Burgers, Bun Kababs and Döners

Where I come from we have this distinct group of people labeled as Burgers. I believe the term was coined in the early 90's when a lot of expatriates returned home from the West to invest in their own country or from the Middle East because of the first Gulf War. Whatever their origin these people clearly had a different lifestyle from the rest of us. The word Burger brings to my mind the image of a guy in baggy clothes, jeans torn at the knees, wearing a cap backwards and Nike sneakers, thriving on imported chocolate and soft drinks and speaking with an accent straight out of a Hollywood movie. Some people envied them yet others disliked them. But I don't think the Burgers put any effort into it. It wasn't their fault. They were who they were.

From amongst the Burger enviers rose another group. The Bun Kababs. I still can not believe they actually wanted to be like the Burgers. The Bun Kababs dressed up oddly. They spoke even more oddly and faked that aura of snobbishness that usually surrounded the Burgers. They were phonies and were quickly recognized for that. It's like if a Quinqi tried to imitate my Khyber. You can tell which one is faking it.

Nevertheless, the Burgers and the Bun Kababs have one thing to their credit - their contribution to the economy. Whole new markets emerged to fulfill their need to look cool. Zainab market (for the clothes), Khori garden (for the imported crap in the guise of western pop literature), the fake branded shoes and sun glasses industry and most importantly - canned soft drinks.

As time progressed the distinguishing features of Burgers and Bun Kababs became less pronounced. Maybe the society finally accepted them or maybe the society became more like them. Perhaps only an outsider can tell.

Then I came to Germany. A country known for its resolute individuality; the sense of pride among its people over their identity. But one day when I was on my way home on the bus, I saw a bunch of teenagers wearing strange clothes and caps that said New York and listening to what was clearly an English song on their MP3 player. This was new. I was both amused and surprised. I call them, thanks to my Turkish friends who have popularized the dish here, Döners.

Definitions: Burger, Bun Kabab, Döner

Programming

A computer is like a violin. You can imagine a novice trying first a phonograph and then a violin. The latter, he says, sounds terrible. That is the argument we have heard from our humanists and most of our computer scientists. Computer programs are good, they say, for particular purposes, but they aren't flexible. Neither is a violin, or a typewriter, until you learn how to use it.

Marvin Minsky, "Why Programming Is a Good Medium for Expressing Poorly-Understood and Sloppily-Formulated Ideas"

I miss KHI

I woke up today to a strange morning. The streets were unusually loud and crowded. Cars whizzing by. Municipal workers doing their stuff. School children chattering. Expressionless grown-ups on their way to work. The air was a lot smoggier. I even saw a car accident and a fight too (If you can call it that).

All this reminded me of good old Karachi. It was like one of those morning drives of mine which I used to take along the Clifton beach. The pretext of course was teaching my little brother how to drive. But it was also an opportunity to break the speed barriers on my Suzuki Khyber (God I miss that car). You know, to boldly go where no BinAzhar has gone before :)

Anyway. This morning was almost the same as KHI. I remember high decibel sounds being produced even by the most soft spoken of the machines. Early morning vans transporting noisy school kids to their destinations. A few silencer-less rickshaws here and there making their presence felt. CDGK workers in bright orange jackets trying to avoid work. And of course the world renowned, patient and law abiding, drivers of our great city.

Still. There was something missing. I couldn’t figure out what. Maybe it was the lack of melanin in the people around me. Or maybe it was that way those two drivers (read sissies) were fighting. It didn't quite make me feel at home. (Well. They weren’t fighting at all. Apparently they were waiting for the Police. Chickens.)

I gave a sigh of disappointment. There was no place on Earth like KHI. But then it struck me. It was the air. It smelled like, like nothing. Just plain old air. I instantly knew what was missing. So naturally, I went home and burnt some polythene in the kitchen.