sidewalk scribbling

'Can I have water,' mouths Z at bedtime, for the fifth time, thinking he can get away with it if he whispers and makes his eyes as round as puss in boots. I know the sweet whispers will turn into loud whining if I say anything but yes, so I acquiesce with some dramatic eye rolling. As I watch him twist the bottle open and tilt it up to his face, scrawny and adorable in his space-themed pajamas, I wonder - How did he grow so fast? From that tiny alien-like creature with flaky skin and gummy eyes, whose only activity was to gaze deeply at things within 2 feet, sleep or drink milk, who couldn't even lift his head and only mewl as loud as a tiny lamb ... To this fiery bundle of endless energy and big emotions and bubbling affection and unbridled cheekiness? 'Thank you, your majesty PINK!' he says to me when I pour some milk into his cereal. He loves adding the word pink to things and says it in this really teasing voice that I find funny because I'm biological...

I don't know when I noticed it, but at one point in my life I realised how my mother always served us first - chose the ugliest fried egg, the smallest piece of chicken, the scrappiest slice of bread. At one point in my life I tried to stop her from doing that, instead offering up my share of a chocolate or an extra bite of my chowmein, thinking, hey, I'm so grown up and mature now, being selfless and all that ! Now that I have Zain and mind you, he's just a year old, my mother has four of us (oldest being in his 40s!), I realise how I can never repay my mother for everything she gave up for us, most of which we never even noticed or acknowledged. Our happiness, our comfort, our needs. It  was, and is, always me and my siblings before her ownself. I have never doubted the strength of women and as I grow older, I see more clearly than ever that women are stronger and more amazing than the world cares to let on.  And to some extent, that's okay.  If every selfless act of ...

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, ...

I think all parents in the world are in on a secret that they keep hidden in the deep dark silken pockets of their minds - giving birth is no walk in the park but the actual trek up the mountain starts the day you bring baby home. The first month is a whirlwind, especially the first two weeks where you lie in anxiety ridden sleep deprivation, wondering if you will ever be able to read a book and have a cup of tea again, and will life ever be the same? Two months from then, I can safely say yes to the first question and no to the second one. But then nobody plans to have a child with the intention of keeping their lives the same - even the most inexperienced of us have a solid inkling that life is going to change significantly once we have a tiny tot in the crib. After my initial conviction (despite friends and families' assurances to the contrary) that I am the one odd lady who just won't be able to handle parenthood, I think I have, for now, cautiously disembark...

It was the day I was moving into the LUMS hostel.  Ami was there, of course.  She helped me put on the red checkered bed sheet over the single bed in that tiny cubbyhole I was to share with another girl, we set out the lamp she had helped me choose and then we opened up my suitcase.  Ami found out where the ironing table was and took it upon herself to iron my kameezs and dupattas, coming back with the clothes hung neatly on plastic hangers, with the burning August heat of Lahore drawing rivulets of perspiration down the sides of her face and back.  I didn’t know anyone in that strange, foreign university then and having my mother next to me was a comfort.  Also she had just ironed a week’s worth of outfits just so I wouldn’t have to! I also remember exactly an year from then, at the start of my sophomore year when Ami came to drop me off to the dorms again, and I left her in the new cubbyhole, distracted by calls from friends I hadn’t seen in two mo...