Jab Koi Doosra Nahin Hota

I can't explain it.

I didn't want to go for the Ramadan Toy Drive distributions without Ryz. Even though there was a good reason for him not to go.

I didn't feel the reason why when we were at Jinnah Hospital, having to deal with the red tape involving handing out free goody bags to sick children. Yes there is such a thing as red tape in matters like this.

I didn't feel it when telling the volunteers the disappointing news of not being able to give to the sick children of Jinnah Hospital after all our struggles of getting there.

On the way to Gulab Devi Hospital, I'd called the AMS of Children's Hospital to request an impromptu trip to give away the 80 goody bags we had kept for Jinnah Hospital.

When the AMS gracefully agreed and went out of his way to accommodate us, I was relieved. And yet I didn't know why I felt the void.

In Gulab Devi, everything was a breeze.

Even though I took that nasty stumble, scraped and bruised my (bad) knee. Had all the volunteers rush to help me out.

And the first thing I uttered was, "Is my camera okay?!" Half-seriously, and half-bravely, wanting to distract the volunteers from my injury.

Couldn't explain what I felt even then.

After Gulab Devi, and on the way to Children's Hospital, I checked my camera lens to discover that I had broken the base in the fall. I felt sad.

And yet something was missing. And I knew I couldn't feel sad. Not as yet.

The Children's Hospital trip was a delight. The doctor assigned to us was a kind-hearted man, who took delight in walking to each ward with us and seeing the children smile.

It was truly a pleasure to be there, and a relief to see that all the volunteers had an impromptu trip to make up for the cancellation earlier in the morning.

I climbed up a flight of stairs then, ignoring the sharp pain in my knee. Knowing I had to go on.

Ryz had texted me, and I read his text while taking the kind doctor's phone number. Ryz wrote, "How's it going, good looking?" And I dismissed the text.

We took photographs of each other before heading out our separate ways after that. It was nearly 3 pm. I'd been out since 10:30 am.

Rasham offered us to come over to her place and have omelets for breakfast. I excused myself, saying I want to go home and check up on Ryz.

Dropped Saba home on the way back. Smiling and chatting all the way through.

Came home, settled Arif Bhai's outstanding bills for the day, hobbled to the front door.

And the 4 steps leading to the front door were a mountain each. I could hardly drag my leg to the front door.

Saw Ryz, hugged him. Sat. And the day made sense.

I knew that I need not pretend to be brave or pain-free anymore. I could be myself. Wounded, happy, relieved, exhausted, humbled, sad, happy. All at once.

I moaned and groaned about my scraped knee. Nearly wept about the lens. Moaned some more about my knee joint. Swore never to return to Jinnah Hospital again. Marveled at how enthusiastic the SKANS students were.

The entire day. Became crystal clear.

For that one truth.

Tum meray paas hotay ho goya...

How Obama Has Changed Lives

Sometimes when I raise my hand to give my dad a high-five, I notice he extends his fist for a fist-bump instead.

This is all very recent. I can't think of any other person he could've got this from.

Chamak Patti Overdose

I finally put my finger on it.

Why do I not like truck art anymore, when I used to love it before?

I get it now.

I used to love it in Karachi.

Karachi may have its fair share of street violence but the fashion sense of its people is anything but a, "bum dhamaka."

The fashion in Karachi is demure, almost understated on some occasions. You can tell who has taste by how they carry themselves, not by what they're carrying in their hands.

Lahore on the other hand..

There are classy people in Lahore too. My beef lies with the ad nauseum usage of truck art, that of course reflects on Lahoris' general sense of... umm... generosity in fashion.

I have seen truck art in every form here. On tin boxes, in cut out letters of the alphabet, on handbags, on the hems of shalwars, on shoes, everywhere.

Except on trucks. Trucks in Lahore are usually very plain-looking.

It's just not a novelty to seek delight in here. It's in my face, and owned by young adults and middle-aged people alike.

I like(d) truck art because it showed our similarities as a culture spread across a nation that is more long in topography than it is wide.

The truck goes everywhere, across this great vertical stretch of land, and the colors of the truck stand out in the rain, smog and dust-storms.

The truck art symbolises oneness because of similarity.

Enter a barrage of other mediums that have NOTHING to do with the truck art, and yet I see the designs and colors replicated on these surfaces. Without the essence.

How is it without the essence? It gives no credit directly or indirectly to the artisans that created the culture to begin with.

Now it's a border on a hem. Not a safety precaution for night-time driving across the Khyber Pass.

I want my truck art for truck art's sake back.

*blink*

Instagram has opened me up to a world where men take countless selfies.

Old Habits

It's so impossibly hard to try on a pair of white shelled sunglasses and not look like Elton John.

Sigh.

The awkward moment at the polling agent training that you flip an Urdu handout over for the English translation and find none.

Sunday Morning

And then there are days when juicing isn't as glamorous. These are the days when I'm nearly out of supplies and unsure of what exactly remains in the fridge.

Though it's just as yum. The juicing process, from washing the vegetables, to cutting them... is so relaxing.

Maybe it's the anchor created with juicing. My mind anticipates my body feeling good really soon and I'm in a great mood.

Or maybe it's the smell of fruits and vegetables first thing in the morning.

Or seeing green, and the other colors.

Today wasn't as glamorous as the past 4 days, though it was more fun, with the element of surprise.

Typing all this out from my phone, I think I've got it bad.

So... Where Was I?

Day 1 of my juice fast, and I thought I should make this count. I'm writing down what I have in my juice in a journal.

It's part of a year-long commitment to healthy eating and forming habits that serve me best.

Now the journal. Is actually the same that I kept my wedding preparation notes in, waay back in '08.

From salon appointments for my bridal makeup, to wedding card invites, to gifts for Ryz and even my siblings, I had them all listed here.

So much fun looking through them. Did I really do so much? I remember running all these errands only because Ami wanted to do these things for my wedding, and I didn't want her to do them by herself.

And she did so much too. And it all fell into place, alhamdu lillah. Despite the innumerable lists and things to do.

5 years down and I still can't believe I'm married. To Ryz. Wow.

Here's a clip of Shireen Anwer's cooking classes that I attended, attached to my journal for easy reference.

Win-win.

When I was a teenager I used to love wearing my brother's t-shirts. I'd douse them with my mum's perfume so I wouldn't have to give it back to him for the day at least.

Fast forward to now, when I do the same with Ryz's t-shirts. So comfy.

On the Road to Beefdom

Once you get into the workout habit, the healthy endocrines get to work the minute you put your shoes on.

I feel refreshed and excited already.

Not that it's tra la la fun. It's downright painful. And just so sweet at the same time.

Is this what beef-cake tastes like?

Dulce et Decorum est

Ryz brought home an age-old TV serial that aired on our local television screens in '98. Pakistani folks know what I'm talking about - it was called, "Alpha Bravo Charlie," a TV serial regarded as touching and timeless by many. It's about the coming-of-age of a group of friends serving in the Pakistan army.

I just remember older girls crushing on the men in uniform in the drama.

Ryz and my cousin got, "Alpha Bravo Charlie" on DVD with the hopes of watching the complete series. Naturally they started from episode 1. It's charming, I get why people liked it so much when it initially aired. 

The storyline started to drag on, or maybe I wasn't sitting still long enough to be drawn in by the plot. Either way, I checked out the synopsis online.

And I didn't want to watch it anymore.

Yes, it showed the Pakistan army in a positive light, and it was so human and real in terms of the relationships portrayed by the characters.

I should have been filled with the warm, fuzzy feeling of watching an old TV show that depicted human emotions with a subtle charm.

Instead, I was only reminded of Wilfred Owen's narrative of serving in the army.

Particularly, "Dulce et Decorum est" - It was a poem on war, and the title was taken from Horace's poem. It literally means, "It's sweet and fitting." The complete phrase is, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" which means, "It's sweet and fitting to die for your country." I keep coming back to poetry and literature taught to me in school, and allude them to present experiences. I've got to appreciate the teachers who worked so hard with me to build a strong literary foundation in middle school. 

Here's how he ended his poem. Wilfred Owen died exactly one week before the Armistice ending WWI was signed. He died in battle.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

So yeah, I don't want to watch this TV show.

Like Stars Peppering the Desert Skies

Bismillah

Alhamdu lillah it's been more than a year and I'm still experiencing the benefits of marriage in new ways.

Like myself surrounded by seven books scattered on the bed, looking, waiting for inspiration for the perfect website name that I can not only call my own, but also take ownership of for my lifecoaching as well.

My husband is upstairs watching the European Grand Prix and he logs onto chat. I express my distress at not having a name as yet and how it's stagnating me more each day.

He comes up with a name, and what a snazzy one it is too! Not only that, he gives me a couple of tag-lines. Just like that.

I am overjoyed, we have an animated chat from a room across about the possibilities with that name.

I've now begun to tell him how marriage is a wonder each day, alhamdu lillah. He doesn't reply right away because he's watching the race as well.

Two partners in the same flat, in different rooms with their own tasks, and still the connect. Alhamdu lillah.

Last Stop

I was tagged because I read a blog post to follow some instructions. I kill all kinds of chains, so I guess this is the last link of this particular one. No one is tagged, no pressure, no instructions even. Enjoy.

Beauty Spots

Finished China Chowk wali movie in less than 7 minutes I think.

WHY in all these kab ke bichray, jurrwa movies do both twins, who led separate childhoods in varied environments, BOTH grow up to be stunners? Why can't one be a hottie and the other resemble a blue whale, EVER? Argh!

Terms of Speaking

in·ca·pac·i·tate ĭn'kə-pās'ĭ-tāt')  
tr.v.   in·ca·pac·i·tat·ed, in·ca·pac·i·tat·ing, in·ca·pac·i·tates 

1. To deprive of strength or ability; disable.
2. To make legally ineligible; disqualify.

inca·paci·tation n.

To watch The Big Bang Theory without Ryz and still find humor in it.

What Are the Odds!

So I've covered every possible surface area in the bathroom with detergent and have put on my gloves and dampened the sponge to make the place sparkly clean and while I'm rigorously scrubbing away, thinking I'll be done in no time at all, that is the point where my nose starts to itch. So much so that I crave a sandpaper post nearby so I can get rid of the itch and get on with it already.

You Can't Have One Without the Other

Sometimes I feel that Lima and I would've been married if one of us were a guy.

A New Spelling for Our Names

"Dear Mr Afeem and Mrs Kagn..."

I Now Know Valpys' Number by Heart.

I'm still unsure as to what my home number is.

Infant-Pampering Place

I saw this at the Karachi Airport while waiting at the boarding lounge for our plane. This is outside the women's bathroom. Somehow the word usage makes me think that once inside, I'd find chocolate fountains, lots of colorful origami lights hanging from the ceiling, balls of string, and miles of cloth covered with diaper rash cream.

You know, all the elements of an Infant-pampering place.