I’m a poet. My poems live here.

I’m Pakistani. Pakistan lives here. It’s rather bigger than it looks on the map you’re seeing there, but, then again, not bigger than its neighbouring country, India, which I will not link, because I’m mean.

I’m Muslim. We blow things up. Everybody says so. But not me, I don’t blow things up. Except young, impressionable minds. Because

I’m a university lecturer. “Lecturer” is a misnomer. Actually, I’m a discusser. I stand in front of classes of various sizes and discuss history and religion until the brains of undergraduate Pakistanis dribble out their undergraduate Pakistani ears. Then I give them midterms. Then I fail a substantial percentage.

I’m mean. Which I said already.

I live in Lahore. For something perpetrated by flatlanders, it’s really quite nice. But I’m from Islamabad. It’s much nicer.

Shh. Yes, it is.

This blog is where I write about all these things. And art and music and television and writing and religion and God. Sometimes, what I write comes out sounding like a rubber room. This is because I get headaches. I have one now. But other times, I sound like a college professor with an identity crisis. I’m having one of those now also. But it feels a bit like having raspberry jam right out of the jar – unpleasant and shocking, but overall, things could be much worse.

Does that answer all your questions?