The Clothes Maketh the Man, and So We're Doomed

I went to Amir Adnan's shop at Park Towers yesterday in search of a nice kurta for Ryz to wear to the engagement.

The lady at the store must have been the most helpful I've ever come across. I went to her and asked for tissue paper as I had eaten in the car on the way and didn't have any tissue on me to wipe my hands before touching the fabrics. She gave me some paper and I told her exactly what kind of kurta I was looking for, my preferences in color, style and fabric. She attentively heard all that I had to say and helped me choose from the subsequent choices that I had.

I really liked her. She wasn't extravagant or showy in her attention towards me and my needs. Not too subdued and not too interfering. Just right. That sounds like something Goldilocks would say.

Moving on.

I found a beautiful black one that had a textured loom as well as a bit of embroidery on the collar band.
Once I decided that I wanted to purchase just that, I asked her whether a white shalwar would look good with it, because the textured fabric almost made me want to get something black as a bottom.

Stay with me here now, this gets mighty tricky: she said that I could get a black shlouser to go with it.

A shlouser.

I calmly told her that I think she made that word up as we spoke. She smiled and told me that it was indeed a word. Apparently a shlouser is a cross between a shalwar and trouser (as its name so aptly suggests).

I innocently asked her why they (whoever these fashion kings may be) didn't name it a talwar. She laughed and said that it would be too dangerous a word.

Mad nation. Nice saleslady. But mad nation, nevertheless.

Frankie M'Boy

I don't know: a certain part within me feels compelled to pen all the flighty theories I have held near and dear over the past few years.
Snow Days, high beds, and now this.

I killed Frank Sinatra.

I did. I really, really did.

See, back in the Dark Ages when I listened to music (may Allah forgive my sins and the mention of this particular one, Ameen), I stumbled onto "Strangers in the Night" and fell in absolute love with it.

So much did I like this song that I set it to an infinite repeat on my stereo and the song would rage on all day and all night, irrespective of the fact whether I was in the room or not.
So "Strangers in the Night" was playing ad infinitum for the course of two days, and Frank Sinatra died on the third day.

Just like that.

I killed the man. He must have been exhausted from all that singing.

He's no more and it's all my fault.

Let It Snow

A Snow Day is when I wake up in the morning and tune into the weather forecast to hear the weatherman tell me, "bright sunshine ahead" and I pack myself a nice picnic basket and plan out all the busy activities I can revel in when taking advantage of the sun.

So here I am with my packed lunch and a list of things I want to do and people I want to meet. And it snows. It blizzards through and through.

Not that snow isn't bad, the pure white virgin snow is one of the most beautiful sights on earth, subhan Allah. Argh, just not snow when I was told "bright sunshine ahead."

A SnowPersun is one who I would like to spend my Snow Day with. Alhamdo lillah, I have been blessed with an entire pocketful of friends whom I can gladly consider SnowPeople.

A Snowstorm is the realization that the bubble has been burst, and carefully laid out plans have been replaced with those by Nature.

A Blizzard is a Snow Day that is chock full of one Snowstorm after another. Relentless snowstorms make up a blizzard.

A Weather Alert is the feeling that a Snow Day is approaching.

These are definitions of a Snow Day and all its extensions. All copyrights to Fatima Khan.

Circular Insanity

I adore Lima. I simply adore the girl.

I always wanted one of those Victorian high beds, so high that one needs a step-ladder to climb onto it, complete with the carved backboard, and yards of drapery over it.

I have wanted a high bed for as long as I can remember. My initial attraction towards it was appeased by all that I associated with high beds. Novels of Jane Austen, the countryside, the simple life, and even to a certain extent, the Romantic Age.

With the passage of time until recent days, I also realized the many conveniences a high bed has to offer. Such as the fact that I can store so many things under it, even keep entire pull-out drawers of things I do not have space for.

A part of me wants a high bed so children at some point in time, Allah Willing, can hide underneath when playing the games that they do. A lot like my childhood in F-6/4; the mere mention brings forth an eddy of memories. Alhamdo lillah.

Lima is the most eager friend I have known. I may bullet random questions in her direction, but she never ceases to answer the most ridiculous of questions with an equally ridiculous answer. She comes up with solutions to panic situations almost immediately. Although most of her solutions are quite criminal and outrageous, the mere prospect of her blurting out instantaneous escape routes is absolutely hilarious.

I ask for a way to earn instant cash which is not illegal or immoral, and she tells me to withdraw the security deposit from the school that I dropped out of. Just like that. In the blink of an eye.

I say the weather is much too pleasant to be wasted by spending the morning at the gym, and she suggests French Beach, and we buy lunch and head out there. We go for an hour. We don't plan out anything. Just go, wade our feet in the water, have lunch, talk lots and head home before 4 pm.

That's how we do most things. Without plans. It's all so simultaneous.

I can laugh with her, I can cry with her. And then laugh some more. I can step out of the picture and examine it myself and the situation objectively, so much so that I can bring out the positive aspects and thank Allah for all that He has Given me, and see the beauty in all that He Chose not to.

I have seen her in so much pain that I would not wish to see anyone in. That made me realize just how much I love her, and why Allah made me the youngest child, and her the only one in her family: so we could be sisters to each other, and I could mother her the way I do.

I tell her only half-jokingly that I must surely be her emotional hypochondriac, if the term exists. Emotional hypochondriac because I am equally affected by all that pleases, saddens or hurts her. Half-jokingly because I think I'm right when I say it. I sleep at night to dream of her childhood the days she misses her less-troubled days, I cry inside when I think that she wants to cry but is holding back her tears. She says I know just when to squeeze her hand, and when she needs a hug. She's not very responsive to hugs, but she leans towards me when I do.

No one, no one quite understands our sudden urges to drive when upset, just drive and talk. Our our association with the sea.

We can become lost in the winding roads of Phase I, and make it seem like it is an intentional stroll in the park, come back to the same point after 20 minutes of driving, and comfortably pass it off for circular insanity. Only to try reaching our destination again, completely unfazed by the previous failure.

Recently I thought of another reason why I want a high bed. A reason that overshadows all previous reasons I ever baked in my mind. I want a high bed so I can keep Lima under it. She will simply live under my bed. One of those bookish little spaces with enough light to read, an electric kettle for her insatiable demand for tea and the convenience of always having her around. The minute I want to think out loud about a seemingly sad situation, I know on the board under the mattress and she can peer out and we can talk. She is masha Allah a marvel when it comes to quoting words of Allah and his Rasool Allah SAWS at times of distress.

To say more would demean an immensely treasured frienship. So I shall stop at the least.

Lima likes low beds and sleeps without a pillow. I'm sure that can be arranged under my very high, very Victorian, high bed.