sidewalk scribbling

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...

Some people have excellent memories – like my younger sister who claims to remember details from family holidays when she would be 2 years old, bringing to mind the concept of fake and made-up memories, however, too often her words are corroborated by someone else, someone who wasn’t 2 back then, or maybe a photograph or something harder to ridicule than a younger sister... My mind, on the other hand, is like a sieve, and while most slips through the small holes and disappears into the fading black of my unconscious, some memories remain, sloshing about silently till a random stimulus from the present dives in, hook, line and sinker, and slowly swivels it up into the bright light of now.  These memories exist like snapshots rather than film, like a 2-second clip you’ve accidentally trimmed and then, even worse, deleted the rest of the video, so I won’t remember what happened before or after, but I’ll remember that precise moment. One of these Polaroids from the past is ...

The old man had the most startling blue eyes, the kind that glittered in a wizard-like way.  He was a contractual worker fixing some room in the building where I work, and I met him in the kitchen over my morning coffee.  He asked where I’m from and widened his eyes, commented not on how good my English is but how American my accent is (which I take no offense or pride in – it’s not the two years of Master’s in St. Louis but all those American movies and TV shows I watch). And then he asked me that question – “so, what is Pakistan like?” The question always bounces off me like a gummy ball against the wall.  It’s a loaded question, even if it’s not really meant to be and I usually respond in two ways: 1. “Oh, it’s really nice,” which means absolutely nothing and really, when you think about Pakistan, nice is really not the most appropriate adjective … how about – incredible, wild, crazy, tragic, beautiful, turbulent, difficult to describe…? 2. Or I say...

Three tips for the traveler – 1.        Tip generously (maybe save a few bucks on buying three pairs of elephant-printed pants and reallocate to the drivers and guides who give you good service) 2.        Perhaps use a registered taxi service rather than go with a random tuk-tuk driver’s brother who happens to own a car 3.        Always, always do a thorough check of your rooms and cars before exiting (don’t forget to lift the bundle of blankets on the bed and peer under) It doesn’t take a scientist to notice that our generation (and actually all generations in this day and age) is obsessed with taking pictures. We lose the moment, the emotion, the scents, the tastes just because we want to capture it all on a cell phone. Only to forget about it for the next months to come. Unless we post it immediately to Facebook or Instagram or Whateverchat and then check obsessively for the number of likes,...

March 7 I can remember the hysteria I tried to suppress inside my chest, like an overstuffed suitcase you have to get your friend to sit on so you can zip it shut, or a sandwich that threatens to spill out all its contents. It’s never easy to pack up and leave for a new beginning, especially if you can’t bring some of your favorite things (fiancé, best friends, monsoon rain fragrances) along for the extended trip. But despite the bouts of loneliness and the sneaky panic that would shoot up throughout my body at random moments in the first few weeks in St Louis, I think I was pretty determined to make the most of it. I always have a special place in my heart for cities. Like an earnest young professional, I have the highest expectations from a new place. I do my research, start specialized bucket lists and slowly and determinedly, fall in love with the quirks that make each city unique. I like St Louis because it doesn’t put on many pretenses. It has its problems – ra...

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...

October 6 I remember the exact moment when I became an addict. I was sitting by a wide window overlooking trees newly painted by the season. It was Fall because leaves had taken up new disguises, bright orange like pumpkins that sat on doorsteps of overzealous families weeks before Halloween, and dark red like the color of bricks that burn in kilns on the outskirts of Lahore, and new yellow, like the crayon little kids use to color in their suns. The sharp gray outline of the house next door cut off the scene abruptly. The smell of spiced caramel hung in the air – candles burnt low in their glass houses. The wind was too cold for a day in early Fall and I couldn’t tell the smoke from my breath. It was deathly quiet save for the faint strains of a piano. My mind was at peace, and my heart beat slowly, serene and regular in its rhythm. My hands were cold because I had the window open, and when I inhaled, the end of the cigarette lit up like a firefly had come to rest on it, I ...

August 6 I was never the girly girl. I chose shorts over skirts when I was 8, I related to the adventurous, reckless tomboy Georgina in the Famous Five and if I were one of the Sweet Valley twins, I’d be nerdy Elizabeth. I can’t stand sappy, clichéd rom-coms, and baby animals cuddling don’t make me cry. Roses look better in a garden than clutched together in cellophane and doves shouldn’t be trapped only to be let out as the groom slips a diamond onto his swooning wife’s finger. And he knew all this because I told him. “I can’t stand all this hype over valentine’s day,” I had rolled my eyes in freshman year – and so he had burnt me a CD of our shared music and given it to me on 13 th February in the library. But like all non-girly girls, every now and then I’d secretly crave for a cliché to be pushed across a white-table-clothed table in a candle-lit restaurant. And so, I’d become a little nasty on those silly college society carnivals when he wouldn’t send me a rose de...