sidewalk scribbling

“What’s up with them?” Fahad says, looking at a couple of Asian students rush out of the train. “Must have gotten on the wrong train,” I reply, settling down, relieved that we had found empty seats.   [Our train journey to Grantham had been spent standing because the train was so busy.   I made my way down the aisle and stood right next to the priority seating, my jacket open, sneaking sulky looks at the oblivious young people sitting there.   ‘I thought English people are supposed to be polite,’ I muttered darkly to myself.   There’s that lack of confidence in foreign countries, the penalty of leaving home where you can demand your rights a bit more hotly.] Anyways, it hasn’t been a minute and the train has just picked up speed when Fahad says, is this train going to Norwich? The next stop is Peterborough. The tiniest spark of anxiety puffs up, and I look at the blue screen confirming what Fahad said.   We are most definitely not supp...

You can tell by the sideways look your two-year-old nephew is giving the little girl playing with his up until-a-minute-ago-uninteresting plastic truck that there is a storm brewing.   “My truck,” he says loudly.   He lets go off the blocks he was playing with and looks you in the eye. “ My truck.” Toddlers, you may have noticed, have more important things to do than bother about extra adjectives or verbs (let alone something as useless as prepositions).   “MY TRUCK!!!” (It was also a toddler who created the wise saying about persistence being the key to success).      “Come on, you can share,” you may try but then thunder lightning rain and tears are upon you so you cave in to the fury of a tiny being and sheepishly cajole the little girl into giving you the truck in return for,   I don’t know, say five bucks or maybe a Barbie with shorn hair. “Here you go,” your reproachful look slides off the nephew’s adorable head like the skate...

In the morning when I wake up staring at the white ceiling with its Ikea paper lamp, I think of the teal blue of my cotton curtains back home, and the sunrays giggling just behind them, like children playing hide and seek. When I leave for work, letting the heavy door of our building close with a disgruntled thud, I look up at the English sky suffocated with sad gray clouds, I pull my jacket closer, and I think of the bright blue of the sky back home, where in late September it would only be in the early morning that the air would feel cool on my arms and face.  The trees in my street would be bright green, and I would be able see the sun, with the customary stray clouds strolling along the expanse. I miss my office, I even miss having to wear shalwar kamees with a dupatta every day (I’ll take it over the three layers I wear everyday and the mind-boggling choice between short boots, calf-length boots and the simpler close-toed loafers with worn out soles).  I m...

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...