The Eid of Sacrifice for Pakistan falls Monday, close on the heels of the Eid of Charity that we celebrated in November.

How is it that one Eid just blends into the next? Stored in the damp old box of my mind, the memories have melded together like wet photos. I have a hard time separating one from the next.

The first Eidul Adha I remember was in 1985. My family had come to Karachi for a visit. I didn’t speak any Urdu and the whole trip was insanely confusing and slightly traumatic. Only faint vignettes remain – the blinding white rooftop of my uncle’s house, taking my baby bro to wait for dadaji on the step outside his house, the cool and shady room where grandmother rationed out butterscotches and dry cookies, chasing kittens and dodging buffalos near the maid’s house, having my cheeks pinched by a steady stream of unknown strangers. I do remember Bunti though.

Bunti was a goat my uncle had bought as a pet for son - so I thought. All of us kids would go to a grassy plot nearby nearly every day to feed him straw and grass. I remember the goat, a brownish grey, nibbling on my hair. We would play with its velvety ears and tickle its nose with straws. It was so cool, like my own petting zoo. I think I loved that stinky goat.

One warm afternoon, I woke up from my spot on the carpet of the living room at my aunt’s house and saw the room was full of people chattering and laughing around a dasterkhwan covered in dishes of food. I climbed into I think my mom’s lap, confused and watchful. Someone pushed a plate of food in front of me and said, “don’t you want any?” It was a plate of that brownish stew everyone there seemed to eat, with a big hunk of something bony in the middle. I tried to bury my face in my mom’s shoulder. “What is it?” I asked. I don’t remember who answered, but I remember what they said. “It’s your favorite. It’s Bunti!”

I didn’t eat meat for years, and I still don’t eat goat. :p

Between that Eid and this memory there were many, but Eid in the US passes almost without notice and definitely without distinction. When I was little, each one was the same – funny new clothes from the homeland, lots of brown visitors speaking that language I didn’t yet know and prayer at the crowded McCormick place. The next Eid that I can more vividly recall also took place in Pakistan.

It was 1990, and we’d come for a visit that later stretched out to 3 years. I still spoke no Urdu and was still lost in the world I’d been dropped in to, but I was learning fast. This time I had a fair idea of the meaning of Eidul Adha. Some kind cousin must have briefed me in advance, because I wasn’t surprised when suddenly all my aunts and uncles became livestock owners. I’d join the pack of cousins as they played with sheep and bothered the cows and bought bells and strings to decorate the animals with.

On Eid day my dad kindly warned me that there would be some gore outside, and I’d probably feel more comfortable indoors until the three days of sacrifice passed. I wonder if my dad knew the best way to get a kid to do something is to warn them against it. I remember peeking through the door into the driveway when one cow was being brought down and then quickly shutting the door and squealing. Hey man, don’t look at me like that. All kids squeal.

Later in the day, after most of the livestock had been ‘dispatched’ and Eidhi handed out, I ventured outside to the corner store to spend my wad of cash. On the way back I bumped into one of my elder cousins – lets call him Bones – who would be my chief tormenter until one day when I was 12 he would push me too far and get a severe and long-coming pounding. He was a little behind me as I walked through a long narrow gully back home. As I hopped over a hole he called out “Don’t look down!” Of course, I did, and saw a puddle of blood and an eyeball. Again, I think I squealed and hurried past it. He ran behind me, scooped up the eyeball, and gave chase.

Bones chased me throughout the entire neighborhood with that eyeball. I ran fast though, and escaped through the twisting back alleys. I stood panting in a lopsided factory doorway blocks away and waited for him to lose interest. After a good amount of time, I started back. Peeking around a corner, I saw Bones chasing after another cousin with the same eyeball. They ran indoors and I guess he tired of the eyeball and threw it down and went inside too. I stole up from behind, picked up a piece of paper that lay in the street and snatched up the eyeball with it. I then calmly slipped inside.

When the eyeball was in the other hand, that gross little villain turned tail and ran too. *grins*

Who says blogging is useless? At least it's a beginning.

The winter rainstorms have begun. For days on end the sky has remained overcast and the outside is in a perpetual state of soggy grayness. Nearly all week I’ve awoken to a dark sky outside my window, deluding me into believing that it is still early and I have hours to go before I need to wake up for work. My alarm clock tells me otherwise.

I peek through the slats of blinds at my window and see a world covered in wet. The rain makes the otherwise moderate chill unbearable. Outside my house passes a parade of ambiguous soggy bundles of people, wrapped up tight in shawls and cloaks to keep out the rain. Only color differentiates the men from the women – men in all shades of brown and gray, women in flowery prints and embroidery. Though this country sees its share of monsoon gales and spring showers, folks are rarely prepared for inclement weather and most will do without an umbrella or rain jacket.

My morning seems empty without the daily paper. It’s rare to get the newspaper on a rainy morning, as the men who deliver it usually do so by motorcycle, and are unwilling to make the rounds when they, and their delivery goods, are bound to get waterlogged. On cold days like this, I know to make two cups of tea – one for me and one for the housekeeper, who also has forgotten her umbrella this morning and is now sitting by the heater drying off. I hand her the steaming mug and recite the tired refrain, “When it’s raining like this, you know you can stay home. I don’t want you sick.” She nods and smiles, “No, I have to work.” I dig out one of our old umbrellas from the dusty bunch that made the move from the Mid West’s downpours to South Asia’s monsoon tempests and hand it to her.

Hurrying out to my car, I notice the one positive side to the frigid shower – for a change, my car is clean - though not for long. The road passing by our driveway is a steady stream of mud and no amount of luck will keep me from getting splashed. The water is opaque tan and it tumbles and rushes like a rapid. I wait for a jangling horse cart to pass. The driver sits with his feet tucked under him, and holds the reigns of his wet steed with the one hand that peeks out from the bundle that is him. The horse’s breath freezes in the air. I can’t help but wonder if it’s cold. Of course it is, I check myself.

My drive is slow. I hate driving slowly, but I know better than to speed when the roads sit inches deep under water. In case I forget, all along my way to work I’m reminded by wreck upon wreck. On one median there neatly sits a LandRover, all the wheels on one side busted out. A little further an extra-long Varan bus looks as if the driver forgot to turn. In a park the bus sits perpendicular to the street, two feet deep in mud. Each mile has at least one fender-bender. I turn on my headlights and idly feel for my already fastened seatbelt. I can’t see an accident now and not remember Sarah. I find myself saying a prayer for her.

The stoplights seem unusually long this morning. I watch the cars pass and those that pull up alongside me. Most are fogged up completely, their occupants hidden beneath frosty glass. My own windows are pretty cloudy despite my feeble defogger. Older cars here generally aren’t equipped to deal with the weather, hot or cold. I notice no one else has their headlights on. In fact, I keep getting flashed by passing cars – a polite reminder to me that my headlights are on when they should be off. I keep them on. It’s no wonder there are so many accidents when it’s cold and wet.

Surprisingly, there are many bicycles, motorcycles and scooters on the roads. The two-wheeler is the transport of the common man, they say, and the common man can’t afford to take a day off just because it’s raining. The luckier drivers are dry beneath waterproof jackets and parkas. The rest make do with sweaters and woolen shawls. Many look like giant leftovers, their heads and arms poking through giant plastic bags. I got caught out once in a storm on the back of my little brother’s motorcycle. He had to borrow my glasses to keep the sharp raindrops from blinding him. I remember how the wind cut right through my clothes and took my breath away. I can only hope wherever they’re heading is warm and they get there fast.

Even still though, those men aren’t the unluckiest this morning. The paper sellers are still on the job. They walk through waiting cars, but seem too tired to call out the headlines. Their merchandise is safe in plastic bags while they stand exposed to the elements. One man passes by my car and I see the water drip off his nose and the rivulets pouring down his hair. His free hand shakes.

At one major intersection I’m nearly startled to death by a quiet tapping at my window. I wipe the fog off it and see a little boy, maybe 8 years one hand pointing to the sky while the other makes the motion of putting something in his mouth. He’s wearing a dripping wet hoodie, thin cotton pants, and no shoes. Before I have time to think, he moves on to the next car. I want to cry. Does he have no parents? Who sent him out in this weather? Doesn’t he know he could catch his death? If I asked him to come home with me, would he? Will he even survive the night? I wonder if I’ll see him tomorrow.

Within minutes I pull up at work. With the honk of my horn the gate is opened. I drive in and park. Heavy raindrops dampen my scarf and shoulders as I run inside the building. In my office the heater is already on and the room pleasantly toasty. I grab my cup off the shelf and quickly turn on the teapot. I sit at my desk and sip steaming coffee. It’s warmth spreads down my throat, but does little to thaw the chill I feel inside.

Do we ever realize how blessed we are?

Women are weird creatures. I should know, I’m one of them. They all diet like mad, whether they need to lose weight or not. It is rare to find a female who isn’t in a constant state of ‘wish-I-was-thinner.’ Even though I’m on the small side of average, I too am guilty of this affliction.

Women will try any diet at least once, no matter how stupid it is, in the hopes they’ll find that magic equation that invalidates all science and makes it possible to burn off more than they can consume. Removing the caloric value of food has replaced alchemy as the mysterious discovery that man is chasing to the ends of the earth.

Though we are taught science and health in schools, we insist on discovering our own laws for the management of weight and expending of consumed energy. The older we get, the stranger the theories we develop on dieting and exercise. By the time a woman reaches her thirties, she’ll have re-written the laws of science and will have set out her own insane individual edict on diet.

Yesterday, over unconscionable ice-creams and cappuccinos, five women over the age of 21 - Abez, Chai, Icubaji, her sister and myself - discussed our personal beliefs on calories and consumption. Here’s what we came up with:

The Rules of Dieting - Amended Pakistani Version

* Anything eaten standing up is burned off as you stand.
* Calories consumed at a party go to the host.
* Leftovers or anything eaten to prevent wastage, have no calories. Martyrdom is guilt free.
* Soup is just water.
* Vegetables are just water.
* Fruit is just water.
* Ice-cream is just ice.
* Like aspirin, caffeine is medicinal. Therefore coffee and tea have no calories.
* Anything eaten when half asleep is burned in the production of better dreams.
* Skim milk cancels out chocolate cake.
* Diet soda cancels out French fries.
* Calories only occur in cooked foods, so raw cookie dough and cake batter are fine.
* Minty candies and drinks are just toothpaste in another form.
* Nuts come from trees, and thus, are just a kind of fruit and remember fruit is just water.
*Things eaten from another person’s plate are not billed to your calorie account because they were originally registered at the other person’s plate.
*Food eaten out of the pot isn’t yet food, so it has no calories. It’s only food if it’s on your plate.
*Candy can be eaten if you call it a lozenge.
* Chocolate is permitted if it falls into the category of ‘medication’, subcategory; ‘antidepressant.’
* Salad is negative food. If you eat a pile of spinach, you can have a cookie in its place.
* Cultural traditions like Shamrock milkshakes on St Patricks Day, mithai at a wedding, fruitcake on Christmas, and sheer khorma on Eid can’t be detrimental.
* Tea time is therapy at your dining table.
* Vegetables - whether sautéed, creamed, fried or swimming in a bowl of oil – are still just vegetables, and therefore, water.
* Food from thaylas (cart vendors) are just tasteful laxatives, so no calories are retained.

And for those of you wishing to displace less space, here are some smashing diets I’ve come up with that are guaranteed to help you become more streamlined. If you can’t reasonably pass as an emaciated victim of malnutrition, which is of course what we all aspire to, in 30 days or more…then try harder.

The Launched Food Diet: This was inspired by last night’s popcorn catching contest Abez and I had. On this diet you can eat anything as long as you throw it up into the air and catch it first. Hopefully, the calories of the food you’re about to consume will be burnt off in the movement of throwing, positioning and catching. If not, then in the bending over and picking up. Also, it ideally prevents you from eating large quantities of foods, since you’re liable to tire yourself out before you over-eat. And of course, if you can’t catch it in your mouth, you can’t eat it, so no turkey drumsticks, lamb chops, ice-cream cones or corn on the cob.

The Raw Food Diet: You can eat anything, absolutely anything, as long as it is raw and hasn’t been so much as heat-treated. Of course this means you’ll be eating plenty of fruits and vegetables, and without being cooked they’ll retain their vital nutrients. But also, if you’re fond of a good steak or side of lamb, feel free to eat that too, as long as you like your food extra extra rare. Bread lovers will also be pleased with this diet. You can eat as much wheat, grain, oatmeal, flour or gluten as you like, granted that it is raw. Pasteurized milk, processed cream, yogurt, cheese and butter are forbidden.

The Little Plate Diet: Find the smallest plate in your house. It should ideally be the size of a saucer. On this diet, you are allowed the usual three meals a day without a bar on the types of food eaten. No filling up on vegetables or making yourself ill with low-fat proteins. Don’t worry about calories or food groups. On this wonderful diet you can eat anything at all, as long as it fits on the plate. The catch is, you’re only allowed one helping on your little plate, so pile it on high.

The Little Spoon Diet: Similar to the Little Plate Diet, this diet incorporates a serving utensil with a time limit. At meal time prepare a plate of your desired food. Using the smallest spoon possible, approximate capacity: ½ teaspoon, you are allowed to eat anything, and as much as you want, within 7 minutes, only using that spoon. Using other types of cutlery is not allowed. Foods like pizza, hamburgers, steaks, and noodles, must also be eaten with the little spoon. Eating with your fingers is not permitted. Please only use one spoon, as cramming two or three in your mouth at once will not only negate the diet, but also put you at risk of choking to death.

The Blender Diet: This is a new spin on the traditional liquid diet. Again, all foods are allowed in this regimen, provided they are first ran through a blender. Enjoy a seven course meal - in a glass. You may consume whatever you desire – beef, poultry, bread, deserts – but you have to blend it into a liquid first. Our esteemed scientific researchers theorize that liquefying foods rids them of their caloric value. Or perhaps, it is our hope that you won’t enjoy drinking your dinner. Either way, you’re bound to lose weight.

Oh yeah, when all else fails, as it will undoubtedly, I personally recommend following the Sunnah. No, it’s not a fad diet you haven’t heard of. It’s the tradition of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). The Holy Prophet recommended filling only one third of your stomach with food, one third with water and leaving the remaining one third empty. It’s really the best thing out there. Works for me.

Remember what Sunday was like when you were little?

When I was a kid, the first day of the weekend was always spent in insane activity - water balloon fights, softball, blind tag in the park, biking, basketball, tag, and running amok. Sunday was our day to relax. The earlier you started a Sunday, the better it would be. On those days I would wake around 7, give a kick to the bunk bed above me where Abez slept, and stumble out of our room.

If I woke really early, I’d see my mom getting ready for church. She’d be ironing a dress in the laundry room or looking for her high heels in her cavern of a closet. My little fingers and young eyes would be assigned the task of rustling up some matching nylons or maybe French-braiding her hair. The house would feel cold and sleepy, except for where the warm fragrance of my mom’s shampoo and buttercream lotion had seeped from the bathroom into the hall. In a steamed-up mirror my mother would apply her faint makeup. I’d stand at the doorway and watch, sure that my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

We’d then rush about the house gathering up her Sunday school lesson, finding her bible tote and packing up her church bag. Before she hurried out the door, the location and particulars of breakfast and lunch would be relayed, along with our chore assignments for the day. With a quick kiss on the cheek, mom would be off, leaving a faint cloud of powder, perfume and maternal expectation behind her.

Drowsy Aniraz, wandering about with mismatched pajamas and bed-head, would promptly forget all information pertaining to weekend chores and healthful meals. I would wander into the kitchen and grab a handful of cereal. In my crumpled stocking-feet I’d steal over the creaky planks in the hall and head to the living room. I’d plunk down on the fuzzy brown carpet, an arm’s length in front of the tube for easy access to the knobs. The old monster of a television that had survived countless channel-battles would be switched on and turned to channel 26.

See, Sunday morning was all about cartoons. They would begin around 6am and run until noon. The early ones were usually no good, kiddie stuff like Thomas The Tank Engine and Barney. After 7am the good stuff started. We’d watch Biker Mice From Mars, Animaniacs, Transformers, Freakazoid, Loony Toons, X-Men and anything else we could catch.

As the half-hour increments of cartoon watching passed I’d be joined by the others. The next person usually up would be the lil bro. His disheveled little form – shirt heading in one direction, pants in another- would materialize beside me with a huge bowl of Captain Crunch or Cocoa Puffs. A little later Abez would shuffle into the room, rubbing her eyes and muttering about why I hadn’t woken her up. She’d plunk down on the floor too and the three of us would sit there laughing and watching our favorite cartoons. The big bro would join us sometimes too, but very rarely. He was already too cool for silly cartoons and for him, Sunday was all about football with the boys. We’d see him walk out the door in his cleats, mud-stained sweat pants and ripped football jersey.

Occasionally my dad would come stop home from work and drop off a dozen donuts. There’d be a toasted coconut for me, chocolate-crème filled for Abez, Sunday specials for the lil bro along with the usual crullers, long-johns and double chocolates. We’d dip them in glasses of cold milk while we sat on the floor in the living room. Dad would take a long-john, tousle the hair of his three younger kids who sat in a semi-circle around the telly, and go back to work. The end of the cartoon marathon on channel 26 was always marked by the beginning of two hours of the Brady Bunch. We’d all moan and quickly get up to turn it off before that horrid opening song began and wander off to start our days.

Sunday is now my only day off. I’m an editing drone and I work six days a week. It’s the only day I get to sleep late so I’m usually in bed until 10:30. There’s no early rising for me on Sunday, as usually on Saturday night I don’t get to sleep till 2 or 3am. My alarm wakes me up, and I fall out of bed and stumble over to shut it up. I turn to see if Abez is up yet, and as always, she’s still asleep. I do my best not to fall down the flight of stairs between me and the kitchen, where I put on some coffee and grab a cracker. I find a shawl and go outside to retrieve the Sunday paper from where the dog has been sitting on it. I read it the paper through, sip my coffee, munch on whatever’s handy and then rise to catch up on the chores I’ve neglected all week.

So what’s the good side of growing up again?

This summer will mark my fourth year since I moved to Pakistan. Even when you’re not having fun, time flies. It seems like just yesterday I was angsty little teenager of Pakistani decent living in the US and now I’m a cynical young adult of American decent living in Pakistan. I don’t FEEL like being here has changed me much, but I’d be foolish to claim otherwise. Lemme tell you why.

First off, today I had five cups of chai and through no coercion. Not coffee, not even tea, but chai - the black tea boiled with milk stuff. It’s the liquid that runs through the veins of every Pakistani (along with chutney and Rooh Afza). Big change. You couldn’t get me to touch the stuff before I came here. For caffiene, I just chugged Mountain Dew. Here, I still drink a lot of coffee, but I actually prefer tea most of the time. I’m beginning to look like one of those desi commercials. I arrive home from work looking frazzled, holding my head, complaining of a pounding headache. I immediately go to the kitchen put on a pot of water, throw in the tea, milk and cloves, watch it boil, pour it out and sip. Within minutes, I’m cured.

My American-style English is slowly being replaced with the slightly British desi standard. As Chai pointed out to me, I call french-fries chips, chips are crisps, cookies are biscuits, biscuits are scones, and movies are films, film is a reel and the list goes on. The word 'yaar’ (friend) is taking the place of ‘dude’ and ‘man’. Try as I may to avoid that typical Pakistani Minglish and not mix my languages, it has also been happening. My vocabulary has also been infiltrated by Urdu words I’ve yet to find an English equivalent for, like ‘dheet,’ ‘ainvi,’ ‘bakwaas’ and ‘bonga.’ It’s just a matter of time before I start bholing like baqi saray people here. If it comes to that though, I may have myself euthanized, yaar.

I don’t own any jeans or functioning sneakers. For anyone who knew me four years back, this would be unbelievable. I was a jeans and khakhis kinda girl and unless I was going to meet the Queen of England, you couldn’t pry me out of my Vans. On special occasions, I wore boots. Here though, I seem to have collected a whole variety of heeled shoes and I can even wear them without falling on my ear. And the nearest thing I have to my old Vans are a pair of white running shoes that haven’t seen the light of day in years. I only wear them when I’m working out on my trusty elliptical trainer.

I had just turned 18 a few days before me and my Abez hopped a plane and began this adventure, so I didn’t have much driving experience in the US. I was still a new driver, wary and uncertain, given to following the letter of the law. Living in Pakistan though, it isn’t long before you stop tsk-ing in shocked horror at the violation of every traffic law known to man and start breaking some laws on your own. I’m not very proud of this, but I speed like a demon, I often forget to signal and I even pass on the left and on the shoulder if I have to. I’ll stop at a stale redlight, but unless I want to get blasted off the road or rear ended, I’ve learned to fly through every yellow and even the fresh red lights. Like everyone else here, I’ve come to grumble at taxis, the clueless variety of lady-drivers, motorcyclists that use the fast lane, obnoxious sahibzada sports cars and horse carts in the middle of downtown.

I actually own clothing that is… pink, red, orange and purple. It had to happen. It was me against the world here, trying to maintain my Amreeki fashion sense where olive drab, gray, navy, black, brown, tan and maroon are considered hip. My cousins were always shocked at my apparent preference for the colors of death and rot. Young people are supposed to wear bright colors, they would tell me. My answer was: I’m not a tropical bird, I don’t want to be mistaken for fruit salad and unless you’re a billboard, you won’t look good in neon. I’ve had to compromise though, mainly because my relatives keep buying me clothes (I think they’re trying to tell me something), and now I have less offensive, but still Pakistanily acceptable, clothing.

Sometimes even those funny Pakistani gesticulations slip into my movements. I’ll be talking to a desi and find myself speaking with my hands as much as I’m speaking with my mouth. The longer you speak Urdu and live in this country, the more loose in the joints you’ll find yourself. Your head will wag side to side as you talk and your hands will jerk up and down. Without warning your right hand will shoot up, fingers together like a blade, to stab out points and gesture to people and places. When asked a question you’re uncertain of, your hand will answer for you, the wrist turning the hand to the right, splaying the fingers out like mangled spokes. Before long, you’ll be giving irritating motorists the ‘lanat,’ the open-handed curse instead of the finger and the ‘tainga’ to people instead of a raspberry.

Last but not least, I cannot hear the maghrib adhaan without craving some serious pakoras. PTV has brainwashed me. It’s sad, I know.

I don’t regret the changes. I’m not any sort of patriot that I would mind losing my American-ness. I just find them strange. I see myself evolving and all I can think is, whodathunkit.

Alright, I’m done being apathetic. I made myself a stinkin to-do list and started checking off things wanting doing. Bleh but useful.

Here, ya’ll can have some of my random thoughts…

Popcorn is an absolute good.
Matching socks are a bourgeois farce.
I know five Australians, and not one of them has the decency to give me a wombat.
I need more silly hats.
I could live on raw tomatoes.
If you remove the mustache from a Punjabi, he’s liable to fall apart.
Everyone should know what cartoon character they’re most like.
My dog is better than your dog.
If you have a little brother, enjoy him before he grows up and realizes his stupidity is cute.
Nothing smells as nice as your mom.
Fencing with breadsticks isn’t a hot idea.
Never, NEVER, upon pain of death, smell heeng.
If I could have anything for a pet, aside from a wombat, it’d still be a wombat.
Hugging your dad won’t kill you.
Pakistanis don’t dig my wooly shirts.
For added excitement, attempt the robot dance.
An empty water bottle makes an excellent weapon.
Only Americans snap their chewing gum.
Without all-out war, Scrabble is no fun.
Throw pillows are meant to be thrown.
Compacting your already compact car via an ill-placed wall won’t improve it.
Tartar sauce, the fish that doesn’t swim.
These peanuts taste like peanut butter!
Without my glasses, I’m Superman.
I want a pair of clogs.

The past four weeks have just sailed by. I hate it when time does that, when it pours through your fingers like a fistful of dry sand, gone before you’re even aware that it’s passing. It’s a disconcerting feeling, living days in a blur. Perhaps it’s because the days have become so much like the other. Faceless routine is barely broken up by stale thought. Each day just blends into the next like over-wet watercolors. My life needs a sign: Caution, wet paint.

I’ve only been coming-to on the groggy Sunday mornings when I stumble out of bed, make a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and sit and read the Sunday morning paper. My month has been marked by the quarterly thought of, “Dang this paper is crap. I waited all week for this?” The next realization jolts me out of my six-day sleep walk. “You mean it’s Sunday again? Didn’t I just read this weekend fluff just the other day? Where did the week go?”

Usually this sort of thing only happens to me when I’m insanely overworked or mentally stressed and distracted. Lately though, I haven’t especially been any of those things, so I don’t know what to blame this on except perhaps monotony. Heck, I’ve actually even been less productive and gainfully employed than I usually am. I haven’t been writing, or cooking, or sewing, or anything that I like to do to stay busy. I’m just lazing about, vegetating and wasting my time.

Sigh. I really do have a ton of things to do though. I just don’t feel up to it. I’ve got chores at home I’ve been neglecting, errands that need run, letters to respond to, projects to complete and planning for the new year to do. Bleh.

I also finally got the job offer I’d been seeking for the past two years. If I take it, it’ll demand a lot of my energy and most of my diminished brain power. I’d have to fit it into my time off, each day clock out of my job at the news agency only to clock into another one. I’m not even sure if I’m up to the challenge. I’ll have to do a hellova lot of footwork, play hours of telephone tag with sources I don’t yet have and then write to a standard that I haven’t had to meet since I moved to Pakistan. I don’t know if I’m up for it.

Man, just thinking of all these demands has been taxing. Pardon me as I go and nap.

Oh yeah, and here’s a wonderful way to waste precious time. Good for hilarious fun.

Everyone on earth perishes. Only the presence of your Lord lasts, possessor of Majesty and Honor. [55:26-27]

I’m very sad to say one of my favorite young bloggers, Sarah Elbayoumy, died on Sunday in a car accident. She was only 16, an intelligent, wise and wonderful young Muslim woman. Please take the time and pray for her better placement in the next life and mercy in her judgment. And also please pray for her family, her mother, father and younger sister and her friends, that they may have the strength and the patience to bear this painful trial.

O Allah, Sarah Elbayoumy is in Your Protection and inside the surroundings of Your Refuge. Safeguard her from the trial of the grave and the punishment of the Hell. You keep Your Promise and You deserve to be praised. O Allah! Forgive her and be merciful to her. Indeed, You are the Forgiving, the Merciful].'' [From a hadith related by Wathilah bin Al Aqsa through Abu Dawud].

O Allah! Forgive her, bestow mercy upon her, pardon her, accord her a noble provision and make his grave spacious, wash her with water, snow and hail, purify her from sins as You have purified the white garment from soiling, give her a better abode in place of his present one; admit her to Jannah and protect from the trial in the grave and punishment in the Hell. [From a hadith related by Abu `Abdur-Rahman `Auf bin Malik through Muslim]

O Allah, forgive our living and our dead, our present and our absent, our young and our old, our male and our female. O Allah, whosoever of us You keep alive, keep him alive (faithful) to Islam, and whosoever of us You cause to die, let him die having Iman. O Allah, do not deprive us of our reward (for being patient) and do not subject us to trials after his death. [Abu Dawud and At-Tirmidhi].

Narrarted by Umar the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “ If four persons testify the piety of any Muslim, Allah will grant him Paradise.” We asked, “if three persons testify to his piety?” He replied, “Even three.” Then we asked, “if two?’ He replied, “Even two.” We did not ask regarding one. [Sahih Bukhari 2:449-O.B.]

W00t! The Saarc summit is over! Life can go back to normal in this backwater of a capital city!

For those of you who have better things to do than follow idiotic desi regional politics and thus, have no clue about what Saarc is, I gonna tell ye. It’s the *takes a deep breath* South Asian Association for Regional Cooperation. Bleh.

It’s really no big deal, just a bunch of South Asians leaders sitting around and being windy, meant in the political sense. It got made into this super huge issue though, what with India and Pakistan agreeing to sit at the same table and not throw silverwear at each other or launch non-nuclear peas at their diplomatic counterparts. Anyways, Islamabad was hosting it this year so the whole city, and subsequently my pathetic little life, got a bit turned upside down.

It’s always interesting to see how the government here plans for big events. On special occasions we always get the ‘multi-colored polyester flags of happiness,’ as we call them. The major intersections and bridges get gussied up with these tacky little pennants, in nearly fluorescent blue, magenta, pink, green, yellow and orange. It looks like the circus has come to town and we’re living under the bigtop.

I suppose they’re meant to be an improvement, but I think they sort of make the whole city look like a big desi shrine. I dunno bout you guys, but I can never see green satin and not think about drugged out ‘saints’ and their horrid little holy trees and temples. If folks start lighting up incense, doing some wild holy dancing and smoking the ganja on the roundabouts, the civic administration need not be surprised.

As this was an even more exciting happening than usual, the Capital Development Authority also allowed companies to sponsor ‘civic beautification projects’ ahead of the summit. To save money this year, the new CDA chief dude (especially brought in from Lahore due to his penchant for prettifying things) let the biggest fat cats pick up the tab for dressing up the place, and of course, they got some free advertising space as well. Does that mean lovely new water fountains that don’t involve bathroom tiles and public gardens that actually have grass and flowers? No, sadly our big companies aren’t as imaginative as that. They all opted for…. banners.

Yep banners. All over the city, on every tree, post, billboard and bridge, there are banners saying, pretty much the same thing “Welcome Saarc Delegates.” Well, that’s what the small print says anyways. The big print says stuff like “Pakistan Tobacco Company,” “Mobilink,” and “Lakson Group of Industries.” Nothing is quite so welcoming as an advertisement. What a wonderful way to show how progressive and capitalistic we’ve become. Take that India!

We get another decorative feature when Islamabad hosts something important, which is the on-patrol cop. Of course, the city does have cops on regular days, but you’ll be hard pressed to find them doing anything aside from taking bribes at their naka-posts, picking on peddlers, idly directing traffic, holding down their motorcycles or sitting at their police chaukis playing cards and smoking. For somewhat important events, the government will station the cops, in full regalia - moustaches polished and ill-gotten guts sucked in - at all major areas. For Saarc though, which was the mother of all shindigs, we had cops on every major road, dutifully stationed every 50 paces, throughout nearly all of Islamabad and Rawalpindi.

I’m not sure what good they do. Most looked pretty bored, standing there at soggy attention, fiddling with their rifles, shelling nuts, shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for someone significant to pass by so they could smartly salute. I guess the logic is folks won’t feel like bombing the visiting dignitaries if they see policemen impersonating light posts on the side of the roads. Or perhaps, these are special cops that are able to defuse explosives with their mere presence. Or maybe they’re not really cops, they’re metal detectors in disguise and we’re all unconsciously being screened for weapons as we pass through the city. Who knows.

One thing though I’m going to miss as all the envoys hop back on their chartered flights and return home is the absence of traffic. The government sort of banned all public transportation for security measures. I guess they’ve ridden in the same taxis I have and if you’ve been to Pakistan, you know the buses are just glorified tanks bent on running over any and all smaller vehicles and ill-placed pedestrians. Anyone who drives for a living here is a traffic terrorist from the rickhshaw-walas to the donkey-cart drivers.

The CDA also declared a public holiday and had schools and offices closed down for the few days of the summit. That meant me, the lone idiot drone working on holiday as usual, had clear roads to careen down and few competitors vying for my bit of space in the fast lane. No fear of being ticketed either, cuz all the available cops in the province are, you guessed it, busy keeping the medians company while using their glazed-over-but-vigilant-eyes to avert diplomatic disaster. It was sweet, while it lasted.

The completion of the Saarc summit also means that I get a break from dangerously dull stories to edit at work. No more analysis of the sneeze of the prime minister of the Maldives or the mysterious meaning behind a cough of the Bhutanese president. No more minute-by-minute coverage of diplomatic catfights. No more pages and pages of happy predictions from dunderheaded sycophants (“Yay! We’re the next EU! Watch out world!”). No more wild speculation variously for peace and war in the coming months. No more intrigue. No more snooty journalistic one-upmanship and editorial battles.

Back to the old beat of potato exports and poverty reports. Back to the brain numbing basics of my boring old routine. Yay! I did miss it so.

Edit: (paragraphs inserted for Sensei Abez, rockingest English teacher in worlds. Happy now? :D)

Abez sez: Help! I can't figure out how to fix the column on the left, can somebody help? *makes pitiful face* Back to Aniraz now...

Hello, my name is Frank and I’m an alcoholic.

*cough*

I mean, my name is Aniraz, I’m 21 year-old pseudo-adult and I hate my signature. Sigh. Today at work I had to do some “madam please sign here, and here and here” stuff and as always, it’s a painful reminder of how juvenile and ugly my signature is. Each time I have to sign something I sorta hunch over it with my shoulder so as to obscure my unsure and unwilling hands as they scrawl out the sad thing. I don’t want the office dudes to know that it’s supposed to look like that, shaky and illegible, ugly and off-centered. If I write it out quickly, maybe they’ll think I just botched it in my haste. Hah hah. Half the time, I don’t even spell my own name right. It’s just a mess.

I’ve had the same stinkin John Hancock since I was a preteen, and really, it’s baaaad looking. What I wanna know is, is it too late to change it? Will the Feds come and carry me away if I start signing my name differently? Will the folks at the bank have me shot for trying to impersonate account holder A-n-?-r- (“Hey, what the hell does this say anyways!”)? And worst of all, if I take the time and try to figure out a moniker that’s classy and legible, will that make me guilty of that weird desi obsession with my own name?

The desis here know what I’m talking about. You too probably had cousins who signed their names a million different ways, on every book, envelope, pad of paper and flat piece of furniture they could find. Nothing that could be written on was spared this fate. Leave your things out too long and they too would soon be found marked a thousand times over. You’ve seen the dear relations as they sat, eyes slightly glazed over, mouth slightly ajar, drool slightly dripping, repeatedly writing out their names in the most fancy and superfluous styles they could manage. When they ran out of space, they moved on to something else. By the time they were out of grammar school they had the snazzily artistic, wonderfully creative signature of autographically experienced Hollywood star.

You, because you wanted to be different and avoid the clichéd weirdness of this phase/obsession, refused to ever correct your signature. It’s been the same one for years. You’ve actually managed to keep it nearly unchanged since that day when you were 12 years old and you saw your elder brother, eons more mature at 16, sit there and design his own signature. That was back in THAT stage when you wanted nothing more than to be just like the big bro. He was cool and hip, and so of course, so was his signature. As you both had the same initials, you decided to swipe his. To your kid-eyes, it was a great autograph and you thought it was good enough for now and eternity.

So here I am (na na na na, rock you like a hurricane, na na na na), wondering if it’s too late. I mean, yeah it’s on my passport, my driver’s license, my bank account statement, my work correspondence and loads of other junk, but *whine whine whine* I’m only 21, I could change! I don’t want to be stuck with this silly signature for the rest of my life.

It’s funny though, I never sign real things with the horrid thing. Yeah, to the nutter that is me, work stuff, bank stuff and official ID stuff isn’t real, it’s formality. Somehow, in my demented logic, I guess the official Aniraz, the one that mans the editor-in-chief desk at the news agency and is proper and diplomatic, is just a front. The real one, the one that writes this silly blog, shoots unwanted edibles at passing villagers with a slingshot, and tries to cook up social mayhem for the sheer entertainment of it, has another John Hancock. It goes on things I actually care about.

Cards, yearbooks, letters, casts and dedications always get the other signature, the one that’s my name written out in cryptic block letters with a maniacle looking hijabi smilie-face scribbled next to it. It’s pretty bad too though. Looks like I’m on crack, all crookedy and gnarly looking. It worked fine when I was in high school and life was all about appearing to be crookedy and gnarly, but it turns out that, in the real world, that’s not what it’s about. And methinks signing letters to the offices of newspapers and embassies with a crazy grinning hijabi cartoon would be a bad idea. So I guess I’m stuck. I’ve got two signatures and they’re both bogus. What I need ………is…… a new identity.

Or maybe, just a life.