaps, he mused, the drug could be used to destroy herds in countries where they are a problem. For some reason, his suggestion has never found any takers.”

This article had me tripping (pun intended) with laughter. I was awestruck. What in the name of science, could cause three otherwise sane scientists to inject a member of an endangered species with acid? Here's what I think:

'What happens if you give an elephant LSD?': Is this the length to which scientists go to win a Nobel prize? Take two completely random and unrelated things and combine them in the hope that they will discover the cure for cancer? Sure, it has worked before. For example, in 1804, Dr. Stubbins Ffirth of Philadelphia drank, injected in himself, dribbled in his eyes, and vapourised in a room he stayed in for 2 hours the vomit of a Yellow Fever patient, just to show that the disease wasn't contagious. He got a degree from U. Penn for his pains (He was dead wrong, Yellow Fever is dead contagious, but by mosquito, not by direct contact). But at least Dr. Stubbins had a hunch with some sort of scientific basis. The elephant episode is just too out of the hat. Like the fact I keep reading every week in a children's magazine; chocolate kills dogs. Now who thought up that one? Maybe we should repeat the experiment with different brands of chocolate. Does Lindt kill faster than the much cheaper Cadbury? Kit Kat's slogan comes to mind: 'Have a break'. In this case, a permanent one. Though there is something to be said of this experiment. We could use this strategy to eliminate rabid dog populations in a humane way (mmm...creamy, smooth, nutty...*drops dead*)

'Researchers solved this mystery...': Mystery eh? Like the mystery of what cyanide tastes like (The scientist drinking some died before he could finish jotting down the flavour on a piece of paper, only managing an 'S' before it got to him. Sweet, sour, salty, s**tty? It remains a 'mystery' to this day. Not sure, but I think the story's an urban legend. Proves my point anyway). The way the article makes it sound, it seems they finally found out where the Loch Ness monster, Elvis and D.B. Cooper are hiding. Like it's something we have wanted to find out all our lives (How much does it take to get an elephant completely incapacitated? Man, we gotta try it out on Anarkali next week at Qasim's party! Oh wait, she died. Darn it, the cocaine injecting researchers got to her before we could.) Like it's something that has given sleepless nights to scientists for years (Forget the origin of the universe, let's get Jumbo high!)

'...3 August 1962...': Okay, at least this explains why they chose LSD. It was the swinging 60's for God's sake! Beatlemania! Woodstock! Charles Manson! Keeping in pace with the times. Which makes me shudder, what would they have done today? Suicide-vests on squirrels?

'...the experiment was designed to find out if LSD would induce musth in an elephant...': For my reader, male elephants get musth in the mating season. They become aggressive so they can send a clear message to the other boys that no one lays a trunk on Jumbolina Jolie. Just a thought: Shouldn't they have tried testosterone first?

'Tusko reacted as if he had been shot by a gun.': Really? Maybe if the LSD hadn't got him some musth aggression, the sensation of a tranquilizer needle in the rump surely would have.

'The drugs could be used to destroy herds in countries where they are a problem.': Like the animal rights folks would take it well (Save the acid! Oh, and the elephants too). Besides, isn't a live bullet a better idea? But I suppose, if you want the elephant to die in a state of bliss... (I see pink butterflies and hippos in tuxedos...*Drops dead*)

Excuse me while I go find some squirrels to put suicide-vests on. I have a strong feeling I'm onto something big. A cure for AIDS, I think.

Why I'm not applying abroad...

I'm posting this because I'm sick of people asking me why I'm not applying abroad for college. Is it because I get embarrassed? No, though I probably would be if there weren't others like me. At the end of the day people like me are in the majority in my school. There is some comfort in numbers. I'm writing this article so I don't have to repeat the whole thing ad infinitum to every Tom, Dick and Harry who pops the question, “Yaar, why aren't you applying abroad? You'll get in easily.” Now I'll just tell them to check out my blog. I save a lot of breath, plus do some pretty shameless self promotion for it. In fact, one of the people I hope sees this is my school college counsellor, so she can understand where I'm coming from. Trust me, it feels good the first few times she has a heart-to-heart conversation with you, trying to convince you to apply. It is flattering. Then it just gets frustrating when she intercepts you in the corridors on your way to class all the time and says stuff like, “Still not tempted?” or meets me in the school office to debate my religious principles. I feel I owe her this explanation for her efforts (Seriously though, thank you maam, for showing you care).

Well, what ARE my reasons for applying to Aga Khan and Dow and not Johns Hopkins and Harvard? Financial? Partly. Improved career prospects? Partly. But the reasons are predominantly religious (You saw that one coming didn't you?)

I'll come to the religious part in a minute, but before that, some words about the other reasons:

Let's face it, medical school abroad costs an arm and a leg. AKU, extremely expensive by local standards, still is a pittance compared to medical schools abroad. When I tell people that, they urge me to apply for a scholarship. “At least apply!” they say, “You may land a mean scholarship. What's the harm in applying?” And they are absolutely correct. But that's why finances aren't the only reason. I won't go abroad, even if they pay me to. Besides, I'll feel real crappy if I do end up with a scholarship and don't go abroad. I'll waste too much time wistfully thinking of what could have been. In any case, medical school scholarships are tough to get. “Then apply for engineering!” they cry. “But I just said I want to become a doctor,” I reply, “I will not change my dream career for a college.” Though I could do the American way of doing things. Spend 4 years doing your B.Sc., then spend another 5 in med school. No thanks. Doctors in the former colonial countries study 4 years less and are as smart as their American counterparts. And House is just a TV show.

Which brings me to my second reason. Are foreign-qualified doctors as good as they're touted to be in comparison to local med school grads? In terms of knowledge, there's no denying it. They have better teachers, better labs and access to research material beyond us local boys' wildest dreams. And that's where the problem lies. Better facilities? I plan to live and work in a 3^rd world country. Modern labs are a luxury I will not have. So why use them in med school? I should familiarise myself with the apparatus I am going to use everyday for the rest of my life. Plus, the better teachers are better only when it comes to diseases endemic to the western hemisphere. Show them a case of tuberculosis (almost wiped out west of Suez), and they'll probably diagnose it as a bad cold and send the patient home for some good R & R. Okay, maybe that is a slight exaggeration. But you get my point, right? I don't want to spend my residency making exercise regimen and diet plans for overweight and cardiac patients (the single most common afflictions in the west), but treating infectious diseases (the most common causes for death here). Not because I have anything against obese people, but because it's quite stupid dealing with problems resulting from eating unhealthy when you will be spending your life dealing with the problem of patients not having enough to eat. And it's not like I'll never go abroad. I plan to take advantage of the superior research in foreign countries and do my specialisation, hopefully at Harvard, inshaAllah.

Now for the moral aspect:

My mother has always maintained that I will not apply abroad. Until 2 years ago, I didn't really argue with her because frankly, college was still too far off in my mind. It was only when my friends started to register for their SAT-1s that I too got hit by Harvard fever. I went upto my mother to ask her for the 90 something dollars for the SAT. She refused, saying that I was not mature enough to go abroad yet. My life flashed before my eyes. She had a point there. So I left it at that at the time.

A few months later, I was discussing AKU apps with my mother, when she suddenly asked,

“Faysy, you sure you want to go for medicine? I mean, you're not doing it because I want you to become a doctor, right?”

“No, mama, relax,” I replied truthfully, “I WANT to become a doctor. I find the human body fascinating, like a puzzle, except that you can't just do whatever you want with the pieces. You have to treat each piece with respect, because it's alive.”

She seemed appeased by my answer. Then she asked again,

“Faysal, you do understand why we're not letting you go abroad right?”

“Sure I do, mama, it's the 'Chick Factor',” I replied simply.

“Chick factor?” She was confused.

“Sure. You're scared I'll go move in with some goree bachhi, or worse, a bachha,” I finished, mischievously.

Her face was a mixture of aghast and amused. “Of course not, beta! I trust you. I know you would never do something like that!”

This came as a rude shock. I had reconciled myself to my fate, BECAUSE I felt the 'Chick Factor' was a valid enough reason to stay in Pakistan. Not that I felt I would commit such a heinous sin. But because I knew worse things have happened to better people upon new found freedom. Case in point: the formation of Pakistan itself. You should Google the story of Barsees, the greatest worshipper of Bani Israel to understand what I mean.

It was my turn to be confused. “Then why, mama?”

“Well, Faysy, you're not mature enough yet.”

“How so?”

“I know you. MashaAllah, you're a good kid, but I know that you will not be able to practise Islam openly abroad. Without realizing it, you will have to compromise at some point. Even if what you compromise on is not a Fard (obligatory) act, it all starts from there. If you were a bit more strong-willed, I would have still let you. But you get influenced very easily. Not necessarily by your friends. But by people you look up to. Like your mama and mami. You may find the wrong role model there. And it's not like your father and I are stopping you from going abroad for post-grad.”

Now here was a defining moment. If I accepted what she said, I would be doing what she was warning me against. Not doing what I believe is right, but what she believed to be. First, convincing myself that her viewpoint was the right one, then accepting it like I had come up with it on my own in the first place because a) I look up to her and b) she's very good at arguing, mashaAllah and it takes quite an effort to take up arms against her (I got my debating skills from her, I guess). So I cleared my mind and thought about it. My life flashed before my eyes again. And I realized, again, that she had a point there, again. Another one up to the away side. But I wonder sometimes, was my decision to agree with my mother again tainted by my nasty habit of adjusting my mindset to be in sync with her own? Was a part of me stopping me from thinking independently, like Zaphod Beeblebrox from 'The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy'?

But Allah (SWT) knows best.

The Twilight of Mathematics

I wrote this story after I graduated from simple mathematics to further mathematics in my A'level.  A lot of you won't understand some parts, especially to do with the King and Abdul Azeez (only someone from my school will get those parts). For any math-illiterate reader, imagine graduating straight from learning 1+1 = 2 to ia + 1=z where a is real. Enjoy.


I gazed out towards the horizon at the P3, M1, S1 and P1 tribes as they receded into the dying embers of the sunset. I saw the bar graph family clunking along, followed closely by the rolling pi charts. There were the AP (Arithmetic Progression) GP (Geometric Progression) twins, the former's wailing growing louder linearly with each step, the latter's exponentially. I saw little Friction dragging herself along, putting up resistance with each step, moaning to Slope, "You can't force me to go, Mommy! I wanna go back!" But here was no turning back. Following a bloody revolution, the age of Mathematics had passed. It was time for a New World Order. It was the dawn of the Further Math era.
I turned to my left. There was Waqas, holdirng the hands of Queen Math. She had survived the purge due to Waqas's influence with the ruling party Politburo. I overheard her say, "King, Oh King, I hate to break it to you this way, but I think we should start seeing other people now. This relationship isn't going anywhere. Besides, I've found another guy."
"You ungrateful wretch! Where am I supposed to get another girl from!!?? You know we don't have any girls in Further Math anymore! The few we had were exiled along with the rest of Mathematics! Know what? You're one flighty bird. First it was that Thong dude, then me. Who's the guy now?"
"Azeez Sadiq, and he's gorgeous," the Queen giggled like a little girl.
"Well, I know you'll be back with me before long!"
"I'm done with you Waqas, you hear! DONE with you!"
"Yeah, Right, sure. That's what they all say." (He winked at no one in particular)
I then became aware of quiet sobbing behind me. I turned and saw the Numbers and Signs. Or what remained of them. The numbers 2 onwards had been executed by firing squad that morning, along with the Plus, Minus, Multiply and Divide Signs. All that was left of the decimated tribes were the Roots, Powers and 0, 1, infinity and 'i', who still didn't know what the hell he was. Rumour has it that his mum, a Number, had eloped with a travelling negative sign salesman, but left him because he had bipolar disorder, for a square root manufacturing CEO, who promised her a better life. Whatever happened after that, how 'i' was born, is quite complex, to say the least.My reverie was interrupted by the high pitched rattling of an fx-991MS in the distance, probably mowing down the remnants of the Maths. It wasn't safe to be out at this time, so I started off for home. Once home, I realized I needed a hot cup of tea to calm myself after the chaos and destruction of the day. I entered the kitchen, only to see him staring at me. There, plastered on my refigerator door was a poster of our Leader, Comrade Rayer, in full battle gear: shirt, red tie, the works, gazing sternly into my eyes. It was he who had brought Mathematics to power 2 years ago, with characteristic ferocity. Always the Machiavellian, it was with the same ruthlessness he now brought Futher Mathematics to power. When Maths stopped serving him any purpose, he purged it on the 'Night-of-the-Crappy-A-Level-result-when-Farjad-got-a-U-in-GP' with such utter ruthlessness, he made Hitler's 'Final Solution' look amateur and botched up. His bloody coup worked and Further Maths were Top Dawgs now.
Beneath his picture, were inscribed the ominous words, 'Big Brother is Watching You'. In the home? Was nowhere safe? I sat down and wept. Comrade Rayer just gazed on, oblivious to the pain he had caused.

Bismillah. First post! On sinning.

This post is basically a speech I gave last year for the English Speaking Union Debate and came 2nd in the country with.  I had the opportunity to go to London for the international finals (flying first-class, all-expenses paid) but didn't as they were clashing with my exams. Stupid, right?
N.B. Speeches never look as good on paper.

Change (Renewal & Regeneration)

Bismillah hirRahman nirRaheem

Assalamualaikum ladies and gentlemen.

I plan to talk about personal change. How we try so hard to become better people, but fail miserably. But before all that, I want to tell you a story about myself.

I come from a very religious background. Hence, the beard. In my family, talking unnecessarily to unrelated members of the opposite sex is a big no-no. Needless to say, dating is out of the question. Having said that, I go to a co-educational institution as well, so you can imagine how things are for me. On one hand, there is the God and family whom I love more than anything else on Earth pulling at me and on the other hand there are the charming girls at school whom again, I love in a different way, more than anything else on Earth. Anyway, I go to school every morning and brace myself. Today I will not talk to girls, I won’t joke or hang around with them, I shall be this shining example of piety, the bastion of the values my family has inculcated in me since birth. I walk through the school gates, and see her. I think “Hey I’ll just go say hi, no harm in that. She’s a classmate and after all, one must be courteous to the ladies,” I finish rather lamely. And it’s all downhill from there. By home time, I have her number and email address and am just about to ask her out, when I see my dad at the school gates here to pick me up. My voice falters, “hey, umm, will you go …for chem class tomorrow?” I finish rather lamely again. But the reason I falter, the reason I don’t ask her out is that I see my dad’s long beard and the sincerity that radiates from his face, and I am ashamed. I think of how much I admire him, how cool I think he is, how much I want to be like him and I say, “That’s it. No more! I am going to renew myself from now on, I shall be a completely new Faysal. I will be the kind of guy whom mothers point out to their kids and say, “honey, why can’t you be like him?”” Basically, I say everything I said in the morning.

The next morning, my dad drops me to school. I literally bounce out of the car, buoyed by this other-worldly aura of holiness. I strut through the school gates, the image of my dad’s long, free flowing beard still vibrantly bouncing in my mind, only to be replaced by her long free flowing hair vibrantly bouncing in my mind. (Sigh) here we go again. And today, I do ask her out.

Needless to say, by now, heaven and its 72 virgins have waltzed gracefully out of my mind.

So, ladies and gentlemen, the aim of this anecdote from my life was to show you how hard it is to change ourselves. Now, many of you, especially the more liberal ones may not be able to relate to the exact nature of my sin, but I am sure all of you face my quandary regularly. You commit a sin, any sin, regret it sincerely, and say “That’s it! No more. Now I’ll renew myself.” Then you commit the sin again, and the cycle goes on.

So, my fellow sinners, can we change? Change? Yes, we can! However, there are three and only three ways for personal regeneration.

The first is that a life changing experience must happen to you. Preferably, it should be as dramatic as possible, like in a soap opera. However, you can’t depend on these to change you. That kind of stuff rarely happens. And when it does, it mostly only happens to those wonderful people in the Reader’s Digest and The Chicken Soup for the Soul. After all, if life changing events were so common, the Reader’s Digest would be a Hard Bound encyclopaedia sized, weekly publication instead of the tiny, paperback monthly magazine it is. So let’s skip to the second method of change.

Peer Pressure. We’ve got to be surrounded by good people 24/7. I cannot overemphasize the importance of this.

For the smokers in the room, remember your first smoke? How you thought, smoking can’t be a cardinal sin if all my buddies are doing it. Well, now you know why you have to hang out with the goody two shoes, the mama’s boys and the daddy’s girls. Okay, I can’t hang out with the daddy’s girls. And if it’s a relative who got you hooked, I guess you have to change families then.

But to cut yourself off from the bad lot, you need the third method of change, will power. The will to stand against the baddies. So, ladies and gentlemen, once you use your willpower to change your friends and kick a bad habit, who knows, you may just get $100 from sending in this life changing experience to the Reader’s Digest. Thank you.