One of my cousins has a little girl, about 10 months old. Right now, she is the star of the family. Everywhere she goes, she’s the center of attention. We vie to hold her and fight for her affection, calling out to her, shaking keys, toys or flowers at her. The baby gets passed around like a hot potato, and the holder rarely gives her up willingly. As if communally love struck, we share stories about her latest antics and discoveries and you never see anyone’s eyes glaze over in boredom. When she’s in the room, we all watch her and ooh and aah, thoroughly engrossed. This baby is better than TV and not nearly as offensive.

I know that sounds a bit nuts, how we’re all fixated on this little toddler, but here, it’s totally normal. Pakistanis love babies. From my big and burly guy cousins to my scary and gruff uncles, everyone has a soft spot in their hearts for infants.

This used to weird me out when I first moved here, since I’d never seen such behavior back in the US and I had little experience with kids. I’m the second youngest in my family, and my relatives in the US lived pretty far away, so I didn’t get a chance to interact with anyone much younger. Sure there were babies and toddlers in our neighborhood, but in the era of “stranger danger” and “community vigilance” you just don’t play with other people’s babies. There, coo at a stranger’s baby and expect to see them rush off in a huff, or look at you with suspicion and dread. And don’t even try to pinch their cheeks or tickle their chins, cuz that could be misconstrued as abuse. But people have cause to be so careful and I won’t fault them for it.

Here though, I don’t know if it’s because folks are more trusting or simply uninformed, but it’s totally acceptable for a stranger to play with your kid. If you have a cute baby, expect random people to pinch your baby’s cheeks, or give it candy or ask to hold it. I was about 2 or 3 when I first came to Pakistan for a visit, and honestly, my strongest memory out of the whole experience was constantly receiving candies, ice creams and sweets from people I didn’t even know. It was confusing as heck, but hey, when it comes down to candy, why complain? And I actually came to dread going to my dad’s desi parties when I got a little older, because I hated my cheeks being pinched.

It never fails to crack me up that guys here, without self consciousness, openly play with little kids and have a ball doing it. Last time I was here I watched as one of my elder cousins very dutifully gave each and every one of his many nieces and nephews a high-speed push-ride around their house on a wheeled computer chair. This is the same guy who otherwise remains in a state of unruffled dignity. You’ll also see dudes rock their little relations to sleep, feed them their bottles, and entertain them when they’re being fussy. Once when my family was at a restaurant with my sister-in-law, her 9-month-old son was being fussy and making it difficult for her to eat. Our waiter noticed and insisted on holding my nephew. The dude, a young teenager, just pulled up a chair and happily played with my nephew the entire time. He explained that he had a baby brother at home and he missed him.

In Pakistan, I’ve also yet to meet one of those don’t-like-children-types that I was always bumping into back in the States. I don’t know if they simply don’t make that kind in the desi variety, or whether they’re a silent minority too afraid of being booed out of society for being so weird to speak up and complain properly.

Boo on them anyways. Boo! Kids are great! What more wonderful way is there to consider the miracle of life and the kindness of God than watching a child grow? It is humbling to remember that we were all once babies, helpless and vulnerable, unable even to feed ourselves. Our parents, through kindness, love and mercy, raised and protected us long enough for us to reach the ages we have reached. Everyone was once a silly little kid, certain of everything and on top of the world. We’ve learned mountains since then, and have had to regularly destruct and reconstruct what we thought knew. From being brainless balls of chub, we evolve into adults, with formed minds and hardened bodies. It’s pretty dang amazing.

I guess the difference here that I’m having such a hard time explaining again boils down to culture. Here, kids are a joy, “the glory of Allah,” and one of the few mercies in this world that both rich and poor can enjoy. It’s no wonder that the idea of family planning doesn’t go down well in this part of the world. “What do you mean I can only have two kids? But I LIKE kids!” Families with no children or few are a tragedy in this culture. People will shake their heads and talk about the sadness of couples who have no children to love and no support when the parents reach old age. Here, even a poor man can have something to live for and make him smile - his children. If he owns nothing else in his life, he will at least feel the pride of watching life and a legacy grow. They say zindagi (existence) need not be a joyless toil if one has aulaad (offspring).

Enough verbosity. I am off to go play with the Mongol Hordes. My nine year old nephew, who goes by “Bijli” (electricity) and “Daffy Duck,” has just challenged me to a game of Scrabble and I must win back my honor after yesterday’s kite flying disaster. I may be the Owl, but the only things I can fly are shoddy paper airplanes and plastic bags. Sigh. *grins*

Family elders will tell you that there was once a time when Pakistan produced poignant dramas (the local classification for serious evening soap operas) and comedy that actually had wit. We supposedly even exported these superior productions to countries like Japan, Russia and others in the Subcontinent, where they were dubbed over in the local languages or given subtitles. I’m going to have to take their word for it, cuz the crap that’s on the telly now is so absolutely ludicrous it is painful to watch. I don’t think anyone would import it, though I can understand Pakistan trying to get rid of the stuff.

Yesterday, as I waited in the drawing room, I had the misfortune of watching a variety show on PTV. There I sat and witnessed half an hour of hidden camera antics that made me wish I had a large bat and the address of the local television station. My aunt was nearby, and she watched, looking confused and perplexed as an undercover actor played cruel and idiotic tricks on the unsuspecting public. In one clip, the man went to a high end men’s garments shop and demanded to see the finest shirts they had, explaining that money was no object. After going through the store’s entire stock, he selects a few, and asks to buy them for one tenth of their price, arguing for the impossible sale with the patient and polite storekeeper. I dunno bout you guys, but that’s not funny to me, just stupid. Judging by the looks on the faces of my cousins in the room, they felt the same way.

I’ve also heard a lot about a new sitcom with a bunch of popular comedians in it. It came on when I was at an Iftar party the other day so I tried to see what the hoopla was about. Above the jarring din of ancient laughtracks, I figured out it was about a guy who didn’t fast in Ramadan because “fasting made him hungry” *queue drum beat dadum ching*. It’s a pretty bad sign when a comedy has to add in the laughing. I admit though, the guys did later get up to some formulaic nonsense involving restaurant stalls that sold nothing, and that made me smile, but no guffawing here. The conclusion my cousins came up with about me is “Her laughing machine is broke.” I guess so.

What really makes me fall out of my chair though are the dramas. I admit, I don’t always know what’s going on in these glorified ham-fests, as my Urdu is limited and my understanding of social conventions is off, but from what I can gather, they generally revolve around two things.

You cannot make a drama without A. a star-crossed love story and B. a family tragedy. Most end in a happy marriage and resolution of all problems. All the gratuitous bits are changeable, but you can’t miss these two important pillars, lest the roof of your gaudy production cave in. Throw in an irritable male lead, a patriarch with a heart condition who must either die or nearly do so, a teary and delicate female lead, and a meddling matriarch who is the root of the discord and you’ve covered all your bases. For an even more exciting show, include some song and dance routines, spiritual dream sequences, techni-colored sets, and an exotic locale preferably in a second or first world country.

What makes these shows so hilarious to me, aside from the complete absence of logic and reality, is the acting and the fantasy of the stories. Pakistani TV puts the drama in melodrama. If a foreigner was to watch these shows, without ever having visited the country or met a Pakistani, he would deduce that this land is populated by hysterical, angry, insane, weepy and theatrical people living thoroughly tangled domestic lives.

He would see the young male population of the country divided into groups of men who do as their told and bring joy to their families, and the cursed ones who don’t. Those that aren’t doing as they’re told will typically have a waxed moustache, dark sun glasses worn in all weather, gelled hair, and a loud motorcycle upon which they harass innocent women or live fast crime-filled lives. The good and noble sons will typically be tall, reasonably fair, deep voiced, smiling and genial, with or without moustache. None are bearded. All men under the age of 40 would also live in a perpetual state of pining. That is, until they actually find an agreeable female upon whom they can direct their emotion, following which they become disinterested, hateful, enraged, moody and/ or possessive.

Young women would come in only two forms, the talkative problematic types and the quiet and dutiful types, both of which have to be made-up to the nines at all times. The problematic women usually have secondary parts, or primary ones that focus on how they mend their ways and become more like the latter. The dutiful females are the ones that are fought over, abused, harassed and besieged. The beef of their roles is found in their fainting scenes, girlish giggling and ability to wring their hands and cry helplessly. Occasionally you see a woman who’s got the personality of a the typical desi male character – angry, proud, and determined - but only one actress plays those parts and we’ve all tired of seeing Maria Wasti’s face. And of course, even that type is never seen without complete cake make-up and flawless hair.

Older men, as they’re just the lettuce in these complicated social sandwiches, are less complicated. Some are modern, with blackened hair, western clothes and white collar jobs, and others are greyed by their difficult working class existences, excessive facial hair and a wardrobe of only white kurta pajamas and frumpy topis. They traditionally have a life-threatening medical condition. Most are tearier than their female counterparts, though they cry only over manly things like marriage of daughters or the stealing of land or the killing of able-bodied sons. They’re usually not the cause of the chaos around which the drama revolves, and when related to the madness, are henpecked by their evil domineering wives.

The stranger learning about Pakistan through its dramas would also assume that middle aged women or anyone who’s a sister-in-law, step mother or mother-in-law to be inherently evil and bent upon wrecking the lives of the aforementioned beautiful young men and women in their families. They might mistakenly, though not without reason, also believe them to be insane and maybe even sadistic. These aged female meddlers are almost always well groomed, dumpy, with short or shoulder length artificially-colored hair and fashionable clothes. Most have ugly and undesirable sons or daughters that they are hoping to marry off to one of the lovely young men or women for their wealth and good name come hell or high-water. Other times they are the puffed-up mothers of the leads, who are against the chosen love interest of their child. All are given to sneaky soliloquies that involve scheming, maniacal nodding, finger waggling and malicious laughter. They usually get their just deserts in the end, or repent of their ways, or die.

No matter which role the actors play, they all do it with the same over-the-top theatrical hyperbole. Everyone, from the dignified doctors to the loyal servants, men and women, young and old, is given to performing grave monologues while facing the screen, back turned towards the person the person they’re supposedly talking to. They are always completed with a sudden turn towards the party concerned with one last biting remark.

The women have enough sass to sink a ship and do this funny sudden head lift, slightly to the side, nose in the air, which means “whatever” or “hmph.” I’ve tried to master this movement, but alas, I am unskilled. They also do some classic faints, suddenly looking uncertain, delicately grabbing their heads and teetering on their high heeled shoes before they crash slowly to the ground. The aunty types have some pretty mean nagging skills. The maternal types get great ‘dua’ parts where they emotionally pray to God, glycerine beneath their eyes as tears, while a voiceover reveals their thoughts. Spiritual stuff I tell ye. All actresses also manage some pretty impressive eyebrow acrobatics which rather unsubtly display the current emotions of their characters.

Male actors have refined boiling anger to an art form. They huff and puff with nostrils flared, eyes widened, mouths set and fists clenched. The young men do this every episode, at least once, and the elder ones manage a few tantrums in the whole series. Older guys with the aforementioned medical conditions give their all for their death scenes, writhing, moaning, muttering and sighing. Before kicking the bucket they usually make a final labored declaration in between heart clutching and coughing, pleading with their kids, praying to God, or absolving an enemy of his guilt. All criminals either twist their ‘staches, pet their beards or fiddle with knives/guns while looking grim. Some do all at once, but only the most talented actors.

This sounds like I’m painting all television here with a broad brush, but desis know what I’m talking about. Mark my words, there are no exceptions. And I know, I know, I’m a total brat. If I don’t like what’s on the tube, I should turn off the idiot box or leave the room. I’ll try that next time.

Eid Mubarak ya'll, whether you're celebrating it today like most of the world, or tomorrow like we confused non-NWFP based Pakistanis. *sigh* Remember me in your duas.

:)

Which of your lord’s favors do you deny?

Gratitude is a funny thing. Most of us are sure we have it. We’re grateful to our parents for the nice stuff they’ve given us, we’re grateful to our bosses for hiring us, we’re grateful to our friends for their friendship and we’re always grateful when a stranger unexpectedly does us a favor. We’re vessels of goodness and appreciation, the whole lot of us.

Me though, I’m not always very grateful. It’s easy for me to look to those with more things and wish for those as well. And of course, by ‘things’ I mean stuff- crap, goods, shiny things. I’m not even talking about the intangible things, like happiness, peace of mind, love, health and security. Good old material ‘things’ are my primary concern, and not having all that can be had can sometimes be disheartening.

Some wise dude once said “Look to what you don’t have and you’ll never be happy, but look towards what could be taken away, and you’ll be satisfied.” Alright, let’s try that. Go get out a pen and paper, and tally each and every item you have, own, or use. Now just look at them, and you’ll find that it’s a wonderful reminder of all the things you have to be grateful for.

But don’t just record your tangible things, your *stuff,* record the intangible things as well. Like peace of mind, people who love you, dignity and happiness. All of these fall into the category of things you have that could be taken away.

Think about it, nowhere is it written that all people have the undeniable right to safety. You live in a dangerous world where crime and accidents regularly take the lives and well-being of people, but so far, you’ve been spared. That is a blessing. So are peace and the absence of war. We generally live secure lives while there are places in the world where whole generations of people have known nothing but conflict. We don’t have to fear the sound of planes flying overhead, worrying that they may drop a bomb. Most of us will see our brothers live to maturity without ever knowing the pain of watching all men of age be sent to the battlefield. Our food and utilities will probably never be rationed like they are in those countries where prolonged hostilities have claimed most goods. When ill, doctors and medicines are easily found, while elsewhere those services are reserved for the wounded, or too expensive for anyone but the rich. Most of us will never suffer the pain of a bullet or shrapnel wound, or ever feel the numbing and terrifying uncertainty that war holds over our lives and those of our loved ones.

Health isn’t guaranteed either. We all complain about our various afflictions - asthma, insomnia, anemia, depression – as if they are serious or life threatening. Griping about your health is a luxury of those with enough energy and strength to do so, and they are usually those who don’t have anything to really complain about anyways. Ask most people what’s their worst medical experience and they’ll probably list things like appendicitis, food poisoning and pneumonia, all temporary and curable. There are lots and lots of people out there who are crippled by terminal illness that medicine cannot help, who have no choice but to tolerate excruciating pain without a known cure, while the worst pain most of us will ever feel can be dulled by a few aspirins. I couldn’t even begin to list the millions of diseases and afflictions that beleaguers a huge population of the world. There are plenty, and it is a blessing from God that we will experience only a few in our lifetimes.

Love is something we all think is owed to us. We demand it from our parents, expect it in a lesser degree from our siblings, and spend a good part of our lives trying to find it in others. It is considered a necessary part of a happy life. You can’t survive without love, but apparently, lots of people do. What of the street children, orphans, wanderers, loners and those born in broken homes where basic amenities, let alone affections, are not provided? And even still, a person can have mountains of wealth and the best of everything, and never feel loved. Its lack is something I can’t describe, as I’ve never felt it, but I imagine it must be horrible. Not only have most of us felt the affirming sensation of another’s regard, but we’ve also rarely felt hatred in its place. Though we often complain about our relations, how they don’t understand, are demanding and rigid, and how they make our lives difficult, we forget how superficial these concerns are. Being a relative doesn’t ensure feelings of selfless love. Some family members mercilessly beat others, or molest them, or make outwards displays of loathing, and go out of their way to cause pain to their own relatives. Most of us don’t know how lucky we are to never truly have to fear our own families.

Aside from health, none of us was promised a whole self. We seem to forever be griping about ourselves, not being tall enough, too fat, too thin, ill-proportioned, nose not right, teeth not straight and the list goes on. For some people though, an insufficiency of beauty is the least of their concerns, as they grapple with disfiguration, blindness, deafness, or mental or physical disability.

And then there are those who don’t even have that awareness to know that something is wrong. The very fact that we were born intelligent, reasoning humans is such a gift. Some people, through birth or accident, live all their lives in a state of vegetative unconsciousness or highly limited perception. Lucky are the ones that aren’t aware of what they are missing, but for those who do know something is amiss, theirs must be a sad and frustrating existence.

Life itself is probably the greatest thing we take for granted. We are alive and have never known any other state, and with our typical convoluted logic, we assume that we will simply continue on living. I have not died today. I did not die yesterday. Therefore, I will not die tomorrow. Many people die before reaching old age, or even adolescence, but we forget that no person has been guaranteed a long life.

Come to think of it, nothing you have has been guaranteed, or even earned. It’s all been granted to you, and it can all be taken away. None of it is your right, it’s all a favor.

Then which of your Lord’s favors will you deny?


(special thanks to the Brother Karmizov Abez. The rest of you, thank God you don’t suffer from circular logic and a tangled brain like yours truly.)

The first thing that strikes you about Karachi is the smell. I remember being hit by a wave of alien aroma upon leaving the airport back in 1990. The air, thick and heavy with dust and smog, smelled of salt, diesel fumes, incense and boiled eggs. Driving home, I sat silent, glued to the window, seeing for the first time in my memory the bizarre buildings, tangled traffic, strangely dressed people, billboards and the all prevalent grime. The noise was riotous - rumbling car engines, deafening rickshaws, busses jingling past as their conductors shouted out destinations, and a chorus of horns of every kind, calling to clear the road. That summer was hot, worse than anything I’d been in before, and I felt I was drowning in the quicksand of Karachi’s atmosphere. It was terrifying and exhilarating. I’d stepped out of that air-conditioned, protected shell of an airplane and landed in one of the upper levels of Hades.

I couldn’t help but feel a little of that same old feeling when we got off the plane on Saturday. Even the airport was loud, far more alive than Islamabad’s sad excuse for an international landing field. Crowds of people stood on tiptoe outside the arrival area, waiting to meet loved ones along with many company chauffeurs bearing the signs of their respective establishments. One of the many anxious faces was that of my aunt, who called out to us and met us outside the barrier. We hugged and hurried to the car, hoping to make it home before the time came to break our fasts.

It is an amazing place, Karachi. Each time I come it has evolved and morphed, leaving only the barest hints of what was in familiar places. On the way home we take a new fly-over, built on top of a sector I used to pass every day on my way to school. All around it, the demographic has changed. Instead of tired old homes and quaint bazaars, there is massive shopping mall, painfully reflecting the city’s ever abundant sunlight off its mirror-polished windows. Right and left, it is flanked by boutiques, gadget stores and new restaurants. In this city, only the bones stay the same.

The traffic is just as bad as I remembered, actually worse, but the cars are different. In the one year I’ve been away the city has filled with new model Honda Cities, Altos, Cuores and Cultuses. Some say it’s because things are looking up and money is coming in, but poverty has gone up 33% over the past three years and bank data shows most people are simply availing themselves of new car financing loan schemes. They speed forward on borrowed money.

Once empty stretches of road are now walled by huge apartment complexes. In a city of 15m, one of the fastest growing in the world, housing is always a problem. They look nice though, the new buildings, but we know that in a year, when all the tenants move in, they’ll look the same as the old - grayed and faded - the only hint of color being the clog of laundry-lines pouring out from the balconies. The architecture is looking better though, following themes, sedate, classy, not the strange bastardized versions of modernity that mushroomed up in the 1980s and the pseudo-Spanish villas of the 1990s. They’ve discovered Rome, and now Corinth pillars and arches are paired with neutral sandstone.

Karachi is also a good measure of globalization and development in this third world country. It is here before nearly the rest of the country that global brands hit the streets, international franchises open and new services are made available. Billboards loudly advertise DSL connections, fiber optics and heat-resistant insulation beside new KFCs, Dunkin Donuts, McDs and Pizza Huts. Huge signs show smiling faces of women selling juices, shampoos, appliances, and even life insurance policies. As far as the eye can see, paled skin, darkened eyes and reddened lips recommend new products to Karachi’s vast consumer population.

But despite the growth, much is still the same. The buildings are shinier, but there is still filth on the ground, beggars in the streets, lawlessness and disorder. At one cramped round-about, where four lights competed for attention against an insufficient traffic cop, we are accosted by two men in drag. My aunt sighs, a mix of exasperation and disgust, before our car speeds through the red light, followed and proceeded by others. In Ramadan the city fills with vagrants of all kinds from across the province, coming to “share the light of happiness” through the holiday generosity of others. These men, grotesque with stubble peeking out from behind a mask of pink foundation, saunter up to cars and demand money in nasal yet mannish voices. Their claim to it? “Better this than prostitution, aunty, now cough some up before we start dancing.”

Further into the belly of the city, past the lovely new growth on its outskirts comes the neighborhood where my Khandaan once made its family compound. Above street level, past the brightly clothed people, garish busses and new cars, it is monotone. In this quarter few have the money to fight the inevitable graying of paint, tiles, marble and stone. The grime has stained the buildings a permanent shade of indifferent dust. Here, the buildings seem to have grown taller and the roads more narrow. Stories have been added to the unregulated structures, each one eating a little more space above the choked gullies like backward staircases into the sky. It is the only place where I feel like a kid again, dwarfed by the distant patches of grey-blue above when everything else seems so much smaller than I had remembered.

The playing field where I ran after cats and kittens isn’t the endless expanse of sand and crab grass I recollect it to be. It is now walled and the patches of grass are more covering. The drab cement boundaries are splashed with political slogans. The symbols for the parties - bikes, books, roses, tigers and arrows – jostle for space besides those of opponents. Snaggletoothed floodlights, the well-intended gesture of a local industrialist who made good, do a fair job of lighting the three games of cricket and the dumpy women walking slow circles around the edges of the field below. In the eastern corner there sits the same stagnant garbage dump, now pouring out into the street, where the jamadaars bring the trash of the neighborhood to burn.

The stretch of stores nearby is unusually bright, beckoning customers like bedazzled moths to stalls selling Eid cards, bangles, suits, shawls and shoes. Shopkeepers have hijacked electricity lines, via the magic “Kundi system,” and are illuminating the area at the expense of the city. This is new. My uncle, the region’s former counselor, mutters under his breath “Where’d all this come from? It’s their father’s electricity, I’m sure.” There is much to buy, but few shoppers. Things are tight even here, Pakistan’s most industrial and moneyed city. Make the mistake of asking any able-minded man over 30 what ails the place and you’re liable to get a two hour rant crucifying the local alderman, mayor and not-so-benevolent dictator in chief and his crew of IMF lackeys.

Outside houses, minutes before the time comes to open our fasts, groups of men stand around, talking and laughing, waiting for the sound of the adhan from minarets above to filter down to the earth. Every four or five houses down carts offer freshly fried traditional Ramadan foods. Not much is left, as dusk is fast falling and most items have sold out. Occasionally we pass someone bearing a tray of dishes covered in bright cotton, hurrying to the home of a friend. Here neighbors still exchange Iftar treats. Barefoot children careen down the narrow gullies and bored young men sit on stoops. I recognize, but only just barely, a few boys I played with that one year I lived in the compound. They’re grown now, adults, and meander around meeting friends in that quintessentially Pakistani way, loosely hugging while the right hand shakes the hand of a friend and the left is placed over the heart. Of course, we don’t shake hands, or even nod. We’ve aged and have been relegated to our respective social slots.

We pass through the old compound, visit a few relations, and head out, home to where my Khandaan has relocated. Despite it all, I’m happy to be back. Karachi is a place I never tire of.

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours ago
I wanna be sedated.

Sigh. I’m 21 years old and dangit, I still feel like a little kid when it comes to going to bed. I never want to. I guess all those years of insomnia have taken their toll. I’m tired of waiting till the appropriate lateness and then dutifully trudging up to my room and flinging myself onto my bed, only to lay there for hours and hours, waiting for blessed unconsciousness to wash over me. It does eventually, but only after making me wish I could be sedated. I simply no longer believe in bedtime.

Logic is not on my side. See, logically, I should be dog tired and able to fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow after my full day of work and chores while running on a mere half a tank of sleep. Logic says that six hours of rest a night is simply not enough as a practice. Logic says go to bed you moron. Logic talks too much.

Before coming to Pakistan, I did not hate dogs, roosters or night watchmen. Now I wish them all off the face of the earth. Those long horrid hours when I lay in bed waiting for sweet release are punctuated by raucous dog concerts, sporadic crows of clueless roosters and eerie whistle blowing.

There are basically masses of wild and unchained dogs in Pakistan, which band together at night and prowl the streets. They have the most fantastically loud barking contests, most of which seem to take place outside my balcony. I’ve also got a special place in my spleen for “the metronome dog.” This dog barks at perfectly timed intervals of bark-two-three-bark-two-three-bark. He goes off each night, without fail, and is a soloist.

I’ve also discovered that my impression that roosters only crowed at sunrise was very much wrong. That’s what they always show in the movies, so being the gullible git that I am, I believed that. It’s not true though. Roosters explode in noise wherever and whenever they feel like it, but they’ve got a thing for the early hours of the night. They also rarely hit that customary cock-a-doodle-doo and often instead will make noises that sound like chicken hiccups, engines that won’t turn over, and bird coughs. These are even more disturbing to your would-be sleep, as the bout of laughter that inflicts you after hearing these sad noises will drive away any drowsiness.

In Pakistan, most neighborhoods have a night watchman. Sounds impressive, until you find out it’s just a dude on a bike with a whistle. He doesn’t even have a gun. He just bikes around, blowing his whistle as a warning to thieves. We’ve yet to figure out what he would do if he ever encountered one. I suppose he’d blow his whistle at them till it drove them mad or they gave up their sinful ways. It works for me. I no longer have any yearnings for burglary, but I strangely feel inclined towards assault and battery (bike away little man).

My mom is probably reading this blog and typing up a long letter full of motherly advice on how to get to bed. Over the years, she and I have tried just about everything to help me get enough rest, short of a rolling-pin induced coma. I’ve done the melatonin pills (snake-oil), the warm milk (yummy but an old wives’ tale), the valerian root tea (nastiest stuff ever invented, smells of old socks and dirty laundry), the sheep counting (sheep are non-somnolent, ask them yourself), the special prayers, the abstinence from napping (still do), the daily exercise (that too), the avoiding of caffeine after sundown and probably a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember. No luck yet. I’m still on stuck on the tiring cycle of greater and greater sleep deprivation, paired with growing fatigue, until I crash and sleep about 10 hours. It’s still not enough, and the dark circles under my eyes never leave.

What’s the point of all this? I dunno. It’s 2 am and I refuse to go to bed till I go cross-eyed and fall out of my chair.

Here I go.......

The death knell tolls.....
The chase is on.....
The jig is up......

I need a fake beard.

And a fake set of caterpillar eyebrows too. And I wouldn’t mind a bag of stick-on moles, some tooth-black, a detachable hump and a peg-leg while I’m at it. Why? I blame this all on Abez. She went and done got herself engaged, leaving me next in line at the executioner’s block. Now I’ve got relations, friends and even strangers setting out predictions for my time alone on this earth (Naffi gives me only six months!). Pshaw. It’s gonna take a lot more than a expiry date to get me to don the red sharara of doom and take that long, stumbling walk with a Quran being held over my head.

See, I’m going to Karachi for the tail end of Ramadan and Eid. In Islamabad, I don’t have to deal too much with the soap operatics of being a unmarried female in Pakistan, but in Karachi, all the stops are going to come out. My arrival in the city where my dad’s family is based is probably going to be met with queues of anxious aunties, all hoping to rope in the second daughter of the house of Khan. They won’t take me alive!

The maniacal shine in the eyes of aunties when they encounter fresh meat is enough to make my blood run cold. I wouldn’t be surprised to find those plotting pot-bellied women measuring me up with inchie tapes to see if I fit in the little niche in their over-stuffed kitchens where they plan to set me up. Or perhaps a store-window. There‘s no point in having an Americanish daughter-in-law if you‘re not going to show her off.

Others are more scientific. They try to plot my genetic make up - acceptable height, appropriate skin tone, tolerable nose, enough teeth - to see if it will make attractive grandchildren when mixed with that of their sons - midget, potato nose, mentally deficient, cross eyed. Seriously, I have a cousin who is tall by local standards and the scores of offers she’s received so far have only come from men far shorter. In her, they see the hopes of a lofty lineage.

Then of course, are the ambitious American citizenship seekers. They’re a bit easier to spot, as they’re probably running around in red, white and blue and will practice their pseudo-yankee accents when talking with you. My blue passport is their ticket to the American dream.

The remainder fall into the general “she comes from a good family” group. That means they’re pleased with my dad, his ancestry, our native language, culture, businesses, housing, transport facilities and/ or social connections. This type is anxious to go up and beyond in Pakistani society, or perhaps, they want a job from my uncle or a position with my dad, or an inside deal.

Either I’m a manikin, a gene pool, a ticket, or a rung on the social ladder.

As the planner of harebrained ideas, ya’ll know I’ve got some *cough* plans to evade those bride-hunters.

I could do the “larki swap” where another equally or more eligible female is replaced by the one being considered. We did this at some weddings last season when my aforementioned cousin was being followed around by the sister of a potential groom. My lovely cuz grabbed a lovely friend of hers, also unmarried, and stood her in the direct line of sight of the woman, explaining to the friend that she had to wait for someone there. The poor dear obliged as we bid a hasty retreat and hid in a corner and watched and giggled as sites were trained on the new girl.

There is also the tried and true Bollywood style retard act, but it falls through when rellies catch you in the act pretending to be a loon. For a more subtle effect, plead deafness, muteness, or non-Urduness, which is my personal favorite cuz you get to sit there looking blank as the ladies discuss your pros and cons. As the LilGreyCrayon would say, “Ah bless them, bless.”

You could also drop hints about your disagreeability as a daughter-in-law. Where groups of aunties are found grazing and gossiping, cough the words “career girl,” “can’t stand kids,” “hate cooking,” “nursing homes,” “slap the old cow” and “living at our own place.” For added effect, strike up a loud and obnoxious discussion about politics with the husbands of the aunties. There is nothing desi men hate more than a woman who talks politics. They definitely won’t be wanting one as their bahu.

I’m leaning on this beard thing though. I know, there’s no way I could convince anyone that it’s real, but the simple act of me running around in fake facial hair for any reason at all should, ideally, turn off any of those aunties.

If not, the hump will, for sure.

I wondered what Jessica Lynch would say when she realized the puppet they made of her in that media circus. Poor girl. I'm really surprised she had the guts to declare the Pentagon's manipulation and lies.

Jessica Lynch condemns Pentagon
(from BBC)

A US woman soldier who shot to fame after being taken prisoner during the Iraq war has accused the military of using her for propaganda purposes.

A video of US commandos carrying a badly injured Private Jessica Lynch from a Nasiriya hospital was released at the height of the conflict.

But the 20-year-old criticised the release of false information about her capture by Iraqi forces.
She also said there was no reason for her rescue to be filmed.

In her first interview about what happened to her, the former prisoner-of-war told ABC television that medical reports indicated that she had been raped.

She said she had no recollection of the attack. "Even just the thinking about that, that's too painful," she told interviewer Diane Sawyer.

Miss Lynch, who was serving as an Army supply clerk, suffered broken bones and other injuries when her convoy was ambushed after taking a wrong turn near the Iraqi town of Nasiriya on 23 March.

The Pentagon initially put out the story that Private Lynch - a slight woman who was just 19 at the time - had been wounded by Iraqi gunfire but had kept fighting until her ammunition ran out.

But she told Sawyer that she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that her gun had jammed during the chaos.

"I'm not about to take credit for something I didn't do," she said.

"I did not shoot - not a round, nothing. I went down praying to my knees - that's the last thing I remember."

Initial reports also suggested that Miss Lynch had been abused after she came round in the hospital. She says that again was untrue - there was no mistreatment, and one nurse used to sing to her.

She said she was grateful to the American special forces team which rescued her but, asked whether the Pentagon's subsequent portrayal of her rescue bothered her, she said: "Yes, it does. They used me as a way to symbolise all this stuff. It's wrong."

Injuries

Miss Lynch was awarded the Bronze Star, Purple Heart and Prisoner of War medals while still in hospital in Washington DC.

Months later, she is receiving treatment for her extensive injuries.

Earlier this week, it emerged that medical evidence suggested that Miss Lynch had been raped during her
capture.

The assault was revealed in extracts from Miss Lynch's authorised biography - I am a Soldier, Too: The Jessica Lynch Story - to be released by publisher Alfred A Knopf on Tuesday.

We've got enough Iftar party leftovers to feed a small horde. Party at my place. Bring your own forks, cuz I ain't washing no more.

(Disclaimer: The following blog is about FOOD! If you’re fasting, you may not want to read it.)

*Wail* I am undone! Our resolution not to do the deep-fried traditional Iftar madness only lasted seven days!

I’m going to blame this on “the fasting brain.” See, when you’re fasting, and you start thinking about food (which is not a good idea) then EVERYTHING seems like a good idea to eat. Deep fried grasshoppers? Boiled squid ears? Baked gopher toes? It all sounds absolutely delish when you haven’t eaten since dawn. I was at work the other day and I had absolutely convinced myself that I had to make jello (flavored gelatin) when I got home. Heck, I don’t even like jello! But with the stomach overriding the brain, I couldn’t remember that.

And never EVER go grocery shopping when you’re fasting. Crazy things like canned artichoke hearts, jelly rolls and pickled mangos, all things I‘ve actually purchased in a hungry daze, find their way into your shopping basket. By the time you get home you’ll have brought have the store with you and most of it isn’t stuff you even want to eat. The only thing to do is shrug and say “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The half of me that is Pakistani has had an unnatural hankering for pakoras ever since Ramadan rolled around. The longer I denied it, the weaker I got. Steadily I was losing my resolve and mental faculties without the unholy powers of those deep fried besan dumplings. Finally, I caved and my dad, who was putting on a brave face despite his obvious genetic predisposition to over-the-top Iftaris, happily obliged my sudden declaration, born of hunger and temporary madness, that “today we’re going to have a traditional Iftar!”

Generally, we just eat some dates, drink some tea, and munch on apples before we all wander off to our respective prayer rugs. Later we eat a normal dinner, cooked by our lovely in-house chef, Abez - inventor of twice burnt nihari, dinosaur cake, upside-down pie and gingerbread Punjabis.

But when you’re stuck at home fasting, bored and having a slight culinary bent, the only way to pass the time before dusk is planning Iftar and cooking. So, despite the fact that all the alarm bells were going off in my head, I began to cook.

I sorted the chickpeas for cholay (sour and spicy chickpea salad), and incidentally, have you ever noticed how the rocks you’re trying to remove are all chickpea looking - tan, perfectly round and dimpled? I can’t help but wonder if someone out there is breeding chickpea doppelganger rocks just to drive me nuts . Anyways, after removing all the insidious mineral usurpers from my peas, I threw them in the pressure cooker, tossed in some baking soda and salt, and turned up the heat. Then potatoes had to be peeled and boiled, onions chopped, tomatoes diced and a pound of tamarind sorted, pitted and boiled down.

Next on the list was the local variety of fruit salad. No Pakistani Iftar is complete without the weird and mysterious “fruit chaat.” It’s pretty strange stuff, and definitely an acquired taste. It contains minced guavas, apples, bananas and oranges in black pepper, sugar, salt and kick-in-the-mouth chaat masala. My mom and Abez won’t touch the stuff, by my dad likes it, so it gets made.

Then you’ve got to make Rooh Afza. This is another crazy Pakistani thing that defies explanation. It’s this red syrup made out of God knows what - the label shows oranges, apples, pomegranates, grapes and pears, but I’m not buying it. It’s not fruity tasting at all. It tastes sort of like roses boiled in sugar water. You’ll find a bottle of the stuff in every household across this nutty country, I kid you not. They mix it with milk, or water, or clear soda, and use it to flavor other things. Anyways, that’s the typical Iftar drink, so I mixed some up and set it to chill in the fridge.

I also prepared some fruit slices, a mere formality, and set them out as well. Can’t say there wasn’t a healthy alternative to this dieters’ nightmare.

Depending on where your family is from, your dastarkhwan (dinner spread) can also have jalebis (fried dough swirlies soaked in syrup), dahi bardays (dumplings in yogurt), cutless (potato pancakes), kabobs and vermicelli. We kept ours *cough* simple, and avoided these last six things.

Ask any young person, though, and they’ll tell you Iftar is REALLY about pakoras (fried chickpea flour dumplings), samosas (a fried vegetable and meat pastry), kachorian (fried balls of bread dough filled with spicy meat and bean filling) and eggrolls. Notice the popularity of the word 'fried.'

That other stuff on the dining table is just there to make sure the Surgeon General doesn’t have you drawn and quartered for committing travesties against the public health. It’s hardly paid attention to as folks scramble to dip the fried stuff in ketchup and chutney and pop it in their mouths before the ghee they are fried in solidifies.

As the time for opening our fasts was nearing, my dad went out to buy “the bad stuff.” He came back with a discrete paper bag already soaked through with oil, full of the above-mentioned items. We gathered around the bag, eyes wide, fingers itching, mouths watering, and looked at each other with a mix of madness and guilt.

Now we must sound like total gluttons - three people, and all that food. Honestly though, after opening our fasts with a date, sipping on some Rooh Afza and eating a pakora or two, that was it.

My dad sat back and sighed “I’m full.”
Abez chuckled sheepishly and said, “I thought the same thing half way through this date but I didn’t want you guys to think I was nuts.”
I shoved my plate away and muttered, “Dangit, I’ve already got heartburn.”

We laughed, cleaned our plates, and put the food away. Lord knows what I’m going to do with all those stale pakoras tomorrow.

Every once in a while, my settled (read as ‘boring’) life is jolted a bit, and I’m not talking about the bouts of food poisoning I’ve been known to be afflicted with. Now that I’ve moved to a “Muslim country” (those of you who know Pakistan may laugh as you will) my religious beliefs get me fewer stares, shocked faces and strange questions. Here, a young educated woman in hijab and jalbab isn’t all that unusual. In the US though, I was quite a freak, not that I minded too much, and I was accustomed to answering odd questions from curious strangers.

But here you meet all types as well and again I’ve been asked why I believe in what I believe.

When I was living in the States I had a number of handy dandy approaches and answers that I would easily rattle off in response to the typical questions. Seeing as I’ve not had to use them too often here, my answers are rusty now and take some thinking to reconstruct.

I am a Muslim. Not a “border line” one, as was recently asked of me, (whatever that means - borderline apostate? borderline atheist? borderline what?) or a “liberal” or a “progressive.” I’m a Muslim, going with the literal definition of the word, one who believes in Islam and submits themselves to the higher will of God. I’ve chosen to follow the path I follow as best as I can. I’ve been called a fundamentalist because I believe in the fundamentals of my faith and don’t believe any person has the authority enough to pick, choose and throw out God’s words they’re unsure of, or rules that inconvenience them. But the label I’d rather have, if folks are bent on labeling me, is “conscious Muslim.” I am consciously, through my own actions and through my own free will, a Muslim.

But that doesn’t answer the question. Why am I Muslim? Now that would take some doing to explain and I’m a lazy bum so I’ll try and work through it as cleanly as possible.

I believe in God, but I’m not sure I always did. I had never seen god, and being the jaded, angry skeptic that I am, I was disinclined to believe in anything I hadn’t seen with my own eyes. But I saw order, I saw creation, I found unanswered questions, I found the insufficiency of scientific explanation, and I found a possibility that, yes, maybe something bigger than us all made this universe.

Scary thought though, that something consciously made me. Means there might be a purpose to me tearing around on this dustball. Might mean I’m obligated. Might mean I’ve got something to do.

So I conceded that there may be a god. After all, all those months of nagging my physics instructor to explain the origin of matter if there was ever a time when it did not exist just landed me a bad grade and an enmity with my teacher. No answers, just a grudge. Sigh. I had him for two years and the man never forgave me for my cheek.

If there is a God, then chances are He made us all with a purpose. The whole idea of mankind just being like an ant-colony type experiment was too depressing. And no offense intended, but the types of people I knew who got a kick out of watching little critters run in circles were too ungodly for words. The traditional concept of God, the supreme, timeless, immortal, all knowing, all powerful being, fit with the idea that nothing would be done for naught and if we were consciously made, there was a purpose to it.

Look around the world and you’ll see tons of religions. It seems nearly every society has a whole variety of faiths, and man has always had religion of some kind. Trying to find one that would be “The Truth,” if there was a single truth, looked like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I guess, because I come from a household whose two parental units are followers of traditional Judaic-type religions, Islam and Christianity, the shared ideas of those faiths appealed to me. They had the most followers in the world, Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, and were monotheistic, which was something I was inclined towards.

Obviously, I couldn’t be Jewish. I have no Jewish ancestry, and while the “reformed” branches of Judaism do accept conversions, I figured I would feel sub-standard as a pseudo-Jew. And then there was the Old Testament, Zionism, and lots of other things.

As my mom is Christian, Christianity was something I seriously considered. It seemed nice, had lots of varieties to fit your personal preferences, and didn’t demand too much of me. But I had issues with the dogma, couldn’t grasp the trinity and vicarious atonement and I didn’t understand the Bible. I guess it just didn’t work for me. I mean no disrespect and offense to Christians. Some of the best folks I’ve known have been Christian (hi mom!). It’s just something I couldn’t believe.

Following down the line of Judaic religions, Islam was next on my stop.

Now Islam was hecka scary. It had tons of laws, tons of responsibilities and was totally serious. Plus it had all those oppressive male-types sticking their women in too much clothing and riding about on camels and slaying things. Granted, I didn’t know that much about Islam aside from what I‘d picked up from my poor workaholic dad and the media but what I did know wasn’t all that appealing. But it was there on my list and apparently some few hundred millions of people felt there were enough redeeming facets to it to believe.

The logical thing to do to find out about a religion is to read its holy book. I know some people say look at the followers, but you’ll fund murderers and saints in the folds of all faiths. What people practice through a filter-down rarely coincides with what their books demand, so for the best understanding of a religion, you have to read its manifesto.

There was the Qur’an - an intimidating, heavy, mountain of a book written in a language I could barely read and not at all understand. Not too inviting. But if there were going to be answers to my questions, I’d find them there, so after lots of dawdling and procrastinating, I read the translation.

Pardon the tired declaration, but it was as if the Qur’an was speaking directly to me. How could a book, written or revealed over 1420 years ago to an unlettered man in Arabia, know what would be in the heart of an angry teenage Pak-American mutt in the 21st century? It said so much, that book. It had what seemed like the wisdom of the ages, referencing history and the holy books of old, and spoke simply of the matters of the heart, of fear, of faith, and of belief. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least.

But of course, I was still a skeptic. I had no faith. Despite my research and my studies, my heart was still dead to religion. On my path lay a huge stumbling block, my own glaring ego, which was quite adamant that I was too smart to believe in “the crutch of mankind.” I’ve never been a follower and my own little mind was unable to see past its limitations. After all, if the wannabe intellectual that was the 14 year old Aniraz couldn’t figure out the reasons behind the laws written in the Qur’an, then really, who could? (Again, feel free to laugh. I am.)

Without a purpose through religion, life seemed to be a joke. We find ourselves alive, awake and aware through no doing of own, and are expected to pass the next 60 odd years of life in suitable distraction until that cognizance is turned off by death. At a time when it seemed like everyone was trying to tell me what was what in the world, what to do, what to think, I was supremely bogged down by the gnawing fear that it was all for nothing. If there was no god, and no religion, and no afterlife, then there seemed little purpose of bothering to live. But religion had it’s purpose, if only to give me something to live for.

Faith isn’t magic. I know a lot of people believe in the miraculous nature of religion, that God gives signs, feelings, and assurances to his believers. But to me, signs are iffy. Every religion has its recorded miracles. You have the bleeding statues, the crying Marys, the images in nature and I even read about a statue of Ganesha that reportedly drank milk for a whole year. From the small polytheistic religions scattered about the earth to the larger cross-border faiths, all have recorded and documented instances of unreasonable occurrence.

Feelings are even more suspicious to me. Feelings are not absolute. They are no supreme gauge of wrong or right. Much wrong has been done in the name of the heart. And a Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu or Jew can speak of their faith with the same power, same emotion, and same certainty as the other follower of another faith. I don’t believe the heart is a compass. It often guides one astray, leads one to foolishness, and makes promises it can’t keep. Emotion is simply chemical, and one can delude themselves to feel anything if they so desire.

By turning away from the popular lodestones to belief, I was left with little aside from my mind and my conscience. But my mind isn’t all that great. I’m no genius, and hell, even geniuses don’t have all the answers. But it’s goodly little brain and it’s served me well thus far, so I made do. Reason in one hand and growing humility in the other, I sought to understand the complex social laws and religious doctrine of Islam. In time, some things were understandable, other things still mysterious. The conclusion, however, to my search, was that Islam had more than enough to earn my surrender. The things I was unsure of, I figured I’d ask God about them when I met Him in the next life. As it was, I could appreciate the system and the validity of the orders and concepts of the Qur’an.

Still things didn’t fall neatly into place. The ability to believe - to be able to suspend my few doubts, let go of my mega ego, and just be able to let go and submit to the higher will of God, now that we had established that there was one - was something I needed help with. So I did the last thing I knew to do, which was pray. I prayed to God to be able to accept and believe in what was right, to have the strength to follow the laws that tried me and to be able to have contentment and peace in the true religion, whichever it was.

And you know what? It came. The peace. The belief. The faith. Seek the source and it will be provided. I asked, and I was given. Simple as that. That’s why I’m a Muslim.