Losing the Plot: Habits of the Heart (Complete Novel)

by Maniza Naqvi Poppy

Chapter One: The Little Coffee Shop

Chapter Two: The Hotel

Chapter Three: Dreaming Dulles

Chapter Four: Civil War

Chapter Five: Stanley’s Girl

Chapter Six: Hope

“We are just props for validating and furthering their policy! We say no to them and they punch us hard and prove their point with another explosion! Can't you see that?”

“No, jan–I cannot–You have made this a habit–of blaming America for everything!”

“No I have not made it a habit! Isn’t it curious that every time they make a policy statement—quoting D’Touqueville to us—-every time they want to force Pakistan to take a position in their war and Pakistan resists—some sort of a violent event takes place in Pakistan to prove their point? Isn’t that just a little suspect? They are going to increase their troops here—they are going to expand the war into Pakistan—they are going to occupy us—just wait and see!” Zarmeenay had argued, in an urgent tone, her eyes wide and serious as she had packed to leave for Baluchistan. “ We have to stop them Mama.—we have to push back! Amir, Amreekah, Mama! Amir Amreekah!”

“I don’t know Zarmeenay.” Rukhsana had argued with her daughter, “Maybe it’s time we stopped blaming everybody else for all the criminals that have been created right here in Pakistan in the name of religion.’

“Mama! Please—there no such thing as Al Qaeda! There’s no such thing as the Taliban! This is all the same old, same old, overt-covert good old CIA—now breaking up Pakistan—we will have Pushunistan, Baluchistan—Serakiistan—Kashmir, Baluchistan, Karachistan, Sindhistan—just wait. They will do worse to us than what they did to Yugoslavia and the breaking apart of the Soviet Union—just wait—……They will murder all of us!”

“Zarmeenay…”

“Don’t you agree with me Mama, that they killed Benazir Bhutto? They already knew who was her murderer the moment she died? They had decided who to accuse of her murder the day she was murdered? So Benazir is dead, and Baitullah Mesud is dead—But they can’t find Osama Bin Laden in all these ten years of looking for him with all the sophisticated technology that they have?”

“Really! I’m so worried about you darling! Zarmeenay, you are beginning to go too far! I’m scared for you! You talk like this everywhere in public and I’m afraid for you! ” Rukhsana had said to Zarmeenay just before she had left the house.

“Don’t be afraid, Mama. Don’t be afraid! That’s been our main problem we’ve been afraid for too long. It’s too late to be afraid now, we have to take action. We have to save ourselves, our country! You’ll see Mama! I’m right! It’s time to listen to your heart Mama, I’m listening to mine. We have to fight for Pakistan!”

And Zarmeenay had disappeared. Just like that vanished. Now she was dead.

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Losing the Plot: Hope

By Maniza Naqvi Red-Poppies-No-2

Chapter One: The Little Coffee Shop

Chapter Two: The Hotel

Chapter Three: Dreaming Dulles

Chapter Four: Civil War

Chapter Five: Stanley’s Girl

There is no telling what a murdered man is capable of doing.

Murdered, in the cross hairs of a surveillance camera mounted on an unmanned predator drone; murdered on national and international television—murdered on CNN, murdered on Fox News, murdered on MSNBC and murdered on BBC— the last word in murders. Incinerated over and over again on a 24 hour news cycle—killed, burned, assassinated, maligned, analyzed, sermonized, eulogized murdered, dead.

A murder of a man killed in a burning building expanded and super sized on television screens all over the world—in cafes, and in sports bars—in airport terminals and subways, in doctors’ waiting lounges—in old people’s homes, in tea stalls, in currency exchange kiosks, in living rooms and bedrooms, in newspapers and radio talk shows and in the aspiring manuscripts of hundreds of post killing literature.

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Losing the Plot (Stanley’s Girl)

By Maniza Naqvi Kiss-lips

Chapter One: The Little Coffee Shop

Chapter Two: The Hotel

Chapter Three: Dreaming Dulles

Chapter Four: Sovereign Debt or Civil War

The terminal entered, Pakistan left behind she adjusted for the gained time. Younger by an hour—she smiled, fiddling with her watch. One of the perks of the job: eternal youth and its secret: jetlag. Staying put could change all that. As she followed the other passengers she recalled her earlier conversation with Stanley. She had said to him in frustration: Dying—Death—Yes Stanley—precisely that. You do seem to be setting off all the alarm bells which are usually associated with men of your age. I suppose it’s that whole last gasp…

In the immediate aftermath of dying would it be like this? A long steep escalator moving slowly towards the light, a glass encased place, shielding the inhabitants from the terrible heat and fire outside. And inside, an abundance of the essentials for life: energy, cool air, gushing fountains, the sound of music, and light aplenty. And all that you could buy all the time, everywhere: Duty Free. And people, many but still in the scheme of things, a few, moving towards their separate journeys—towards that plenty! Towards that abundance. She watched a man in front of her wave a light blue passport and walk through immigration—unquestioned—no border restrictions:, Let Them Pass and So It Was and So it Shall Be! This was Freedom, this was liberty this was the essence of modernity. She had a pang of panic. Was this true? Was this it? Were the chosen few the ones who fit, the “good”, the ones with the right nationalities and those who were granted passports and visas? Had the system distilled itself down to this? Had all of history, ended at this distillation of itself? She thought about being the chosen, being privileged, being powerful, having God’s grace smile upon her. And she was gratified. That it was so.

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