Dawnshowers

In the 'Land of Smiles'

2022-10-07T03:23:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of traveling to Bangkok recently. So there I was eagerly awaiting my call to board, with a single hand carry and a million preconceived notions. For some reason, Thailand is only associated with massages and prostitution. The nation has absolutely no problems with those that visit year after year to get more than their backs rubbed, but to limit the possibilities is to, well be a typical human being I guess.
The visa process is an eye opener in that it is one of the simplest and fastest visa to get even for someone from Pakistan not to mention the nominal visa fee. When you arrive at their humble embassy, most of the crowd you see waiting to get an access to beautiful Thailand makes you want to change your itinerary. Of course most of them are there for what we call 'kheps,' which is to smuggle cheap goods and sell them for an arm and a leg here in Pakistan. Those guys are not all bad when it comes to traveling so don't be deterred by the shalwar kameez and the two inch wide mustaches or their loud voices. Surprisingly they tend to understand that it is hush hush time on a plane. And then you will find yourself amongst the relatively younger, brasher lot that want to be able to travel to a land where they may take off the shackles of their own society and enjoy a few lusty days like Faustus, for they know they have to eventually pay Mephistopheles with their soul. I don't begrudge them their wanton happiness, to each his own. In recent years there has been a great demand for a visa to Thailand by families from Pakistan. Although they really have no idea how to have a good time in the country once they get there. Oh, don't get me wrong, there are the usual tourist 'packages' that allow you to go to all the 'most visited' or 'most enjoyable' spots accompanied by a local guide. I guess that is 'fun' for the usual family who just need a bit of change from the mundane of their own city. But if one really wants to have a look inside the ins and outs of how a city should wake up and go to bed at night the best way to travel is by yourself, learning from the natives as you go along and adopting their ways and means.
Back at the airport we are. I have always traveled economy but it so happens that I belong to a city where international flights are wary to land. So when Cathay Pacific baled out, we were left with no option but to buy a business class ticket to Bangkok on another airline or wait another week and half to get away from the load shedding. Apparently when you spend extra for a ticket you are no longer a security threat. We were literally whisked along to our lounge/waiting area/buffet hall. You are discreetly told that everything you eat in the lounge is for free. We land our tushes on the plush sofas and have a look around. An old auntie talking non-stop on the cell phone to my left, talking in one of those accents Pakistanis acquire when they have lived a number of years in USA. Where the grammar has gone to hell but you 'eat Aall you wAAnt' and 'MadAnna is a pAp star.' Enter a family comprising of women and children. Perhaps the men of the family had had enough and this was their only option to get peace in the house. Two adult (by age not by behavior) women and three female children, one male child (whining and being cajoled by one of the adult ladies). The little asshole punches his older sister for some reason and calls her names while the 'adult' continues to massage his ego. And then for the next hour we were entertained by this family eating the entire buffet and stuffing their bags with packets of chips, cans of soda, and every other thing on display. The only thing they did not put in their bags were the newspapers and magazines. Reading was clearly not one of their priorities.
Once you reach Suvarnabhumi airport the notions you had start to crumble. The airport is large to say the least, it is clean and no you will not be propositioned. It is also not cheap. The taxis that can take you to the city will charge you quite a hefty amount and funnily enough you will have a choice of luxury vehicles to travel by. The most humble SUV will cost you 1000 baht to the city centre, unless you haggle like a pro.
The city is a bouquet of old and new, modern and ancient, rich and poor. A country that is open minded about all things has a tight lipped policy about it's religious and monarchical traditions. You will see intricately decorated miniature shrines usually with some sweet thing to eat or drink left at it's tiny threshold, a dedication to their ancient elders, outside all buildings. Their king and queen can be seen smiling down from almost every hoarding and billboard. One of the things that you will need to polish is your ability to speak in sign language unless you know Thai. Be patient, they certainly are.

The modern living standards in the heart of the city leave you breathless. In the last couple of decades the progress in infrastructure Bangkok has seen is a glowing example of how to move forward and progress as a contemporary urban locale.

You can lose yourself walking along the lanes which are locally known as 'soi.' The variety of street food and the established franchises present a mish mash of the most delectable kind of buffet to choose from. There is a mall in every major district of the city that boasts of it's own specific feature or set of activities. The taxi service is the best way to travel for a new tourist since the drivers make it a mission to drop you to your as long as you are able to explain to them where you intend to go. Remember you should tell them the soi number and the name of a landmark nearby. Each place has a name.
Another way to get around is the BTS or the sky train. Which works more or less like the underground in UK. You make a day pass of 130-200 Baht and spend according to how far you go.

The benefits of 'square one.'

2022-10-07T03:20:00.002-07:00

It feels like there is a scream lodged in my throat and for some reason all I can do is smile. Three weeks ago I had sat on my bulging suitcase trying to zip up all my earthly belongings into the 30 kg limit we are allowed to carry through the airport. Two suitcases, three hand carries and my bag which I had purchased a short month ago from a destination that was to be my home now, Bangkok.

I did not update my status as we started on our exciting journey away from a city which has taken so much away from me. It was as though the city was fighting back, sneering at me, sticking it's tongue out once or twice almost as though it knew what I was about to go through. There was a PTI sit in, cutting off the main arterial road which we were to take to the airport. So we decided to call an early cab, figuring it would be better to be stuck at the departure lounge than at home.

KESC decided to remind us of one of the many reasons we were on our way to restart our lives in a strange country. In the waning light of dusk we trundled down six flights of steps with our luggage. The cabbie was an expert and managed to take us from a protest-free route. As I looked out of the car window I realized none of the scenery outside was familiar to me, we were being hastily transported through strange highways and by-allies. I felt even more alienated, as though my country had washed its hands off me. I told myself it was poetic justice that I was unable to say my last goodbyes to all the places familiar to me in this city I was 'defecting.'

There had been a heart wrenching good bye from my then husband's family, another reason for me to feel guilty for uprooting my family but I had held my nerves together. My mantra was to keep picturing a happy life and it will materialize. I do not have any friends. Never was good at keeping in touch with people for very long. Not by way of giving any excuses, but on a purely self analytical front, this personality trait of mine probably comes from having moved every six months from one geographical location to another. I said farewell to the two ladies who have bestowed me with respect that I feel I do not deserve. My children had not been to school in a little over a month and I was frantic to start my life and give them back the better conditions I had promised them. It was not to be, this time.

I wore ash grey trousers, a black dress shirt, the pearl earrings, my only buddy had given me as a parting gift and a hopeful grin as I entered my new place of work. I was introduced to the tiny lives I would be entrusted with and my plush office, as the forerunner in maintaining quality education at the early years section of an international school. I felt some of the weight on my heart lift off. My children and husband, the three individuals who had led me on this adventure sat patiently in the front office. When my children had been settled with their entrance test papers in another room, we were handed a fee challan. At first I thought I was seeing doubles and almost heard fate let out a snigger it had been holding back for so many days. I asked the secretary if perhaps she had added one too many zeros.
"No this is the fee all school teachers have to pay, it has been reduced 70 percent for employees."
Typical human reaction in the face of shocking news, denial. I proved to be quite typical that day. And so there were usual volleying of negotiations from administration to us. At one point I gave up and bought the children's books and took them with me to school, with the tiny hope that the negotiations will sway in my favor. After all this was what I had worked tirelessly for, for the past two years.

The graves are filling fast

2017-04-07T06:56:00.002-07:00

When they dropped chemical bombs on Syria

Cover me quick,
The clouds come hither,
How do I stop from breathing?
Cover my eyes,
I can't see mother,
How will I find my way?
Cover my arms,
My skin is burning,
How do I burn alive?
Cover me all,
There are so many,
How will you bury us all?
Cover my uncle, my aunt, my brother, my father,
The graves are filling up fast,
Soon there will be no more left,
To cover us at all.

Smothered!

2016-11-01T05:50:00.001-07:00

I grow old
Weakening with each breath I take
Watching the seeds I sowed,
Sprout new leaves.
Relishing in their strength,
Yet looking at how my roots whither.

I grow old
The wrinkles edge closer to my soul
Each step driving me further into the ground
I so proudly stood on
I am sinking
Unable to stay afloat

I grow old
The dust has all but slipped from my fingers
The days are all but done
I pack all my testaments of my own greatness
And get ready to take that eternal trip
With nothing to look back upon

I grow old
I am nothing
I was no body
I will become nothing
But you must shine
You must avenge my obliteration

As I Sit Here

2016-08-19T23:27:00.001-07:00

Dedicated to Omran from Aleppo

As I sit here
In my orange seat
I look at you
You look back at me
I see two eyes, curious, but uncaring
You see my forehead grimy and bloodied.

There isn't much you can do for me
I am, after all, beyond your reach
You look at your children
Still warm in their beds
You are grateful to the God
That did this to me

I will sit right here and wait
Wiping my wounds with my tiny hands
Crawl out of the rubble that heaps over my head
As you barrel bomb and fill me with lead
You will forget
Like you did Alyan

So as I sit here
I think to myself
what it would take for you to cry
For my mother, father, my brothers, sisters
Not until yours will also
fall like flies

The longest year

2015-12-10T05:58:00.001-08:00

In memory of the children we all lost on 16-12-2014 (APS Attacks in Peshawar)

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The pillow you rested your head on
The cricket bat against the wall
The book you kept open
That day you went to school.

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The pain whenever I remember,
The tears that fall unbidden,
The people who look at me with pity,
The heavy-footed walk to your grave.

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The posts on Facebook with your smiling faces,
The comments of remorse,
The shaking of the heads at your memory,
The sharing and re-tweeting of apologies.

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The hangings in your name,
The songs of bravery and valor for you,
The debating over how wrong it was,
The indecision on who to blame.

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The hypocrisy
The excuses
The games
The questions

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
The war has raged only in peripherals,
They have not learned a single lesson,
They'll never know what they lost that day,
It was not just a school full of children

It's been a year and nothing has changed,
Your murderers still lurk around my love,
They have taken lives in France,
They have made little children from Syria drown
They continue to snuff out innocence.

It's been a year and nothing has changed!

Leaving home

2015-09-04T05:34:00.000-07:00

This is dedicated to Alan and Galib, the two who only wanted to be safe. They were too young to understand this world is not for children.

Come sleep in my arms child
I shall rock you to sleep
Let me cover you in warmth child
my bosom is deep.

Come sleep in my arms child
for mercy is in death.
Leave this place for the cruel child
let this be your last breath

Come sleep in my arms child
I shall wash you ashore
there is trouble in the land child
it's humans they abhor

Come sleep in my arms child
for your mother needs rest
they have been running for too long child
and daddy doesn't know what's best

Come sleep in my arms child
or they will riddle you with guns
your home is their war ground child
they will ravage you in turns.

Come sleep in my arms child
shut your eyes, go to sleep
Play hide and seek child
And let them all weep!

Old Pics

2015-08-18T05:41:00.001-07:00

Recently a friend posted old pictures on Facebook. Nothing extraordinary about that. People always like to relive the past when the present starts to become mundane. A bunch of teenagers sitting around in their school uniform, seemingly with endless time on their hands and the spark of mischief in their eyes. Each picture was an encapsulation of incessant activity. Youth is energy personified. We looked almost bored with our vitality and apathetic to the blessing that is life.
Ever since I have laid eyes on those harmless posts there is a lump in my throat. Where has time gone? Yes, some of those uniformed friends would shake their heads right about now and remember me as the overly emotional one. But I cannot shake off the feeling that we should have done better. I do not mean in the future, in the now but we should have realized how very precious those seconds were, slipping through our careless fingers and we should have done better.

So many lost moments, where one could have told each other one more anecdote, another deep thought, if we had any back then, shared another heart ache, decided to walk away, decided to stay. As I gaze into the past I long for some to come back while I wish not to be reminded of others.
Those were precious days for me more so because I got to go home to my mother. She would wrangle with me to change out of my uniform so it could be washed. Every morsel I put in my mouth gave her strength as she sat watching me ungratefully guzzling the meal she had slaved over the entire morning while I 'hung out' with my mates.

One of those mates was taken away quite suddenly. He is in those pictures and I can clearly recall sitting in the school bus outside the closed gates of the building as we were told that there would be no studies as someone had been killed. I remember the moment of silence the following day. The feeling of disbelief yet the youthful hopefulness of the future. None of us were truly moved that day for not one of us truly knew the significance of death. The finality of it had not touched our souls. We were 'deathless' as the young generally is.

The many heart aches come rolling back and the regrets over relationships that, had one known better, would not have given a second thought to. What a waste of such precious gifts, tears, to be shed for someone who really matters. We all look so blase to each other when in fact there was such a keen awareness of people around us that we could put a cheetah to shame. Every sip from the coke bag, every twirl of the hair, each bungling step we took was for the attention of another. Such a waste of energy.

The pictures reveal the universality of youth, we could be just about anyone from any continent, any where in the world. Yet we took ourselves so seriously that we were unique in our own eyes and that separated us from all. How naive of us. How naive we were to think that we could sit on that stoop all our lives sipping carbonated drinks soaking up the sun. How insanely oblivious that we believed all that we heard and saw was the truth. How absurdly ignorant that we thought friends would stay friends. Straining to keep those close to us that did not deserve it while not turning a hair for those that would stand by us through thick and thin. Spending all our time with the wrong ones, leaving the ones that matter alone.

Perhaps my forty year old hormones have received a jolt having glimpsed what I was and realizing what I could have been but that lump in my throat is evidence that time passes by with such frivolous cruelty that you are left wanting in its wake. To be able to come home to mum, to call that friend who has been waiting for so long, to not call the one who couldn't care less, to spare the heart of the timid and the sensitive, to lash out in favour of the weak, to choose between company with wisdom and to throw caution to the wind when standing up for the truth. The smile on my lips, as I look at the pictures, is not for how similar I look to my past self, that is not true, we have all changed, for the mischief has been replaced with cynicism in all our eyes, it is for I know how foolish we all were,

All Bare

2015-05-24T05:30:00.001-07:00

To the boy who bathed in the manhole

Not a stitch to hinder me.
Not a care but the rumble in my stomach
I dive into heaven
Bliss and nothing more
The stink invades my thoughts
Mouth shut, eyes clamped
Ground touches my toes

Cool after the burning
As though banished from hell
Sunlight beckons, breath runs thin
I must reappear
Must head back to the burning
Pushing with my feet
Reaching and breaking through paradise

Brother hauls me out
There is room only for one
In the hole that leads to heaven
But smells like hell
The pavement feels sharp
It pricks a thousand times
Into the soles of my feet
As I run to mother
To eat from the bag
Someone's meal from a few days

44 days without you

2015-01-28T21:41:00.002-08:00

To the children we lost on 16-12-14

I eat and sleep and pray,
Like I did everyday,
But I have not breathed properly,
Not since you went away,

The air seems thin and vile,
I cannot fill my lungs,
There are thorns behind my eyes,
Since the day you went away.

I bathed you and fed you and held you,
Each day that you were near,
But now my days are empty,
Please come home my dear.

I still remember the first time I kissed your angel feathers,
The day I had delivered you,
With pain, and strength and tears.

I wander to your bed,
I touch your pillow daily,
Can you feel my hands in heaven?
Running through your hair?

Your father always felt left out,
Ever since you came in our lives,
He has all my attention now,
But he doesn't seem to need it.

Can you see the culprit?
The one who made you bleed?
Ask him this from me please,
Has he a mother too?

Only in Pakistan....

2015-01-28T21:20:00.000-08:00

The following are some of the things that will only happen in Pakistan in great abundance.

1) One out of every three motorist will, at some point of even a short journey, spit out their window. You may choose to look away but you cannot miss the expertise with which a glassful (no exaggeration) of liquid will spew from their mouth, miss a passing car, defy all laws of physics and splatter onto the newly washed pavement or wall. It's a form of sport that will soon be recognized I'm sure. As for now these 'spithletes' practice their art regularly and without fail. Only in Pakistan.

2) Whenever there is a need for a vertically straight line there shall be a horizontal gathering of humans. It is almost like an unspoken law in this country. We are just not built to make lines. Ask us to elbow, plough through, or generally disrupt a smooth process of 'first come first serve' and we come out on top, but make a line? Never! We can stand next to a fellow Pakistani, whether on their left side or right. We can stand in front of them, heck even on their toes, but behind one? Never! If there is a ladies only line and we are forced to stand behind a fellow human we will stand boob to back! You see it has been noticed that the rate at which the line will move forward is directly proportionate to how close we stand to the person in front of us.

3) If there is something interesting happening in the world it is meant to be ogled! A foreigner, for example, shopping for groceries is the epitome of entertainment for us. We will forget our own shopping list and start following them in the aisles. If not that we shall make sure we reach the check out right after them so we can see all that they have purchased. If they are in shorts, we are in luck. More foreign legs to see. Don't get us wrong we also indulge in staring at our own people. It is a national pastime really.

4) Crossing streets is for cavemen. We stroll, amble, plod, prowl, drift, linger, traipse across the busiest roads of our cities. You just can't touch this. And if you do, we can throw an unmatched hissy fit! After all it is our fundamental right to take our sweet time crossing a busy main road. Especially if we are ladies. A lady never runs, or even trots. Therefore, keeping to the code, we as Pakistani ladies like to take a nature walk down traffic laden lanes all the time. And let anyone tell us otherwise.

5) Talking softly is for pansies. We must alert the entire vicinity of our presence. If something has to be uttered it has to be utterly loud. Whether we are telling our husband's off or just our kids, it has to be done at a volume that grabs the attention of all and sundry. Even our whispers are done with fanfare. We have mastered the art of being loud and uncouth in public and therefore can be spotted anywhere in the world.

6) We become dyslexic when faced with sign posts. If it says 'do not spit,' it actually tells us that they have selected this very spot for us to spew our guts out. "Be quiet," turns us into a herd of banshees. "No smoking" reads "why not light 'er up." What you can't read won't harm you!

7) A wet toilet is the best toilet! That is the philosophy of most Pakistanis. Therefore the most hardworking of all our labour force is that lady or gent who stands inside loos in malls, at airports etc. They quickly hand you a tissue as you come out of the stall but little do they know that the stall has now become a flood zone, only after your worthy 'efforts.'

8) A dustbin is a Pakistani's worst enemy. We either choose to ignore the blatantly harmful thing or we taunt it by surrounding it with the stuff that it was made for in the first place. As anyone can see that due to our sheer hard work we have made Pakistan 'Trashistan.'

The list is quite extensive I can assure you. These are just some of the things popular among our educated classes. Imagine the achievements of our less erudite countrymen.

I promise.....

2014-12-18T03:11:00.000-08:00

For you my children of Peshawar.....

I promise to remember this day,
Till the day they lift me on four shoulders and carry me away,
I promise the sight of your blood,
Will forever stay in my mind,
Forgive me for waking up,
And going about my business of living,
While your graves turn cold.
I apologize for being able to hold my children,
While your mother looks for you desperately,
Hoping that you might come home.
I don't deserve to taste the food that I swallow,
I don't deserve to behold the colours of this world.
I promise to remember,
The white shrouded bodies of all your classmates,
The bullet riddled walls of your school.
Please forgive me for breathing another day,
While your young father carries your body away.

Here I go!

2014-12-16T21:13:00.001-08:00

In memory of my little children in Peshawer
Rest in peace babies......

Cricket, hockey, my cell phone, girls
Exams, friends, playing hooky, holidays
Growing pains, heartaches, hair in strange places,
Shaving like dad, glasses like big brother,
Batting like Afridi,
Boxing like Amir Khan.
School assembly, the last days before winter break,
Passing notes to buddies, waiting for the lecture to end,
Here is my wish list mother,
There could have been more,
I had no time,
Lay me down now I have to go,
My blood has been pouring for far too long,
I give my life, my wishes, my hopes,
I don't need them where they have sent me,
Tell baba not to cry for my friends accompany me,
I am not alone,
the little girl from fifth, the boy from sixth,
Here I go!

Eid Saeed

2014-07-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

Look at those soft round heels
They can sure kick when angry,
Have you seen the tiny fingers?
Curled into fists when fussed.
Look away
There's baby blood everywhere!
I cannot tell if it's a heel or a hand anymore

Big brother tugged at those naughty ears
Little sister patted her sticky cheeks,
Father used to run his hand through her soft curls
Mother kissed that warm forehead,
Look away
There's baby blood everywhere!
Daddy has to hold her limbs together.

Nothing stopped him from kicking that ball
Other boys are also playing outside
The surf beckoning,
The sand spraying as they pelt after their rolling target,
Look away
There's baby blood everywhere!
His legs lay askew as they took them to the morgue.

Eid Saeed oh children of Palestine!
I hope there is peace where ever you are now
This was no place for children
There's baby blood everywhere!

‘Raped’ Teen Dies of Self-Immolation

2014-03-15T00:53:00.001-07:00

'A mina' incident
Take me home mother for the deed is done,
I have completed the task myself
The burning that begun with brutal thrusts
Has now engulfed me entirely,
I am free
Take me home mother for the deed is done
The skin they devoured has melted off
There is nothing left to turn them on,
I have made sure I look as hideous as death
God should make us all like this
Dripping with our own flesh and blood
Then perhaps they will leave us be
Or maybe not
Like vultures they will come
They have, can you see mother?
I told you I was telling you the truth
Now they believe me as I light the torch
As I am licked clean
They believe me mother and so do you
As I bid adieu
O! Mukhtaran
I know what you meant
There is no pain like the one we tasted
But I cannot live with the shame
Take me home mother for the deed is done,
I have completed the task myself.

The Sports Day

2014-02-07T20:45:00.001-08:00

The circular said 'children are to be dropped at the venue at 8.00 am sharp.' So there I was in the dusty parking lot of the grounds where my children were to have their annual sports day. They have been part of this institution since they could toddle and there were very specific reasons why I had admitted both of them there. Unlike the new crop of upcoming wealthy parents to whom this school is nothing but a status symbol that makes for great dinner time conversation with their yuppy friends. Recently I have noticed how ridiculous the school's demands have become. But perhaps they are ridiculous only to those who own a single vehicle, are working parents and have no maids/chokidar/bodyguard/driver/houseboy/slave.

A month and a half in advance a notice was sent by the school stating that all children were to enter a training camp for the upcoming sports day. The "camp" was either in one corner of the city or was held at such unrealistic hours that those of us that had to drive/work/supervise the younger sibling all by our self were left gasping. It was brought into the respective teachers' notice but the head shook and the reply was the recently famous 'you have to send your child otherwise......'

Lists were put up a couple days before the event on the school walls that ominously read 'RESULT SHEETS.' Parents flocked around (myself included) looking for their child's name, some mothers clicked pictures to send to those that had not come(I mean seriously?) It was a sight! Haven't sports days been a tradition in Pakistani schools since time immemorial? I never remember anyone having to nose through lists.

Any how there we were and I had deposited my two into their respective enclosures, which is a fancy name for laying dirty carpets onto lose sand, that rises into your nose as you walk on it, surrounded by tents. I take my seat in the arena and wait. And wait, and wait and wait. The microphones are tested, the music is not playing(it is supposed to be a rehearsal day) but hang on it is also the sports day for the younger lot right? Confused? so are we, every year. After forty five minutes the events begin. There is an atmosphere. Parents are enjoying their tea and snacks as well the various races on the field. According to the program we received the last events take place and most of us start moving towards the children's enclosures to pick them up. Some of you probably think all the children got to participate. You are wrong. forty percent of them have been sitting on a sand dune eating dirt for four hours without having to do anything with their own sports day because remember a month and a half ago we were warned 'you have to send your child otherwise......'

There are plumes of dust as I walk towards my child's 'enclosure,' children are running amok and the sand is everywhere even on her eyelashes. "Where is your teacher?" "I don't know."

Oh there she is, in the only dust safe corner of the tent sipping tea and talking to her buddy.

It is noon time and the sun is merciless. Yet we are told that there will be a last time the children will march onto the tracks and then we can take them home. I reluctantly go back to my area to wait. It is scorching and the children walk back onto the field. They are then asked to sit down. I get up. How can they expect the children to be sitting in the sun when we lounge in the shade? For the next forty minutes random prizes are announced and children come up to get their medals while the rest of them sit roasting in the noon sun. One after another names are called of children from 8th 9th,10th,11th grade while the 3rd 4th 5th 6th 7th graders hold their hands up to shade their eyes. Parents watch on helplessly most of them with children from 3-7 grade. But none of them utter a single word. After all this is a school that is said to be the best. It is a school that promotes the inculcation of confidence in their children rather than academics alone. For the last three years my son has not been "selected" to participate in the annual sports day of the school he has been attending since kindergarten.

To second chances

2013-11-28T09:35:00.002-08:00

It's one of those days my child,
When I look at your tiny face,
And remember another,
That I once knew.
You look like my mother my child,
And it's cruel that each time you hug me,
I imagine that those arms belong to her too.
So I have decided to take my revenge on fate,
I have a scheme all planned,
I promise to keep that tiny face of yours smiling,
For she hardly got to do the same.
This way I see her shining in your eyes,
Each time you giggle at my silliness,
I make you laugh and hear it like hers,
For she didn't have your luck.
I will protect you,
Like I never knew how with her.
And cherish you the best I can,
For life has given me a second chance.

For Shagufta

2013-11-05T09:29:00.004-08:00

And then there were words,
Just ink blots on paper,
Just effervescent thoughts
Afloat on the silence of time,
Words have no power,
Neither do I.
Your words
And mine
Our words intertwine
But come to naught,
For all that I can say has been said before
And all that you suffered was yours alone
I can offer words,
To soothe what is not there
To alleviate what is now clear
Words have no power,
Neither do I

(RIP boss)

To See the Queen.....

2013-10-24T10:43:00.000-07:00

The lure of travel is a siren call no hard working middle class individual should heed. I am guilty for traveling and grateful to those that have funded me so far. So here's to all the raised eyebrows I got when I returned from a five day tryst to London. Yup! five measly days, oodles of cash handed over to airlines, hotels and restaurants. A sin, some might say. An investment would have been wiser others said. I hang my head but that is so I can hide the smirk on my face and the glee in my eyes. Nothing compares to the feeling of packing a bag. Listing the items each family member will need and then neatly sorting them into a duffle. Winning the lotto wouldn't give you the thrill one gets when the plane races down the runway and you hear it curling up its tires almost as eager as you to take to the air. Although I am petrified of flying but that is a fear I am willing to face if it gets me from point A to the very alluring point B. After seven hours in a sitting posture you alight to the daylight of a new world and you forget all the cursing you had done the night before when your head hit the hand rest as you accidentally nodded off. Even the sterilized, standardized, airport of a new country is exciting to us fools. Like a wine tasting, as you are driven to your hotel, you catch glimpses of passing scenery but you tell yourself not to gobble it all up, but to cherish it at the tip of your tongue. Well, it is not much different from Johannesburg where you went last year but hang on, is that really Mcdonald's in a red bricked cottage. Out comes the camera and you click like a crazy person forgetting to savor gently.

I am sorry....

2013-09-22T05:23:00.003-07:00

I apologize profusely
For my history
I am so sorry
For Mahmud Ghaznavi,
For Tughlaqs, for Khiljis
For Humayun, for Akber and Sher Shah Suri,
I am sorry
For plundering your temples
For torching your library
I am ridden with guilt
By the army I built
to overrun all that I considered
Haram!
Forgive me
For Afghanistan, for Pakistan
For 911
For 24/7 all I do is dwell
On the torment a mother must feel
When my brother rips her son
From forehead to heel
Regrettably I admit
That this is not the end
No matter how many times I bend
My head and repent
They will continue to hunt and kill
My fellow humans who will
Not show uniformity
To their insanity
Don't point your finger at me
I am ashamed, for my religion,
To some it is a tool
To kill my shia friends
My nation's Christians, Hindus, Ahmedis, Wahabis, Ismailis
I cannot look them in the eye
For it is my brother that does deny
Having their blood on his hands
But mine are soaked
And with a sigh
I apologize......

End of Innocence

2013-08-16T23:39:00.001-07:00

For the past decade any nationalistic feelings I ever had have been effectively doused. I have noticed that a lot of people suffer along with me in this vicious cycle of terrorism, inflation and lawlessness yet they maintain their levels of patriotism. Hats off to their tenacity. There have been several back to back incidences in the past months that I have considered the last straw, the continued and barbaric ethnic violence, the persecution of minorities, the apathy of the rich class depicted in continued rise in prices of goods that were only a couple of years ago, in the grasp of the middle to lower middle class. Yet what has recently transpired in the so called capital of this so called great nation has cemented my dislike for my own people. Apparently a mentally unstable individual takes his family for a drive, taking not just the essential car keys and spare tire in the vehicle but a few extra condiments. Ammunition. He decides that sight seeing is not enough for the day's agenda so starts to make a little noise and get a little media attention. We all know what happened on that fateful 15th of August in Islamabad. We saw the footage one hundred times whether we wanted to or not. Every one discussed the efficacy of Zamarrud's 'heroic' act, Sikander's lack of terrorist 'skills,' Kanwal's negotiation prowess. The entity that was left out were the kids. Sure they were collateral damage and were used by their 'parents' in the most abusive manner possible but what did the rest of us do? I am sure most mothers were cringing at the footage and every time the children were shown frolicking about such a horrific scene as the one created by this insane couple. It seems no one was responsible for these little lives. Not the media, not the law enforcers, and least of all their parents. It was like watching a morbid mime as Sikander ran his last lap, everyone opened fire while this little boy ran helter-skelter holding an umbrella. According to our new national hero Zamarrud Khan, his priority was the children. I think there can not be a more blatant lie. He was untrained (not that any of the other so called law enforcers around the area were any better trained), wearing formal shoes that slipped on the tarmac, and completely thinking of how glorious it would be to sink his teeth on the media frenzy. If children were his priority he would have negotiated on his behalf more vehemently and patiently rather than going for the jugular so quickly and stupidly, right in front of the children. I must say God still pays attention to our spit of land. It was a smiling fate that save the children that day not Zamarrud Khan!

On My Way

2013-03-22T03:30:00.001-07:00

I will need inspiration, tenacity and buckets of encouragement. Just when my life seemed to have been running on a smooth, chartered course I have placed a challenge before myself. I do not know why one day I woke up and started to rummage through my cupboards looking for my transcripts. I found only half the proof of my education and headed out the door to fight for the other half. It seems I have won this battle for a reason. I have been given my degree and it seems life now says to me, "here you go stubborn ass now what will you do?"
So I am on a quest again. I have chosen to sit for my Masters in English this year. To some this means something they did and got over with a long time ago. To me it means I get to tell my grandchildren stories from Shakespeare, read to them Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and warn them of the pitfalls of being so full of yourself that you sell your soul to the devil. I get to put on my resume that I know what I am talking about when I stand before a class of expectant teenagers waiting to hear a story. I do not know if it will lead to me becoming an author some day but it sure as hell keeps me going each day. I not just turn the pages of Milton's Paradise Lost I lose myself in the words of these Greats and bathe myself in their knowledge knowing that I grow every day every way.
It can come to you at any age this thirst for learning. This is my Renaissance. A time to stand tall and prove to all those teachers who judged my carefree attitude as a youngster. I'm on my way to striving again, I'm struggling, teasing my brain cells and loving each second of it. So here's to Mr Bacon, Dryden, Shaw, Bunyan, Donne, Marlowe, Jonson, Pope, Wordsworth and so many others that now accompany me on my journey to self discovery.

The bicycle

2013-03-06T04:15:00.001-08:00

Dedicated to Baqar, the 11 year old who made the mistake of going to the market when the devil paid a visit to Abbas Town

It was a Sunday
Preparing for school
Doing homework
Playing with neighbors
Suddenly I wanted chips
The ones Ahmed bhai fries
Each evening.
The smell beckoned,
With a pocket full of jingling coins
I ran down to get me a box
Of those sizzling, spicy fries.
Suddenly there were flames
On my shirt
In my hair
I thought to myself
How cool, I'm ablaze
But it started to hurt
So I lay down
I saw my home had been blown
Like a faceless monster
With gaping teeth
It looked back at me
It's eyes an inferno
So tell my mom
I cannot come home
It is not there any more
But my brother's bicycle
Is hanging from the terrace
Do take it inside mom
For when it rains
It'll get all wet.

Tasneem

2012-04-11T04:38:00.000-07:00

Her name literally means the milky river in Paradise. I always wondered how someone could be named so aptly. She had creamy white skin and the softest cheeks you ever felt. Her hands were so perfectly rounded at the fingertips they gave the impression that they were made to be looked at and admired and not have to do an ounce of work. When she smiled her eyes twinkled like that of a mischievous child trapped in a toy store. She loved happiness, I mean who doesn't right? But this one, she chased it and tried to capture it between her fingers. But it tended to elude her all her life. She was inherently kind, not just to us saps of human flesh, but to animals. I mean who notices how thirsty the birds are on a scorching summer day when all you want is to lay around in the air conditioned comfort of your house right? Who thinks about the pigeons looking for food each morning? Or how the cat that dirties your building's corridors gets hungry each afternoon. She had a knack of noticing the little things. She would remember to put a note on the refrigerator when she went out to get veggies from the vendor, so that her kids wouldn't wake up and not find her and wonder. She would regularly forget where she put her glasses and forget to wipe them clean, they were grimy, but she would remember to cook her children's favorite meals every day. She remembered to make a note of each and every call her husband got and take down a message in case he got upset and ensured that her daughter's uniform was sparkling white.
Tasneem needed to be loved in return. She had a couple of bratty children, who loved her, but forgot to show her, through their actions, exactly how much. Tasneem needed someone to give her medicine and monitor her health and diet, but she never demanded that her two children do anything for her except be around to give her company. Tasneem needed company but she didn't realize that eventually children grow up and find their own friends and forget the most important person in their lives. Tasneem needed someone who would understand her agony and sympathize with her lot in life but she got a husband that could not come to terms with the fact that he was dealt a hand by fate that he considered unfair to his superior being. And now she has left them. She's gone like the angel that protected and served and then silently slipped away without asking for anything in return. Her children yearn to tell her that she was not weak like everyone had told her all her life, she was a titan, an absolute Mohammad Ali of life. She battled her demons and whacked at the curve balls that life threw at her like a true champion. Her two brats want to let her know that they are proud to have been her children and they are whatever they are because she taught them so well. But that is the true nature of time as we know it, it flows constantly and we cannot have it back no matter how much we want. We can only hope that God has given the soul some provision of having to look at the world as it moves forward as our decaying bodies lies prostate. For if that is the case Tasneem would be smiling down on us even now, like a child trapped in a toy store.

Buraimi

2012-04-07T00:25:00.003-07:00

A nomadic childhood has its ups and downs. The downs are many and the ups few. In short, it is not pleasant to have to leave a place you start to consider home when you are three or four or even six or seven or eight. Heck the agony of being the new kid in class completely outweighs any sense of adventure you might anticipate in exploring a new land. There comes a time when you stop making friends altogether. You stop having any expectations from strangers and invent your own ways of entertainment. Although a sad existence you grow up with one hell of a colorful imagination and the ability to chameleonize, if such a trait even exists, yourself to any surrounding. No body remembers you as their childhood friend and you know so many and such a variety of people that you really tend to forget where exactly you met them. Among the varied landscapes I got to inhabit as a kid one of the littlest spit of God's earth was named Buraimi. Al- Buraimi as the Arabs like to call everything. At the time I was there, it was an open border between Al-Ain and Oman and many of my relatives in Dubai used to drive down for the weekends, which was more of an inconvenience then blessing. When you're small all your memories depict things much larger than they actually were. Hence if you visit a place you remember as a kid you will find it to be really quite smaller than how you imagined it. Now Buraimi was so tiny that my memories also portray it as a very limited space. The only structures in the entire place(seriously) was the five or so storey high apartment that we inhabited the third floor of, a dirt road in front, across which lay my father's office. My school was a twenty to thirty minute trip into Al-Ain, which was a glorious city full of parks and villas that I got to see mostly on weekends or rushing by through my dad's car window each morning.
I made some extraordinary friends in this desolate place and formulated the most intriguing form of spending hours of afternoon time when my family insisted on taking a siesta. Lat me tell you that all my friends were imaginary. Yup they were all a figment of my imagination and boy did we have a riot of a time together. to give my 'friends' more of a character I would sit in front of the dressing table mirror and talk my own ear off. the magical thing about that mirror was that it was a perfect circle with two dissection at the left and right. Some genius had added hinges to those two dissections so that it could be moved inwards and your image multiplied manifold. Hence whenever I yearned the company of many I merely turned the two portions inwards and viola! I had a whole party to chat with. But even in my minds eye I knew that friends had to go home to their mommies, so leave they did and I still had hours to kill before anyone woke up. That was when I scrambled to the very edge of my room's window and watched the trailer that brought in the latest Toyota cars for, lucky for me, there was a showroom on the ground floor of our abode. It was thrilling to watch the shiny new paint on those four wheelers and how the workers would fold out the panels to bring down the cars on the top floor of the trailer. Like I said it was a sad existence but it taught me to depend on myself for fun rather unlike the generation today that needs so many gadgets and social outlets in order for them to have fulfilling days.