sidewalk scribbling

There aren't that many things cuter than your 4-year-old fast asleep in bed, with a basket of cars perched in the middle of his duvet and the recently gifted toy traffic light blinking red, orange and green on his still round cheeks. Z has now reached that stage I used to think about wistfully when patting him back to sleep for the 3rd time in the night - the stage of falling asleep in his own room and then at some point, often after 5am (say what no way!?), padding into our room, holding on to one or four cuddly toys. I lift our duvet and he climbs in next to me, digging his heels into my stomach and then luck dictates whether we get to snooze all cute and cosy for a bit or get elbowed in the face with demands for breakfast, or my phone, which Z loves to record the most absurdly hilarious voice notes on. I know I say it about every age (while also secretly thinking how did I manage the earlier, less independent stage...), but four year olds are pretty great. I can now go for a s

It hasn't rained for a few weeks, and the days have taken on a pale, watercolour look. Four children in faded sweatshirts push each other across the road, dusty trees edge the street and a woman in a red dupatta walks down the lane. As the sun slowly shakes off his blankets and brightens his face, it starts to get warmer. Soon I'll be able to slip off my socks and jumper. Soaking up the sun on the last day of December in 2023. I found a typed diary page from ten - no wait, actually  20 years ago. ( how am I already old enough to be reminiscing about things from 2 decades ago?) It was an ordinary journal entry on a summer day in Karachi and it made me smile. The mundane details of what I wore that day and what I ate, the comfortingly uneventful musings and vague dreams of a 16 year old watching TV all day instead of going to school. That snippet of my life from so long ago brought with it a languid and sweet kind of nostalgia, mild, soft, settling itself gently around my sh

'Can I have water,' mouths Z at bedtime, for the fifth time, thinking he can get away with it if he whispers and makes his eyes as round as puss in boots. I know the sweet whispers will turn into loud whining if I say anything but yes, so I acquiesce with some dramatic eye rolling. As I watch him twist the bottle open and tilt it up to his face, scrawny and adorable in his space-themed pajamas, I wonder - How did he grow so fast? From that tiny alien-like creature with flaky skin and gummy eyes, whose only activity was to gaze deeply at things within 2 feet, sleep or drink milk, who couldn't even lift his head and only mewl as loud as a tiny lamb ... To this fiery bundle of endless energy and big emotions and bubbling affection and unbridled cheekiness? 'Thank you, your majesty PINK!' he says to me when I pour some milk into his cereal. He loves adding the word pink to things and says it in this really teasing voice that I find funny because I'm biological

'I'm sorry I hit you with a spoon', Z looks apologetic just seconds after banging a teaspoon on my knuckle as I take him out of his highchair and plop him on the floor. My fingers are still smarting so I don't reply. 'I love mama and baba', he says a minute later, playing with his cars. He looks up at me: 'Please can I love mama and baba?' I consent to the love and all is well again. Every few months I think exactly the same thing: this boy is so smart! how did he learn to say so many things?  ... every stage seems to outshine the last one (good thing I've got these blogs to refer back to!). And truth be told, I always thought the chunky baby stage was the best but despite the terrifying meltdowns and infuriating battles over nappy changes and the NO WE DO NOT HIT mantra that keeps on going, I think almost 3 year olds are so amazing. I can now actually take a quick shower while he plays independently - granted I'll keep the door open but STILL! T

I don't know when I noticed it, but at one point in my life I realised how my mother always served us first - chose the ugliest fried egg, the smallest piece of chicken, the scrappiest slice of bread. At one point in my life I tried to stop her from doing that, instead offering up my share of a chocolate or an extra bite of my chowmein, thinking, hey, I'm so grown up and mature now, being selfless and all that ! Now that I have Zain and mind you, he's just a year old, my mother has four of us (oldest being in his 40s!), I realise how I can never repay my mother for everything she gave up for us, most of which we never even noticed or acknowledged. Our happiness, our comfort, our needs. It  was, and is, always me and my siblings before her ownself. I have never doubted the strength of women and as I grow older, I see more clearly than ever that women are stronger and more amazing than the world cares to let on.  And to some extent, that's okay.  If every selfless act of

The sky glows - pink, lavender, baby blue, gold, like a rainbow has melted and soaked into the clouds. There is a soft breeze and tiny snowflakes whirl all around us like in a dream. Music wafts from Fahad's phone in my pocket and there is that rare moment of magic, the kind you can never create, that has to be unexpected, that makes you feel alive and grateful, that reminds you of how beautiful the world is. Such moments are always fleeting. That lofty happiness has to evaporate - like a soap bubble. The beauty lies in its evanescence. What I find incredible about being a mother is how often I get to experience that gratitude and happy-hued love for life.  Despite the recent rather long streak of unruly nights, the arrival of the toddler tantrum, continued pre-dawn mornings and the scrambling in the midst of changing your pjs or sipping your tea because the baby toddler man has decided to clamber over the safety gate or is beaming at you with his chubby hand poised over your c