sidewalk scribbling

I love Netflix.  I love that feature which makes the next episode come on right after one finishes –  and in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – before you can finish the thought “should I watch another episode?”, the theme song is already playing.  A computer code has helpfully made the decision for you. If you believe in signs, the fact that the next episode has already started – well, that’s a sign as clear as the neon one screaming ‘SALE SALE SALE!’ in a trendy shoe shop. It tickles me how our minds work.  Unconsciously always on the lookout for affirmation for what we want – like a text message from JustEat (a life-altering food delivery app in the UK) asking you to “put your feet up and just order in!” – just what it takes to assuage that tiny bit of guilt about eating unhealthy or overspending on food.  “But it’s a sign!” I mean, of course, not really. It is more of a marketing gimmick but then we’ll believe what we want.  While I’m confessing, he...

It’s hard for other people to understand what a victory in cricket means to us.  Why there will be hundreds of thousands of people out in the streets of our cities and in the dirt lanes of our villages, dancing, celebrating, causing traffic jams and shouting their hearts out, why fans across the world glued to their 52 inch TVs or their cracked 14 inch laptops vacillated between high pitched screaming and cheering, and crying (tears of joy, of course) – I mean, great match and all, you might say, but aren’t these Pakistanis kind of going a bit overboard? And I’ll tell you, after I’ve wiped my red sniffling nose on my sleeve, that no, we are not.  This victory (in the ICC Champions Trophy FINAL, against INDIA who we never beat in finals, INDIA a team much better and more experienced than our fledgling one ranked the lowest at the start of the tournament) is not just about cricket.  Don’t get me wrong.  Pakistanis love cricket.  There are many things ...

It’s the honey soft warmth of the sun on your face, your neck, after a week of cold gray clouds and rain, like a slow, deep breath, like climbing into a soft, clean bed after a long day and snuggling deeper into lavender scented blankets, like someone gently bringing their lips right next to your ear and blowing out all thoughts so that for one tiny moment, you close your eyes and feel at peace, that inexplicable elusive whispery feeling that never lasts for more than a few minutes at one stretch … I find it a little amusing, as a teacher who loves all her students and finds herself annoyed but somewhat charmed by that one child who never fails to spill ink across his homework, at our human tendency to never be grateful, to always want that which is just out of sight, turning around the corner, realizing the restaurant we wanted to go to was the one we just drove by and can’t turn around for because it’s a one-way street. And so it is that if I were back home in Karachi and I...

The start of a new year is like moving into a new apartment.  You think of all the things you could do with the new space … two, three, no – FOUR potted plants by the window, framed art on the walls, an off-white sofa because all of Pinterest and Instagram shows that black, white, gray and maybe a gentle splash of pastel pink or powder blue is what’s rocking the world of likes and hearts.  And then you get overwhelmed with all the ideas and then you realize you don’t have the money for that world of likes and hearts (stick to the cream-colored coffee cups and artistically arranged books, lady). The start of a new year, then, maybe, is like the start of a long class.  You walk into it all bright and fresh and determined, tossing away a finished cup of strong tea and settle down onto a gray seat.  You whip out your striped notebook, open a new page, write a neat title in the center and start taking notes.  In the beginning your writing is tidy and you cont...

From where I’m standing Right now, It’s not really clear; I see some clouds And a grey fog Perhaps I can lean over And draw Some silver linings Around The dark A box of crayons Always by your side Reds and blues and greens And the brightest yellow And while it may be Too easy To let the box drop And drown In the gray It might be better To lean over And draw silver Around The dark. Hello, new year, another year. I think at some point I stopped owning the years – you know, how when we were younger and in school, we’d start off the new year by always writing down last year in the blue and red margins of our notebooks – but then eventually, we’d grow used to the actual date and our margins would stop being all smudgy.  For some reason, now when another year steamrolls into me, there are two thoughts that come one after the other (like a race between two close runners, with one leading and then the other overtaking and you don’t know wh...

June 11 I’m a hypocrite, I admit it. I refuse to put Kindle on the same shelf as real books, I tell myself I will ensure that my kids can hold a paintbrush and scribble with crayons before they can swipe fingers at IPads and play games on portable devices, I roll my eyes at couples who write sappy messages on Facebook and turn what should be private and sweet into what at best, bores the rest of the public (you would be surprised at how little it matters to the rest of the world that you ate dinner with your honey at the little bistro down the lane and then he bought you a long-stemmed rose). I will reserve my thoughts on Facebook for later, but that brings me right to the dirt. I say I hate all this technology that has taken over our lives, that keeps us connected to people far away at the cost of ignoring those in our geographical proximity, but my Blackberry has become something like a third hand, or at least an addendum to one of my hands. I upload photographs on Faceboo...