Remembering my Misil
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 ...
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Bombay slums: Dark, dingy and full of hope
Bombay (now known as Mumbai) enamours me like it has many people. While the plane lands over the city, you see a seamless mix of shanties and high rises. It is not so inconspicuous on the ground. Riding a local train from Santa Cruz to Malad East, I gazed at the best and the worst of living conditions of the people of Bombay. I was in the city to report on the raising real estate prices in the city’s slums. As I reached my destination in Dharavi, one of the largest slums in Asia, there was a strange sensation in my stomach ...
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The last few minutes on a crashing plane
They were headed for a destination; some for familiar places, others looking for new ventures. She must’ve been sitting on the aisle, slowly sipping a glass of coke, glancing at the in-flight entertainment every now and then. A toddler must’ve been on his first flight looking out the window amazed at the puffy white clouds outside his window. The crew may be behind the curtain, cracking jokes, stacking up food trays and fixing their attires. There might have a been a man in a suit, typing away corporate plans for his company for the next two quarters. A father may have ...
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‘Have some paan, Bhai jaan’
Bhai jaan! Yahaan sub milta hai: meetha paan, tambaaku wala paan, khushboo wala paan aur aap kay liye khaas, special paan. (Brother, you will find everything here; sweet paan, tobacco paan, scented paan, and just for you, a very special paan.) Aslam, a 15-year-old boy, dressed in filthy clothes and oiled hair, which diffuse a pungent smell, usually utters the same statement to every man or woman strolling in front of the tobacco shop in a market in Defence, Lahore. The young salesman never fails to grab the attention of passers-by. It’s impossible to ignore the boy because he delivers the sales ...
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For the family of a dead soldier
Standing outside a hospital corridor, opposite the nursery, I was waiting for my wife to return from the operating theatre after giving birth to our second child. Anxiety was in the process of being replaced by happiness, and I was enjoying the quiet moment. A few minutes later, a nurse brought another newborn baby boy, and some ladies (presumably the family of the infant) followed the nurse. One of the ladies, who looked like a typical grandmother, stood out from rest of the crowd. There was something not quite normal about her. She was relentlessly wiping away tears, saying things like, Mein ...
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Husbands who beat, women who get beaten
What happens when your savior also becomes your enemy? How do you feel when the father of your child emotionally, psychologically, verbally and physically abuses you instead of giving you the respect you deserve? How do you reclaim your self-esteem when he ridicules you and your family and makes you believe every time that it is your fault, when actually it isn’t? Domestic violence causes far more pain than the visible marks of bruises and scars. It is devastating to be abused by someone that you love and who you think loves you in return, because you’ll always end up ...
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International Women’s day is not my day
It’s not my day because I am a woman every day of the year. I don’t want 24 hours to remind the world that I will speak what’s on my mind, make my own decisions and not be objectified, simply because I don’t need to be given what’s mine to begin with anyway; health and safety, education, equal opportunities and control over my body and life choices. My rights are not your charity. Please don’t pat yourself on the back to assuage your guilt, if there is any to begin with, for being nice to me today. I moved beyond ...
Read Full PostThe key to happiness: Stand your ground
Whoever told me, happiness just magically comes your way, should’ve been tripped headfirst. Because it really doesn’t sneak up on you, it doesn’t tickle your toes and makes its way into your heart and head. Happiness is a 24/7 job, and a tough one at that. It’s a time-consuming process. A tantrum throwing toddler that constantly seeks your attention. Call ethereal happiness a self-created sand castle on your personal shore. Every now and then waves of grief and anger will constantly wash over it, and more often than not, strong winds of disappointment will topple it over, but you’ve got ...
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Sympathy for a terrorist
The production of illegally detained, suspected terrorists in the Supreme Court should have been met with a sense of triumph. Instead, the families of missing persons, who have joined the Amna Janjua led missing persons camp over the past month, as ‘sympathisers’ of terrorists and militants. On the other hand those who have hailed the Supreme Court’s actions have been accused of neglecting the memory of the victims of terrorism and their families. Things have changed quite swiftly over the past few months. Then, everyone seemed content with denying that anyone was actually “missing” or that the military and intelligence agencies had anything ...
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Once upon a basant
It’s that time of the year again when the frosty blues and grays enveloping start to disappear and in their place awakens a plethora of colours, fresh and vibrant as if after a long hibernation. As if by magic, people’s spirits start to soar and life starts looking more – excuse the pun – ‘sunny’. This reminds me of the time when I was growing up – when as soon as the flowers started appearing, so did kites all over the sky, with people getting ready for the much awaited Basant festival. I loved everything about Basant when I was a kid. My ...
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