It was an hour of joy and happiness for my mother when the doctor told her she would have me in her arms in nine months. But this happiness turned into despair for my father and grandmother as they came to know that a girl would be born to their family. They forced my mother to kill me before I was born.

Daddy, please don’t kill me. I won’t make you angry. I’ll be a good daughter; I won’t ask you for expensive clothes and toys. Please don’t kill me.

Areeba, not her real name, is a bright, conscientious 18-year-old off to college this September. She works on and off rebuilding a girls school in rural Sindh in an effort guided by her school.

“I know all the girls names, they teach me Sindhi and mark my progress, I distribute sweets,” she says, her enthusiasm apparent.

It’s something I’m really into, not like, I don’t know, wannabe hipsters who’re just in it for the certificate and the photo ops.

There are activists, and then there are activists. Those kids are neither.

Today I taught my Saturday class (for underprivileged children) how to spell gajar (carrot).

Really? I’m still stuck on alif bay pay (ABC).

Enough essays about what an eye-opener working with poor children is. Be different.

Guys, want to go for espresso after our usual NGO stint on Saturday?

At the end of the day, it’s just me and some eight other people working on long-term projects. The rest of the group are just in it because, well, it’s kind of cool.

I’m totally into helping acid victims now. Also, did you notice what she wore at the Oscars! So ethnic!

Mother’s Day is here, but June 1, 1998 will never come again. Today I am writing about my mother, my Misil, for the first time in the last 13 years. She was a simple lady. We never knew her date or year of birth. The only thing we knew was that she was born during the barsaat (monsoon season). I don’t remember an instance when she took longer than 10 minutes to get ready to go somewhere. She never wore make-up. She was even simpler in her eating habits. She would eat anything except for baingan (eggplant). While cooking, she made her ownmasalas; her biryani was pretty good, but I don’t remember how it tasted any more. Her parathas were extraordinary and she even she made aam ka achaar (pickled mangoes) at home. As kids we used to look forward to the summer just so we could have that raw achaar. She wasn’t literate. She never went to school. The only thing she could write was her name, which she learned when she needed to open a bank account and sign cheques. We wrote the cheque for her and she signed it. She wasn’t educated, but despite that she made sure her children were. It was very uncommon for a family like ours to educate girls, but my Misil had a different dream for my sisters. All of them got postgraduate degrees in their respective fields while their cousins dropped out of school one after the other. Thanks to my Misil, my eldest sister was the first girl to complete her masters in the history of my family. When I did well in my tenth grade board exams, she gave me a computer as a gift. I had been away on a camping trip with my school team and when I came back, I had a computer at home. This was back in 1997. She was an uneducated Pakistani woman who chose to gift a computer to her son when not many people had one in Pakistan. I don't think I need to describe how much it helped me in my life. She was a very strong woman. She raised six children on her own as my father spent most of his life abroad for work. The only time I saw her cry was in 1995 when we were leaving our grandmother’s house in our village after a short trip - just a few silent tears as she left her own mother and the house where she was born. We are a very inexpressive family. We don’t tell each other how much we love each other or how important we are to each other but we all know it internally. She never hugged me or told me that she loved me, but she didn’t need to. When we moved to Buffer Zone in 1983, our house was the only decent place in the city where visitors from our village could stay. Very soon, it became a temporary residence for all the young men of our family who came to Karachi to look for work. To us, all of them were Mamoo (uncle). They were her brothers, cousins, cousin’s cousins and so on. The number kept increasing. The upper floor of our house was like a barrack with a dozen beds. At one time, there were more than 10 Mamoos living with us – no exaggeration. She looked after them and her children and cooked and cleaned for all 18 people. One addition to the list of eaters was Saaeen. Saaeen was the Sindhi night watchman of our neighbourhood who would get food from our house. As time went by, one by one my Mamoos established their respective jobs in Karachi and left our house. My mother then fell ill. Naturally, for ignorant people like us who had only heard the word cancer in movies and TV serials, it was difficult to understand. The seriousness of her illness dawned upon us gradually when we saw her wasting away, losing weight, losing hair and eventually losing life. The last month of her life was very painful - for us and for her. We knew she was going and we could do nothing. I wasn't even 17 and my younger sister was 13. All of us were silently trying to imagine how life would be without her. On one of those days, I was sitting next to her when she told me to check the main gate. At the time, she could barely open her eyes. The flesh on her entire body was gone and she was only bones. Because of the chemotherapy, her head did not have hair and was always covered in a scarf as she did not want anyone to see it. She ran a fever throughout the day.

“Can’t you hear the doorbell?” she asked. “It’s not ringing,” I had said politely. “I can hear it. Go, open the door. It’s Waris.” (Her younger brother.) “It’s not ringing.” I said.

“If you don’t get up to open it, I will go and open it myself.” She had tried getting up but failed. Then she passed out.

I have never been a great proponent of the concept of Mother’s Day – or even Father’s Day. Dedicating days to celebrating every member of the family is not something that made sense to me – after all, you already had birthdays and anniversaries, right? Anything in excess of this is clearly a ploy by all those card-printing companies nagging at your guilt to spend more of your money and boost their sales As I have grown older I have come to realise the value of these days, randomly allocated to a day in the year to celebrate our parents' contributions to our lives. As the reminder for Mother’s Day popped up on my desktop last week, it got me thinking about how my views had changed over the years. Five years ago I would have scoffed at the idea of sending a gift to my mother – how unnecessarily cheesy! But I now see, that this day allows us to reflect on all that our parents have done for us, all that they have sacrificed for us, and for those of us lucky enough – all that they will continue to do so. The further I progress in life, the greater my appreciation for all that my parents did for me. When we first moved to Karachi in the early 90s, I was still a child and the drastic change in environment was an uncomfortable change for a school-going child. I had trouble making friends and my academic performance dipped considerably. On more than one occasion, I remember feigning sickness in the morning, so I could skip the daily battle that was school. I am fortunate enough to still possess my homework diary from this period in time – on every couple of pages is neatly inscribed an excuse from my mother citing why I could not make it to school – a different excuse for a different day. Never do I remember her chiding me for my behaviour – she chose to let me settle in at my own pace and did all she could to make me feel comfortable. Things were not ideal when we started out in Karachi, but my parents never let me feel the effects of any of their struggles. As an only child, I was quite spoilt and they did not change the way they brought me up due to the change in circumstances. I was bullied whenever I took the bus to school– to make it easier for me; my parents started dropping me to school in the mornings. This helped me settle in faster – but at the time, it did not occur to me that my father, who was at a crucial point in his career, was happy to sacrifice the extra hour of sleep just to see me comfortably settled in. I was never good at art and am still not any better if I am honest. Many a night during my earlier school years, I went off to a good nights sleep leaving my parents to complete all my drawing assignments for various subjects – my father in charge of drawing and my mother in charge of colouring in. However, as time passed, they also instilled in me the value of responsibility and started keeping me up with them while they worked on my projects. On one such occasion, we ran out of glue and it was well past midnight, my father taught me how to use mushy leftover rice to finish pasting pictures on one of my charts – that was a lesson in self-sufficiency I know I shall never forget. As a child I was invariably hooked on to video games. Things were different in those days and video games were not as readily accessible or available as they are now. I still remember the innumerable occasions when I dragged my mother to stores across the city and sometimes as far as Saddar, and made her stand in the scorching heat while I went through game after game before finally coming across something I fancied. Never once did I hear her complain – I am sure she expressed her irritation at certain points but nothing that ever suggested she would not be open to taking me again. Come hell or high water, rain or shine she would always be standing at my school, well before home-time, so I could get home and have lunch before my tuitions. Even when I started going to school in Saddar, she dropped me every morning till I was old enough to feel embarrassed by the fact that my mother dropped me to school. As I grew older my interests evolved as well. On my high school graduation a number of my friends were driving their cars to the celebrations but my father insisted that I take the driver along for safety as I had recently begun to drive. I argued with him for hours about how it was unfair. He held firm but allowed me to drive our car as long as I took the driver along as well. Unfortunately, I returned well after midnight with a rather large dent in the car (which I maintain was not my fault to this day). My father was asleep and I did not dare wake him up – as for the next morning, I was dreading my fate, but he dealt with it with a smile and a gentle caution but not a single ‘I-told-you-so’. A couple of weeks later, my repeat performance (again not my fault) which left us without a left side-view mirror for a while courted a less pleasant response but nowhere as bad as I deserved. There are countless other tales I could tell that exhibit how much my parents nurtured me and cared for me, and considering I am still not very old I am sure there will be many more mistakes that I will make. But the fact that they let me make my mistakes and let me learn from these mistakes has made me the individual that I am today. Not once was I made to be felt that I had lost their trust or that I had let them down. Even with something as important with my school exams, my parents would always make sure that the last words I heard, as I left the house, were ‘there’s always a next time’ – it’s such a simple phrase but I cannot explain how relaxed it made me feel before my exams. And thus, (much to the pleasure of Hallmark and the likes) I think it is a great idea to set aside days that allow us to celebrate our parents – because unfortunately a lot of us forget all that they have done for us and do not treat them as we should. I am sure all of us have a number of stories very similar to the ones I have relayed above. Let us all make it a point to cherish our parents, treat them well and recognise all that they have done for us – if not on a daily basis then at least on a day like today. Happy Mother’s Day to all the great moms out there!

My first ‘experience’ of Manto’s work was with his short story ‘Khol Do’ - a deceptively simple tale set in the turmoil of pre-partition Pakistan that artfully depicts the horrors that ensued from and during mass migration.   I use the word 'experience', rather than encounter or stumble upon, because there is absolutely no way that you chance upon Manto's work as one does a pebble in the path, kick it aside and calmly move on. Any human being that feels simply cannot be unmoved by Manto’s work. Akin to the brazen persona that Manto possessed, he consequently inspired either deep revulsion and hatred, or sheer marvel and awe at the literary genius that he was. Like any maestro of any medium of the arts, you can love him or hate him, but you cannot be indifferent to him. I will never forget how the narrative of ‘Khol Do’, merely a few pages, builds up gradually to a point of crescendo, which also serves as the culmination of the tale, in these two little words ‘khol’ and ‘do’. What lends these words breathtaking horror is the action of the main character - also a very simple, most ordinary gesture, of compliance to the words ‘khol do’. But in these two words, Manto sums up the journey of the character and makes a strong commentary of what this character must have endured. The genius lies in how he lets the human imagination fill the blanks, join the dots and make that connection. It sent shivers down my spine, to the point that I physically shuddered and was emotionally shattered. But Manto didn’t create a scene of horror for me, he merely coaxed and egged my imagination to go where he wanted to take me - his reader - to do his work for him almost effortlessly as letting loose a spool of yarn. And it’s not just ‘Khol Do’ - he employs the same technique for a similar subject in ‘Thanda Gosht’. The purpose in both (and in fact all his stories) is to show how low human kind can sink without creating the obvious hero versus villain dynamic. Sufi mystics would agree with him wholeheartedly, asserting that God and the devil both reside within us and that ordinary humans like you and I can surprise one with one’s capacity and penchant for villainy. There is an ugliness in us all that we try to deny or curb with social etiquette and careful societal upbringing, but that artifice and veneer can scratch and shatter when put under pressure. Perhaps that is why, the establishment of Manto’s time and the conservatives among us even today shriek outrageously, for the mirror he holds up to us hits a nerve far closer than our jugular. How many of us can take Manto’s following statement not as a personal affront but a sign that it’s time to change,

If you find my stories dirty, the society you are living is dirty. With my stories, I expose only truth.

She is an institution; an overflowing reservoir of love. She possesses an astounding quantum of care, concern, compassion and affection. A hand that feeds, a hunger she satiates. A phenomenon, a guiding light, a beacon of hope. A lifelong crutch; an embodiment of beauty; a pristine spirit; a glowing splendour of nature. She is a mother, so I was told. Destiny has infinite wisdom. For reasons best known to itself,  it sprang a heart wrenching surprise on me by plucking away my mother to the dark corners of life beyond. After just 26 months, she lost her life after ushering a new life into the temporary world. In death she left a trail of life. An amazing testament to the process of procreation. Since the acquisition of this profound knowledge, that death is not a temporary separation but a permanent one, I wondered what joy she could have derived from my agony of losing her - without even having gotten to know her. Life cheated on me during my infancy by conspiring with death to snatch her away forever. I have pondered many times if my mother willingly participated in this dance of life and death. If the act of dying was willing, she would have known the pain and misery it would cause me. If death took her by surprise, then I mourn the pain and misery she would have undergone then. They say in this world where emotions are prone to being polluted and conditional; where injustice, unfairness, inequity prevails aplenty; where anarchy and chaos are the norm, peace seems to have evaporated from our lives. However, there is still one sanctuary, one haven which offers solace of remarkable quality. I have heard, no matter what the strains are or the anxieties gripping a person, there is a lap full of unqualified love and respite which dwarfs the most monumental of tribulations once you place your head there. It is the mother’s warm embrace which requires nothing in return. It only gives inexhaustibly. It’s that wonder of the world, which cuts across religions, customs, cultures, nationalities, languages, social status, race, creed and colour. The purest emotion of love which a mother elicits for her children is beyond these barriers. It’s miraculously uniform across the world. There is this mysterious magic in a mother’s soothing voice which chases away all suffering. Offering nothing short of her undiluted commitment and affection, even when the offspring take her for granted or are harsh towards her, she never bears any ill will or grudge. But to the contrary, only continues to dole out from the chambers of her heart, unadulterated form of fondness for her uncouth children. Strange is a mother’s love; no matter how flawed the child could be in character, however ordinary looking, or even physically deformed or mentally imbalanced, to a mother he/she is the most beautiful and extraordinary child. She fails to register the irregularities with her children. To her, they are simply perfect. She may be a very strict mother; the one who scowls at indiscipline, punishes at times and may even admonish or criticise. But should someone else attempt to disparage or scorn the children, you’ll see her reacting with an immensely possessive and defensive streak. So much so, that at times, a berating even from the father can be met with intense cynicism from the mother. She is certainly someone who melts away easily and is the softest target to get through to the father for fulfilment of any excessive or exorbitant demands. She is also the strongest shield against the wrath of an authoritarian father. However, in some cases fathers delegate the autocratic job to the mother. When you run out of patience with your mother’s string of questions, just pause and recall that when you were little, she answered all your trite questions a trillion times over with the same enthusiasm as the first time - without a crease on her forehead. She was up with you every night when you were a baby, only to feed you and lull you to sleep at the expense of her own comfort. There is no way in the world that this debt can be settled ever. During my innocent and oblivious childhood, the heap and the mound I played on had a marble tombstone at one end. It was that swollen ground which contains the remains of my mother. Her permanent dwelling place in the vast plains of sadness permitted the longing son to only temporarily visit her. I would almost every other day, if not daily, be standing next to her graveside along with my loving father and siblings. Each day, I left her back in the grave, in the hope that she would later join us for dinner at home. This amazing conjecture or deception of my mind lasted till I got into my teens. I understand death today, but my childhood expectation has still not perished. I keep waiting for her. Sadly, the most beautiful and cheerful word ‘mother’ in any language, evokes in my mind a tragic picture of a forlorn grave; that’s the image of my mother for me. Love you mother - she is a blessing. Parenthood is a passing phenomenon of nature and childhood is the spring of hope. Cherish moments with your mother; because, alas, the clock can’t be turned back.

My exposure to Pakistan was limited. I classified it as one of those countries that was created on religious concepts, was racist toward the rest of the world and wanted the Americans dead.  Call me ignorant, but with the way Pakistan is portrayed in the media, as a foreigner it is hard not to be deterred. Then, by sheer luck and forged destiny, I met a Pakistani woman and fell truly, madly and deeply in love with her. There was beauty resonating from deep within her and it came out in her dark, soulful eyes. Little did I know, that in less than a few weeks, my entire life would change because I was not only falling in love with a person but I was embracing a culture, a lifestyle and above all I was going to embrace a country deemed one of the most dangerous in the world. The first aspect of Pakistani culture I fell in love with was the food. There is nothing in this world that can come close to the comfort provided by haleem, nihari and a warm, buttery piece of naan. The spices and herbs used in Pakistani food are unique, authentic and jump-start the day reflecting Pakistan’s vibrant culture.  Not to mention all sinuses are completely cleared when those green chillies hit the back of the throat. You know what takes the cake? After hours of gruelling work I finally made my own batch of haleem and it was delicious. Moving onto the people; warm, hospitable, welcoming and dramatic in every sense. Pakistani aunties and uncles will make sure us young lads are fed, pampered and shown off like none other. Some of my best memories from last year are being fed huge amounts of biryani on Eid, dancing with a friend’s family at his dholki and always being the centre of attention. I was told I did the bhangra better than Pakistanis themselves. I feel like I belong, without even having to try. Everything is said and done dramatically adding pizazz and flamboyance to language, clothing, conversation and events. Every “Ufffff” is elongated to maximise expression and every “hai Allah” is comical. My personal favourite is “bussssssssssssss,” with a sizzling hiss at the end to fully convey the dramatic tone being used. My future mother-in-law sent me a beautiful, blue kurta from Pakistan to wear at a wedding. Loose and airy around the body, I feel like I am allowed to breathe and walk freely in it. It also has a regal feel, with stunning embroidery work, long, formal sleeves and truly reflects the comfort present in Pakistani culture. It is easier to sit on the ground, cross-legged in a shalwar kurta and personalise the experience of eating with hands, chattering with guests, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the feeling of being communal and united. I also find digesting food a lot easier after having eaten while seated on the ground. What shocked me most about Pakistan’s people were its women. I was always under the impression that most Pakistani women succumb to marriages arranged by their parents, come out to Canada to get away from extremely conservative and patriarchal settings while the ones left behind live under a staunch code of dressing without the ability to truly enjoy themselves and the world they are living in. On the flip side, I have come across intelligent, smart, ambitious, and sagacious, not to mention confident and beautiful women who believe in themselves and have utmost faith in their country despite all the crime that is committed against women there. Pakistani women are entering all kinds of fields may it be journalism, politics or filmmaking. They are curious and eager to bring a change into their country through education and reform. It is inspiring to meet and be in the company of these visionaries, my future wife included, who is charitable and generous toward her community in the most humbling of ways. What I have learnt from this experience is that judgement cannot be passed on a country, religion, culture or group of people through biased exposure to news reports or because of the actions of a select few. To attain the bigger picture you have to immerse yourself into their culture, like I have, and then form conclusions. As far as I am concerned, I have no doubt that when I do visit Pakistan, which will be soon, I will go with an open mind sans fear. I know I will be welcomed in the most hospitable fashion and I cannot wait to see the beautiful country with my own eyes rather than through documentaries, films, photographs and literature. Follow Gordan on Twitter @GordanSumanski

I still remember the first time I saw a tremor in my dad’s hand; we thought perhaps it was high blood pressure and immediately took him to the doctor. However, the tremors didn't stop the next day, or the day after that. After a few tests the doctor recommended that we consult a neurosurgeon. Upon visiting one, we were informed that my father had Parkinson’s disease (PD) and his tremors would only grow worse with time - there was no cure. As the doctors broke this news, I tried my best to be strong for my father. Still, when I came home and watched him struggle to write due to the tremors in his hand, I couldn’t hold back the tears. It’s been three years now and even though his medication has helped slow down the process, the disease has spread to his foot. It has been heartbreaking to see my father go from being the strongest man I knew to a man at the mercy of a disease. The tremors in his hands cause hindrance in the easiest of tasks, like holding a glass of water. Sometimes, the foot tremors make him lose his balance and a simple activity like changing his clothes becomes a challenge. Parkinson's is a degenerative disorder of the central nervous system. Our nerve cells use an organic chemical called dopamine to help control muscle movement. Parkinson's occurs when the nerve cells in the brain that make dopamine slowly deteriorate to the point of destruction. Why these cells waste away, is still, unfortunately, a scientific mystery. Without dopamine, the nerve cells in that part of the brain cannot properly send messages and this leads to the loss of muscle function. The damage only gets worse with time. In the early stages of the disease, the most obvious symptoms are movement-related; shaking, rigidity, slowness of movement and difficulty while walking, to name a few. Later, cognitive and behavioural problems may arise, with dementia commonly occurring in the advanced stages of the disease. Tremors are known to start with the hand or foot, but spread to the whole body with the passage of time. Parkinson's disease is more common in the elderly, with most cases occurring after the age of 50. If the fact that it's an incurable disease isn't bad enough, the medication taken for slowing down the process  is also known for its negative side effects. These include depression, hallucinations, dizziness, headaches, loss of taste, dryness, loss of memory, purple mottling of the skin, and so on. The medication was quick to have its effect on my father's body too. He started getting confused and forgetting things, and had to quit driving as a result. There are days when he forgets if it's morning or night, and sometimes he becomes so dizzy that he can barely walk. The medication also causes swelling and rashes in his foot. Ever since I was a child, I have seen my father take care of the outdoor chores. From driving us to school and getting the car fixed to paying the utility bills, he did it all. But Parkinson's doesn't allow him to do all this stuff any more. I cannot even imagine what my father must be going through as the smallest of tasks are a struggle now. Many risk and protective factors have been investigated regarding Parkinson's: the clearest evidence is an increased risk in people exposed to certain pesticides and a reduced risk in tobacco smokers. Most people with Parkinson's disease have idiopathic Parkinson's disease (having no specific known cause). A small proportion of cases, however, can be attributed to known genetic factors. Other factors have been associated with the risk of developing PD, but no causal relationship has been proven. Although tobacco smoking is devastating for longevity or quality of life, it has been related to a reduced risk of having Parkinson's disease. Smokers' risk of having PD may be reduced down to a third when compared to non-smokers. The basis for this effect is not known, but possibilities include an effect of nicotine as a dopamine stimulant. Research has shown that people who eat more fruits and vegetables, high-fibre foods, fish, and omega-3 rich oils (sometimes known as the Mediterranean diet) have some protection against Parkinson's disease. However the reason for this is still being studied. It is heartening to see that Parkinson's support groups are sprouting up in Pakistan. The Aga Khan Hospital holds seminars and observes Parkinson’s day, not just for the patients but for their families as well. Its aim is to teach them how to cope with the stress and provide support to the patient. Parkinson’s didn’t just affect my father; it changed everybody's life in my whole family. Watching my mother stand by my father’s side has also taught me what marriage is really about, and what is meant by vows of standing by each other in sickness and in health. God has been kind to us in that my father's Parkinson's is still under control. It hasn’t reached the later stage yet, but there is nothing more frustrating than watching your loved ones in pain and knowing that there is no cure. I have watched him give up his passion for playing golf as he couldn't continue with the tremors in his hand. And as I have watched him sink into depression, I have realised that nothing is more important in this world than health. Read more by Nojeba here or follow her on Twitter @nojeba

Gazing out of my office window in Islamabad, I see trees dancing in the wind and heavy clouds hovering over the ground, ready to shower rain. I feel like going out for a walk to cherish the weather but I cannot.  It is not because of my work, my boss or my family but rather due to the fear of strangers on the road. I know this might sound funny coming from a journalist, but it is the reality! When I go out, I hear cheap comments made by strange men, cars follow me and old uncles shamelessly stop their vehicles and offer to give me a lift. And it is most embarrassing when I have to stand at the roadside to catch a cab. The act of men staring makes me feel like I am a showpiece and that it is okay for them to gawk at me. What a pity on this country and its people! I feel jealous when I see women from neighbouring countries riding their scooters or bicycles to get to work or school. In my country, I cannot even think of doing this. If, one day, I dare to be confident enough to do this, I will be made to feel so uncomfortable that I would not dare to do it again. My family will receive calls from people asking them to keep an eye on my activities because I am trying to break social taboos or because I am crossing cultural limits. And instead of supporting me, my family will ask me to stay at home rather than encourage me to face the world. I once had an interview with an executive at Polyclinic hospital, who also happened to be a woman and she said to me,

It is very important for women to walk for at least an hour in fresh air. This is good for health and is medically proven to increase life expectancy. But women are reluctant because they feel insecure on the roads, thereby confining themselves to staying indoors and not exercising.

I know you guys have already read a couple of blogs about graduation; the ones that elaborated in 10 points how, after passing out, the realisation dawns that the world out there is very evil and that college was pure bliss. While these writings surely had their utility, what they failed to encapsulate was the experience itself; the four years of loathing that magically turn into a bitter sweet feeling as the end approaches. I still remember an incident from freshman year when I complained to a teacher about the excessive workload and she said, with a smile reminiscent of days gone by,

When you are done with college, you will miss working all night long with your friends.

If you want a happy ending that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.