sidewalk scribbling

A good home is a balance between aesthetics, and comfort & practicality – probably leaning a bit more to the comfort and practicality side. I grew up absorbing- inadvertently- firm notions of patterned bed linen and dark coloured sofas to hide spills and stains.   We had limited art work on the wall to avoid holes and cracked plaster, and used shelves as storage for books, cosmetics, toys.   It makes sense – have your dustbin accessible in the kitchen, all your toiletries within reach and sight in the bathroom, use your bedside table for things you need at night – a book, your glasses, laptop charger, a coaster for your glass of water if you’re OCD like me.   Your bed would have two (or maybe four if you’re really lavish) pillows, definitely no more than one quilt because that’s what you use at night. You’ll probably keep your coffee table in the living room empty because you want to be able to pull it close to the sofa so you can put your feet up – you m...

First, it is just the thought, a fledging plan scribbled inside a notebook or a pastel image that reflects on the back of your eyelids when you close your eyes – toes digging into soft, warm sand … a deep breath in to inhale the fragrance of cold mountain air tinged with the scent of tea leaves … the tinkle of ice in a glass of pink lemonade as you sit on patchy grass watching the sun set behind a lake … Then it’s actually living out your plans, stepping into museums you’ve read reviews about or getting lost on your way somewhere and stumbling into something new … And finally, it’s the memories that make you smile on a gloomy Monday or while you stare out through the dusty blinds on your window, making you forget your itchy throat and your runny nose, dimming the fluey-head ache and making you think how fortunate you are to take time out for travel. Travelling is definitely one of the best ways to spend your money –experiences are worth more and they last longer than mate...

I wanted to make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich so I buttered the small frying pan (that I had brought all the way from Pakistan), and added the thick slices of bread and cheese – it was then that my eyes fell on the lid to a saucepan (the travelling companion to the frying pan) and a light bulb clicked above my head: the cheese will melt better if I cover the pan.   It will be grand. So I popped the lid on the frying pan and it slid a little lower than it should have but it wasn’t a big deal. Till I tried to lift it.  And try and pry as I could, the lid did not budge.  The bulb flickered and fused. A broken knob and bent fork later, Fahad decided to step in.  Man to pan.  He exited the apartment and a few minutes later, remerged, a huge grin on his face and the lid pried loose from its unsuitable marriage to the pan.  The edges of the pan were scraped and the scratches on its nonstick sides are not for the seriously OCDed, but I wasn...

I woke up today to complete silence.   Later, when I sat near the window I heard the sweet twitter of birds, faint, polite, cute.   Quite a difference from the loud caw-cawing of the crows that came to perch on the AC right outside our bedroom window in Karachi and wouldn’t stop their yelling for several long painful minutes. We’re in Nottingham now – currently moving from one AirBnb to another, nomads wearing the same pair of jeans for the last eight days, realizing how useful a washing machine can be and wondering if we will ever be able to wear sandals or open-toe shoes again. From the comforts of life in Pakistan to the start of a brand new story in England. When did time slip off its clunky wooden shoes and replace them with silver roller blades? Sometimes it feels like if we’re always chasing after time, our arms outstretched but our eyes glued to our TV screens or phones or laptops, making it difficult to catch up. And I bet Time rolls her eyes, mutterin...

The air felt washed, as if it had just rained. Things were quiet outside the airport – there were no signs directing us what to do or where to go like the solemn signs and arrows and officials of Bangkok so we followed the first man who offered us a taxi ride to the city. He quoted us a number and we automatically chopped Rs1500 off it, he politely chipped back Rs500 and so we agreed on Rs3000. As we drove towards Colombo, the taxi driver asked us what multiple taxi drivers, tuk tuk drivers and one random man in downtown Colombo would continue to ask us all over Sri Lanka: “Where you from? India?” “Pakistan,” we would correct. “Oh, you are Muslims?” and we nod, me more surely than Fahad, and he asks us cheerfully, “Yes but you are good Muslims right, not bad Muslims who do bombs!” “Yes, most of us Muslims are good and peaceful…” I trail off awkwardly. I guess if you’re a Muslim traveler it might help to have a few Islam-defenses prepared, to be whipped out and presented i...