sidewalk scribbling

February 11 You would think graduate school is a real eye-opener and one would go in and learn a ton of new concepts, find out how people think and work; that it would be a real asset in the real world and help us professionally. You would think. Sometimes I feel like the social work school has done the opposite of opening my eyes. Don’t get me wrong; I was overjoyed in my first semester as I sat in classes where real people talked about things others scoff at. Professors and students all care about changing the world, making a difference, fighting for justice, believing wholeheartedly in spending their lives in a field that is low paying, high stress. Most of the time we speak the same language – so much so that we forget that the world outside isn’t quite on the same page. Most of them are not even in the same book. It always amuses me when social work students get worked up about something (usually) benign another social work student said. Some of us justice-fighter...

February 6 There are some battles I have been fighting for several years now, and I think the only pat on the back I can give myself in this regard is that I am still fighting. Thank goodness for social work school and the art of reframing they have us practice in class – otherwise I would say I have a stack of failures piled in a corner. But as it is, I can be proud of being persistent, of recognizing what I still need to do and being mission driven – despite years of milling about the starting line of several goals. I guess one of the problems with these goals is that they do happen to be lifestyle changes. I have heard or read somewhere that it takes just two weeks to develop a new habit. Isn’t that lovely? The flip side – it takes just two weeks of not doing something to unlearn that pleasant habit. One-time goals are easier, right. An aspect of my self-diagnosed mild OCD is making goals out of everything: doing laundry, mailing the rent check, dyeing my hair. This me...

January 21 Smoking regulations are lax in Pakistan. Tahira baji would perch on a stool behind the reception counter and puff away at her Marlboro light. She is short, dark, and mostly has her hair straightened and streaked with light brown. She is usually in good shape and attributes her healthy weight to green tea. In recent years she has started wearing a dupatta over her head every now and then. The Bollywood music had also gradually been replaced by regular TV dramas. During Ramadan and other auspicious religious days she would put on the Arabic channel. Parlors are great places for gossip. It seems like facials, haircuts and dyes are stimuli to reveal neighborhood secrets and share family regrets. As soon as the black gown is thrown around you and Pinky gently tips your head down to cut off the split ends – “I can’t believe my son married her. She refuses to even walk near the kitchen let alone enter it! I seriously doubt if she even knows how to make tea.” Or you lea...

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...

January 12 “Puppi chaheye?” my two-year-old nephew asks in his tiny voice. (He sounds just like Nibbles, Jerry’s tiny grey nephew from Tom and Jerry). I was saying bye to him and pretending to cry, which he usually can’t stand – his small face wrinkles into this sweet look of anxiety, he wrings his hands and emits little squeaks of concern mixed with comfort. He might offer a hug or he might smack your knee – not quite in control of his emotional expressions. I was lucky this time because he offered me a kiss. I love tiny toddlers who look just like miniature real people in their real-people jeans, scarfs and sneakers. But they are so small I am always amazed and amused when they speak in almost full sentences and run around. Arhu is the only grandchild in the city so he is always in the limelight. And boy does he know it! I will miss his parroting of every word he overhears (coffeechai chaheye? Awaz arahi hai? AWAZ ARAHI HAI? as he holds a cellphone to his ear; and ever...

December 15 New York is expensive. I just bought a 15 oz. bottled smoothie for $4.69! That’s how much Steak ‘n’ Shake in St Louis charges for a full meal – grilled cheese and fries, that is. Probably a gigantic soda too. Airports can be lonely. Especially when one is bogged down with too many bags and every step – with backpack, big trolley, small trolley, camera bag and jacket because for one it is actually too warm inside – belongs to the geeky, awkward boy in a chick flick before he transitions into a geeky-but-now-in-an-endearing-way boy. There are too many families, siblings arguing (I just straightened my bangs in the airport bathroom and two Hispanic ladies followed suit, chattering amicably to one another. I bet they were sisters. There was that affectionately argumentative tone to their Spanish that is prone to ordinary sister-talk), couples holding hands, babies running amok with harried parents in tow – it makes one feel sad to be bogged down alone. Buying that sm...

December 12 Jibran would always finish the math assignments really fast, toss it our way and then proceed to dance around the room, poking and prodding the other children who were still trying to finish their work. He was five years old when I first started volunteering at the SOS Village, and over the next couple of years I learned that he was the sort of little boy I needed to give two math worksheets while most other kids got one, he was the one I had to get on my side to help hand out sweets so that he wouldn’t wreak havoc running around, grabbing as much candy as would fit in his tiny palms. I started volunteering at the SOS Village in Lahore in my freshman year, which also happened to be the year the terrible earthquake struck across Pakistan, devastating individual lives and entire communities. A few families sought help with the SOS Village – children who had lost either both or one parent were sent through a series of SOS locations, till finally they came to rest in...