Musings on Monday Mornings

It's a overcast afternoon - Dubai's much-awaited, highly-anticipated, and very often wrongly predicted, annual thunderstorm; and surprisingly in the daily din of our routine, we the members of this household, have collectively found our serendipitous moment of peaceful silence at 5.39pm on an unassuming, weekday Wednesday. That is a rare occurring. I recall before these three kids had made their entrance into our lives, days like this would make me think of home. Today, as the thunder rings in the background, I think of Pakistan in the most beautifully romantic way, but the epicenter than I call home has moved to the ground beneath my feet. This last year has seen many changes; we've got a new member in the house; my moral compass and truthful companion, AKA best friend, has moved to a different continent; life has sped up to a mind-boggling pace... and yet, in all of this, there is a calm, a centering of the soul. No more that agitated restlessness to prove myself, s...

Living near the sea one is familiar with tides. I know my seas. Deep, often unfathomable and always, surrealistically beautiful. Open air, sand crumbling under the weight of my feet. With every move I step into sodden sand that lightens for an instance as it loses its water, but darkens again the second I pull away. Very much like the mind. Areas I briefly wander into, but turn away from too soon. The vastness of the sea flanking the shore. The breeze. The freedom. The romance of the moon, the fire of the sun. Tugging, pulling, tempting. That was before. But even when I moved inland I felt the lull of the sun and the moon. A dark night, with nothing but the shore and the light of the moon, with the tide lapping against the mighty earth's chest like a old familiar lover wronged. Again and again. Softly, mournfully. And like an old flame, the tide lamented it inability to reach its muse. They tempted but their love was fickle. Burning hot and cold like the hot des...

I got a great gtalk line today with Ami. I got a great skype line too. And between conversations, we stumbled upon an old folder of pictures currently booted on both our computers, neighbouring continents away. That's great. Ending up on the same page (folder) with the miles between us. And one folder led to another, until I realised through the backward and forward motion of the cursor keys, the clicking of time. Literally and metaphorically. A ceaseless erosion. The pace and the speed with which the canvas of our lives change. How very quickly things turn. I think the use of the word 'jinx' in the title is unfair. It's unfair on Fate. It's also provocation, I realise. But there are moments when we look on to the Gods of old and smile in our contentment and happiness. There are actual physical moments when the heavens have paused to draw breath at man's perfection. And of course, thereafter we tempt Fate and her minions.

Yearning has a name: Alipur. My Atlantis. My city of gold.

Lahore: the city that never sleep. My city of saints, my city of sinners. I am back. For that annual homecoming rite that is a two-week passage of both chaos and excitement, of exaggerated expectations and serendipitous surprises, familiar exhaustion of too much, and too little family. Of paradoxes and mixed emotions. I am home. Every trip the potholes seem deeper, the traffic wilder, the energy crisis more critical...the corruption unconquerable. And yet, no where in the world do the crows crow like they do here. Or the trees on the canal, play with the winter sunlight. No where do oranges and mandarins grow the same earthy smell like a second skin... and no where are the electricity cuts with candles as romantic as here. Throw in a thunderstorm and this place is my version of heaven. If I was an eloquent Pakistani expatriate, I would write a poem worthy of this place; of my convoluted devotion, adoration and obsession juxtaposed with hatred, despair and apathy for here. But I am just...

It says on Hassan and Nadine's blog that though there may be no one reading their random ramblings (I am being polite; "rantings" came to mind first, unfairly), they continue writing, largely, to chronicle their child's early years. While I have been doing the same for Daniyal (for the record, before they even had their kid), albeit irregularly, I am somehow more faithful to this space than the others. Does that mean that I love myself, am more interested in myself or am "father of the child"? Ok that didn't sound cool and understandable at all. Let me retry. Am I writing only for the slowed evolution of my immature-ish mind? Is this only so that I can turn back to an entry on September 2006 and thank the stars that I become more confident/ articulate/ emancipated etc. OR, is this just a huge waste of cyberspace? On an absolute change of subject: I had two friends over for dinner. Other than the fact that I reconnected with the human species (Daniyal an...

I've said it before. I'll say it again. It's tough being a modern woman. Female liberation and emancipation can no longer be used as the panacea to advance personal development and fulfillment. It's a lonely existence, where practicality wins you no favours and even lesser warmth at night (luckily I have a pocket size version who fits comfortable between my elbow and knee!) ... but still, few favours and no warmth. Case in point. Have been ferrying people around the last couple of days. Agreed, of my own decision, initiating from a desire to stay at home...but all the same; lots of ferrying. I got me a license. Driving, that is. And having got it, am mandated to drive. Liberation biting me in the butt. Suddenly I see wisdom in myopia! :) Case in point II: Shahid missed his flight home from Riyadh. Now ordinarily I wouldn't have been so fussy (putting aside the whole loneliness argument for a bit), but at this point in the game, I could have done with another pair of...