This year, I’m ecstatic marking 5 years writing satire. I know this is the part where I’m supposed to humble-brag about my “journey”, but, ummm, no. I thought it’d be a lot more fun and fitting to celebrate my milestone with a tiny tribute to one of my greatest inspirations and South Asia’s most savage satirist — with razor-tongued wit and eerily precise observations, her words are effortlessly relatable and hilariously woven, and therein lies the magic of Moni Mohsin.
Ever grateful for the guiding light!
- Insha
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Image courtesy Google
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Monday, November 28 2017
Haiiiii!
Heavy weekend!
Friday night, Karachi, Farah Makhandani’s White Party, hosted at the beach chateau she snagged in the divorce settlement. Clever fox stuck it out just long enough to finish renovating the place. Three seconds later, Karim was kicked to the curb and she was cozying up with the Al-Hoor Cement waalon ka beta. Not that that wasn’t happening before.
Challo, mitti pao, tay khana khao, right?
I wonder if Karim will finally crawl out of his closet?
Saturday, Jihad and Haya officially kicked off the season with their annual brunch in Bani Gala. Ufff, the views were stunning and the khana was just exquisite! Everything was imported, from Shams, but still. And, of course, all organic. Apparently, Haya is severely allergic to thelay ki sabzis.
Sunday, we were back home for the J.F. Kalandardin Polo Cup. Lately, Cheeni and her chumchees have been sporting feathery head-pieces to these events. Such a bunch of hoity-toity wannabe goris, I swear. But Annie said she might wear one. And Sam’s daughter has talked her into it too. That means, Bina’s definitely on board, so…you know.
Now, I just hope that lazy murghi-wala shows up. The rest, the maid can figure out. Isn’t that why I pay her?
Wednesday, November 30 2017
Fittay moo!
Five cups of chai and my head is still splitting. Bloody pharmacist. Fazool mein switching out my standard cocktail with some new-fangled concoction, which, by the way, is total shit. Now he’s in some Cheechoo Ki Maliyan type pind for the next week, leaving me not-so-high and totally dry.
Bet you my Bottega he eats money to push this third-class maal on poor rich women like me.
Thursday, December 1 2017
Ufff, is waqt I would give dus kaalay bakroon ki qurbani if it meant wearing zero make-up, slathering andaa-dahi in my hair, and taking a very long nap. I’d also kill to smother my face with chocolate cake, but none of this is going to happen.
I mean, there’s no way I’m busting my teeka-diet. It was bloody torture trying to sneak my way into Nayna's squad and everyone knows how hyper-exclusive her B-Complex bashes are — gold-tipped syringes and all. Not a club I want to get kicked out of.
Waisay, whoever said “looks don’t matter,” is such a jhoot ki potli.
Khair, shukar hai, I finally dug up that Bubbly woman’s number. You know, the one who takes care of this saryal pish-posh crowd’s blow-dry, threading type business? Kasam se, she is legendary, and I’m not just talking about the massage. Slip her a sizable tip and she slowly works oil into my hair while giving me a lascivious low-down on the upper-crust’s deepest, darkest dilemmas. Sakoon mahol, tay mithay chowl!
Head to I'm An Insta-Girl, In An Insta-World - Part 2
