sidewalk scribbling

January 19   Haji Sahab appeared to be in his early 40s. He had the perfect Muslim man beard, trim and neat, long with grayish streaks, no moustache. His shalwar was an inch or so above his ankles. He was sitting at the Islamabad airport with a fairly young wife, I think she must have been in her late 20s. There were two young boys running around them, barely a year apart I would say. A third child was no more than 4 and he did not want to wear his shoes. “We’ve been here for four hours,” the pretty young mother told me in a Punjabi accent. “We came from outside of Islamabad for our flight to Karachi. And the flight keeps getting delayed!” I nodded sympathetically – kind eyes, slight pout, slow shaking of the head that is common to most South Asians and confusing for Americans because it is an in-between nod and shake of the head so the latter population has trouble understanding what it indicates. She pointed at her youngest and explained he was tired of wearing his sne...

August 29 I was born to be in transit. My first international flight was when I was still a chubby baby just ten months old. One of my dad’s favorite tales is: “We used to strap you to the little table in the cockpit of the little cargo plane. Somebody once said there isn’t really an oxygen mask for this baby if something happens but we waived it off, if the plane crashes it’s, the entire family is together at least.” I love our third world resilience and faith. My father looks so handsome in his pilot uniform. Handsome isn’t exactly the first word that comes to mind when one looks at my dad (even though he begs to differ, bringing out pictures from the 70s when he had sideburns and wore flared pants) and now that he is past 60, he looks smaller and frailer. But in his uniform, with the smart black cap and golden epaulets, he looked taller, more dignified, in control. He always does things a little faster than the average person, as if in his world a minute consists ...