sidewalk scribbling

It isn't very adorable but so many things about living in times of a pandemic are like surviving the first months of becoming a parent. Like washing your hands persistently.  Like restricting shopping jaunts to the online world. Like not going to the cinema. Like realising how little is actually in your control. Like wondering if life will ever be the same. As tiny and sweet as newborns are, I must say 3 months onwards they get so, so much more fun. At almost 6 months, they are just too freaking edible (I have to say, however, when people say 'enjoy this, it's the best age', I get a bit worried because when did you ever enjoy a situation all the more because somebody reminded you of its temporariness?). I still wash my hands fairly regularly but they don't feel like chipping tree bark anymore. I can't say I enjoyed the utter fragility of newborns either. The gummy eyes, the flaky skin, the red spots, the constant "watch his head, his neck, ...

Wollaton Park must be beautiful right now - trees bursting in a kaleidoscope of greens, wildflowers carpeting the track that goes around the lake, willowy branches casting dancing shadows on the walking trails and the beautiful mansion standing regal on the hill top, framing the blue summer sky. Wouldn't it be nice to go for a picnic, pack some sandwiches and crisps, pick up coffee afterwards from the cafe, lay out a blanket on the grassy slope along with scores of other people, with their dogs and babies and footballs and talking parrots (it happened once!).  But of course, the 'New Normal' has rendered the above scene pretty impossible (for now). On the other hand, I have seen my tiny backyard become more enchanting this summer than ever before. The neighbour's tree leans over the fence, it's branches casting a perfect shade on our side. It has leaves of an indescribable colour, each a rainbow in itself with shades of green and rust and maroon and brown and...

“But seriously, don’t you think the MeToo movement is just a bit over the top?” says a 31-year-old Pakistani man with his feet up on the coffee table, flipping through the TV channels as his wife stands over the stove in the kitchen, cooking dinner.   “Well maybe- ” begins his mother only to be interrupted by his father: “Of course.   That is the problem with today’s generation.   They’re just complaining all the time and turning small things into big issues.” “Things have changed you know, I could see women crying about equal rights before but we’ve pretty much achieved equality now,” the 31-year-old man continues.   “Honey can you hurry up with the food, I’m starving!” Isn’t it delightful when you’re in the middle of a situation so saturated in irony it’s almost unbelievable that you haven’t slipped and broken a collarbone yet? It may be a difference of opinion but you know what, I don’t think equality of the sexes has been achieved – not in th...

They say the world is a much smaller place now – with faster airplanes, safer sea routes, phones and apps that can help you stay in touch with your best friends 2,000 miles away, all the while giving you the option to put on bunny ears and whiskers – because let’s face it, communicating is much easier when you can distract yourself and your 7-year-old nephew with magic hats and fire-vomit filters. In some ways though, the world doesn’t feel very small at all.   My family is split over three continents and four countries, my cousins and best friends are strewn across the globe in a wide arc so that no more than two are in the same city and while it is great to have a place to stay if I’m planning a trip to Netherlands or Toronto or Dubai or Boston or St Louis, it would be much nicer still to have one of them idiots a ten minute walk away so I could actually poke an arm and share a coffee in person. The mad quest to leave our country for brighter horizons – higher ed...

You slip into the comfort of your own country so seamlessly you don’t even notice it.   It’s like wearing your favourite sneakers – you don’t realise how important they are till you buy new shoes and have to break them in.     We landed at the shoddy little Islamabad airport – Daewoo bus stations are better than the Islamabad airport, as my uncle put it – and I walked out into the crisp cool morning of home,   donning on a coat of smug confidence that was held up by invisible fairies right outside the plane door.    It’s that confidence which makes you stride with your head held high, pushes you to say “ex CUSE me!” loudly and indignantly to the aunties and uncles that try to cut the line in front of you, that helps you strike a conversation with a stranger on a bus, or offer help to a young mother with her antsy baby without blinking.   It’s the confidence of belonging to a place without filling out paperwork and supplying bank docum...

January 21 Smoking regulations are lax in Pakistan. Tahira baji would perch on a stool behind the reception counter and puff away at her Marlboro light. She is short, dark, and mostly has her hair straightened and streaked with light brown. She is usually in good shape and attributes her healthy weight to green tea. In recent years she has started wearing a dupatta over her head every now and then. The Bollywood music had also gradually been replaced by regular TV dramas. During Ramadan and other auspicious religious days she would put on the Arabic channel. Parlors are great places for gossip. It seems like facials, haircuts and dyes are stimuli to reveal neighborhood secrets and share family regrets. As soon as the black gown is thrown around you and Pinky gently tips your head down to cut off the split ends – “I can’t believe my son married her. She refuses to even walk near the kitchen let alone enter it! I seriously doubt if she even knows how to make tea.” Or you lea...

January 12 “Puppi chaheye?” my two-year-old nephew asks in his tiny voice. (He sounds just like Nibbles, Jerry’s tiny grey nephew from Tom and Jerry). I was saying bye to him and pretending to cry, which he usually can’t stand – his small face wrinkles into this sweet look of anxiety, he wrings his hands and emits little squeaks of concern mixed with comfort. He might offer a hug or he might smack your knee – not quite in control of his emotional expressions. I was lucky this time because he offered me a kiss. I love tiny toddlers who look just like miniature real people in their real-people jeans, scarfs and sneakers. But they are so small I am always amazed and amused when they speak in almost full sentences and run around. Arhu is the only grandchild in the city so he is always in the limelight. And boy does he know it! I will miss his parroting of every word he overhears (coffeechai chaheye? Awaz arahi hai? AWAZ ARAHI HAI? as he holds a cellphone to his ear; and ever...

November 3 Atta Muhammad was always a sight for sore eyes. If Santa Claus was a Pakthun man, he would look just like Atta Muhammad, big, somewhat round, friendly, with a bushy beard and twinkly eyes, and a face that I have to describe as jovial. There aren’t many times I use that word, but this is one of those moments. He was (probably still is) a private guard, employed by around six houses on my street for the sake of security. I wonder how secure we really are, considering guards like Atta Muhammad are hired by private companies, underpaid, and seldom given any training. In fact, in many cases they are not even allowed to use the guns they carry, casually slung over their shoulders, or when sitting down, laid across their laps. Families like mine pay about Rs12,000 to the company and the guard gets barely Rs4,000. He sends more than half to his family who still lives in their small village in Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa. Atta Muhammad has a wife, and two teenage sons he will ...