(haven't got time to write a new entry. Here's something I dug up from my old junk. I hope it'll do.)

I was fourteen when I started wearing hijab. That age now sounds so young, but at the time, I felt like I was late in implementing this article of my faith. By 14 I'd already walked a very strange path, lived in two worlds, and done a lot of searching.

I'd heard all the warnings against it. It was subjugation. It was unfair. It was wrong. It was cultural. It was outdated. It was dangerous. My mom, a devout Christian, was terrified that a scarf on my head would make me a target. She warned me to expect to get hit with stray balls in gym class. Other well-meaning women told me my scarf would yo-yo between off and on when the boys in my classes decided they didn't like my scarf and started pulling at it. Then there were the fears my hair would thin from the stress of being covered all the time, or that my scalp would grow some fungus, or my ears would turn green

Granted, I did become a target. By the simple act of covering my head I discovered what an unnatural fear people have of the different and unknown. I was spit on, had things thrown at me, was condemned to hell by followers of other religions, saw mothers fearfully hide their children behind them when I passed by, had boys try and pull my scarf off, girls called me names, teachers had very little patience for me and no slack was given in my doings. I found myself taunted and insulted by complete strangers for no reason aside from the fact that there was a piece of fabric on my head. But at the same time, I became a target for people's questions.

Not everyone is hateful and unkind, and to many, my scarf prompted questions. The day I came into school with that cotton-poly blend of black around my hair and neck, I suddenly became an ambassador for my religion. Peers, teachers, friends, strangers, everyone wanted to know why more about my religion and my choice. Most didn't even know I was a Muslim prior to me becoming a hijabi. I had to go home that night and get out some books and look up the answers to their many questions. It didn't stop there - over the years, I have had to learn more and more, to not only satisfy my own thirst for knowledge, but also the curiosity of others.

Profanity slowly fell out of my vocabulary. It didn't fit with what I wanted to be, what I was trying to uphold. I was an envoy for Islam and as many people in the US rarely meet obvious Muslims, I realized that I would be taken as an example of my faith. I learned to be kinder, to be more patient, to speak clearly and make clear points, to be understanding and to listen.

For the first time in my life I had to answer to other people. That first Ramadan in high school, when I forgot I was fasting and went to go and buy a juice, I was reminded, "Hey, aren't you Muslim?" Yes, I was, and because of my hijab, everyone knew it. I curbed my anger and bit back my tongue when provoked. Used to be one slight, one dirty look or snide comment, and I'd be fists clenched and ready to go. I couldn't fight with kids any more, because I knew that for many of the onlookers to those hallway brawls, I would just be that "Muslim girl in the scarf" who was fighting. That would look bad for my religion and for me so I learned patience and developed a thicker skin.

When my girl-friends were agonizing about their weight, looks, hair, complexions, and clothes, I was comfortable in my own skin. By covering my hair, dressing modestly and not painting my face I was a mind before just a body. I was well protected from the consuming obsession of the self. I never became anorexic, or a bulimic. I didn't spend money I didn't have on clothes that would become passe in a week. I didn't have to wake up two hours before school just to style my hair and put together an outfit. I didn't have to worry if my waist was small enough, chest large enough and bum firm enough for the general public's approval. By guarding my sexuality I was choosing what to be defined by and what would be important to me. Yes, I was a woman, but I was not a woman for everyone's pleasure.

I was spared from so many of the falls teenagers have with the help of my scarf. It not only saved me from those awkward teenage bad-hair days, but it also kept me from having to get used and abused in the dating scene. By wearing my religious beliefs on my sleeve, or rather, around my head, it was made known that Aniraz was a practicing Muslim and she didn't date. My friends knew, and wouldn't play the part of go-between when approached. When harassed, I found myself defended by boys, often not Muslim, who respected me and understood my struggle. The part of prevention kept me from temptation.

Instead of striving for conformity and acceptance among my peers, like so many other teenagers, I found the strength to do what I thought was right and be different if I must. I bucked the trends and walked to the beat of my own drum. In time, beside me walked others. I found friends with Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, Hasidic Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, Vegans and devout Hindus. Our paths headed in the same direction, against the flow of traffic and against the crush of society. In each other, we found support, likeness in our strangeness and the strength to decide for ourselves.

As I got older, stable in my beliefs, stable in my life, I became the rock among my friends. I saw them go through bad times - teen pregnancies, heartbreak, abortions, suicide attempts, depression, eating disorders and drug abuse - while I stood clear. We would cry on each others shoulders and I would try to offer a sympathetic ear and sound advice.

At times I had big shoes to fill. Sometimes I wanted to be silly too, to be irresponsible and foolish, to let go a bit, but I couldn't. The banner I waved above me, the banner of morality, self-discipline, personal accountability and faith, meant more was expected. I believed that God expected the best from us all, and each look in the mirror, where I saw my face framed in a triangle of fabric, was a reminder of that.

No, hijab is not everything. There is more to what I am than the scarf on my head, but I recognize how it has tested me, changed, tempered and bettered me. It has been hard, but I still have my ears, and no, they're not green.

Adventures in electronic gastronomy – or life without a stove

Day 1 - Breakfast: cold instant coffee and Weetabix. Lunch: Instant noodles in a cup. Dinner: Takeout.

Day 2 - Breakfast: lukewarm coffee four minutes in pathetic microwave and slice of bread. Lunch: Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Dinner: Instant noodles, in a bowl. I’m on my way to the first medically documented case of Instant Noodle Poisoning, hitherto only spoken of in whispers by the bachelor and young missionary community.

Day 3 – Abez suggests we use the microwave for more than warming leftovers. Apparently, they can be used to cook normal things. The hypothesis is put to the test. I mix up a bowl of scrambled eggs and microwave them for five minutes on high. Half way through, they’re given a quick scrambling. When the bell sounds I give them a look-see. They sit, slightly runny, but valid eggs. I have a Dr Frankenstein moment - “They live!” Incidentally, Abez has a Dr F moment of her own – “Sigh....I’ve created a monster.”

Day 3 – While unpacking I find the long-forgotten toaster. Though covered in dust and pretty dingy, it looks shipshape. I drop a slice of bread in, push down the lever and wait. A minute later a toast pops up a foot into the air and stuns me (My thought while rubbing my head, “Aah, that would be the reason the toaster was put into storage and forgotten.”) We have toast! Hallelujah! Toast it is for breakfast lunch and dinner!

Day 4 – The waffle iron is dug out. My mind races through the wonderful possibilities. Sadly, we’re out of syrup, but I won’t let that stop me. I whip up some batter and drop it on the electric griddle. That wonderful waffly smell – part bread, part cake – reminds me of the world of fresh food I’d not been privy to since we moved. They’re served with jam and much appreciated. Before the night is through we’ll have three kinds of waffles – traditional, savory, and leftovery. No complaints here.

Day 5 - We’re getting smarter (the ‘er’ being relative to our previous state). Breakfast is microwaved eggs on electrically browned toast. We have mastered the art of amalgamation! Lunch is waffles on toast. Ok, maybe we haven’t mastered the art of amalgamation.

Day 6 – Tepid coffee and teabag tea isn’t cutting it for my dad. He is a chai man so I decide to do more experimenting. I find a lovely plastic jug and use it as a teapot. In goes the tea grinds, water, milk and sugar. After five minutes on high the whole thing boils over and makes a mess in the microwave. Just like on a stove! How quaint! My dad gives it a sniff, a sip and then a swig. He lets out a contented sigh. With chai in the hand of my desi abbu, all is well in the land.

Day 7 – It’s my day off, which means I have time for a nice breakfast before I have to pull Abez out of bed. I decide to make a spinach and cheese omelet. Turns out what is a few minutes of diligence and stirring on a few burners of the stove is about twenty minutes of irritating waiting by the microwave. I pair the omelet with a waffle-biscuit – my own invention. Abez eats them silently. I ask for comment; she says, “Um, interesting.”

Day 8 – The gas is hooked up. Man rediscovers fire. It is a shocking revelation. Overwhelming really. We order takeout instead.

I have approximately 20 minutes to blog something before Abez arrives and we head home. If this is crap, I’m going to blame it on the pressure.

Since Sunday, we’ve been living in a partially complete house that has no (1) gas (2) telephone (3) hot water (4) television (5) computer (6) internet.

As our house is brand spanking new, a lot of things simply haven’t been hooked up to the civic grid. Don’t blame it on the contractor who built our place, blame it on the CDA, (Corrupt Dorks Are-us) that mismanages this city. Unless you practically threaten your local utility provider with serious hell via an official you happened to be related to, or, pay him a nice fat bribe, you can wait till Kingdom Come for the services you’re allotted. That’s why despite the fact that my dad applied for the phone and the gas hookups five months back, we still have nada.

While the rotten-to-the-core civic establishment is responsible for the fact that we have no gas, thus no hot water, and no phone, thus no Internet, it’s not their fault about the TV and the computer.

Our computer, or El Dinator as we lovingly call him, fell victim to the outcome of widespread illiteracy in the third world. Meaning, the laborers who carried the computer couldn’t read, and thus the label in Urdu and English reading “Caution, fragile, please place upright” was lost on them. At least, that’s what we’re hoping after finding the computer upside-down with a chair as a hat in the basement. It’s either that, or the dudes had something personal against technology as whole and were symbolically trying to relay that message to us. Maybe they were pacifistic brown Amish with a vengeance.

The TV hasn’t been hooked up cuz we haven’t had the time or the phone line to call the cable guy. Due to some wiring problems, we don’t even have the local PTV channels. It’s been a week without the news, Samurai Jack and American Idol. It has been difficult *sob* but we persevere. It also means none of us has watched a single game of the Pakistan-India cricket series that has engrossed the whole sub-continent. That borders on blasphemy according to the holy faith of Cricketanity. As we don’t relish being boiled in oil or dunked in a pond, we haven’t been airing our indiscretion. When folks talk cricket, we just nod and smile, smile and nod.

Gotta go, the Abez has arrived.

(If you’d like to make donations to the “Help Owl get a stove/life/cable hookup/warm shower Fund” please send cash, checks, money orders, jewelry, stocks, bonds, heirlooms and artifacts to The Big Tree, third on the left, The Village, Pakistan)

T minus 8 hours till lift-off

Things learnt while packing –

* Do not pack an alarm clock with batteries in it. It will go off. You will have to put your ear to a wall of boxes in search of the annoying beeping. You will kick yourself for being so stupid.

* Ripping tape with your teeth, albeit a very traditional desi practice, is not necessarily a safe one. If you do it wrong, you can tear the skin right off your lips, not to mention, end up with tape coated teeth.

* Do not place un-taped boxes upright, and partially assembled, near those ready to be used. They will be meticulously filled with your precious belongings, and when lifted you’ll see those very same belongings come crashing to the floor.

* Always buy at least four more rolls of tape then you think you’ll need. There is never enough.

* Don’t pack the coffee until you’re ready to lock the door of your old place and leave it for good. Coffee is magic. Coffee is steam. Coffee fuels the moving mayhem.

* Lifting hundreds of pounds of boxes IS easier if you’ve had an ice cream cone. Take my word for it.

* Don’t eat Pakistani food before lifting hundreds of pounds of boxes. It will give you heartburn and you’ve already packed all the antacids.

* If you have a dog who happens to live in the area where boxes are being stored, it is a good idea to move her. Otherwise she will sniff each and every box you bring, she will accompany you back and forth like a frighteningly enthusiastic chauffer, and she WILL get stepped on at least once. And no, it won’t keep her from getting in your way next time.

* The box you drop down two flights of stairs will, undoubtedly, be the one full of precious heirlooms and breakables.

* Paper-cuts from cardboard boxes are lethal. And yes, the Band-Aids and the iodine are lost in space at the moment. Try some tape.

* There is a mysterious law of physics which states that all previous knowledge of proper spelling is forgotten when labeling things. Do not be surprised at the boxes that read “caserroll dish,” “kitcher,” “dads’ stuffs,” “bookes,” “liver room,” and “batroom.”

* Don’t pick out things Owl has thrown into the give-away pile. She will get very mad and accuse you of being a selfish pack rat. Yes it’s yours, and I shouldn’t be giving it away, but it’s junk! JUNK I SAY!

* One spider is ok. A few dozen are not ok. Same goes for crickets. If you can’t find the bug spray, hair spray will do. In a pinch, try Pam.

* Don’t stand next to me and tell me how to pack. Get your own box and pack it.

* If you need incentive to do more carrying of heavy boxes, feel free to look over the old photos of yourself found while packing. Nothing like childhood chub as motivation.

* Candy never goes bad. If you find some, eat it.

* Though toads, ideally, are more scared of you than you are of them, they’re still really icky. Especially when found hiding beneath the vinyl cover of an electric transformer that you were standing pretty close to a moment before.

* Don’t pack all your dishes beforehand unless you plan on eating pizza for the next three meals and you don’t mind cardboard plates.

* Having well manicured nails prior to carrying boxes and furniture around is futile. You’ll be lucky to have any by the time you’re through.

* Fragile does not mean ‘lift with ease, carry down the stairs carefully, delicately place on the floor, and then pile four layers of book boxes on top of.’ No really, it doesn’t.

* I own too many shoes and most of them are ugly. I’d give them away, but no one would want them.

* Yes I own more books than I own clothes and shoes, but I’m keeping them. Yes, all of them. Even the Beatrice Potter and Dr Seuss. Nyah hah.

* Moving is a pain.

* We own too much junk.

*found to be lacking structure, value and point, thus, edited*

After pretty much going without ‘real television’ for something like two and a half years, my dad caved in and bought a cable package a few months back. Before then, we’d made do with the three PTV channels, and a few on and off English channels that were more off than on.

That was fine by me. Most days I could tune in to about 20 minutes of Life as Told By Ginger when working out before the reception would go dead – which was an ideal self-regulating allotment of the idiot box. But all good things must come to an end, and after a while even our few hours of the English channels stopped coming in. My bored ol’ dad said he needed his shoot-em-up movies and sports tournaments, so cable it was.

I can honestly say I was pretty worried about having ‘real tv’ again. I was a bit of a couch potato back in high school, and was dreading getting sucked back into that vacuum of unproductiveness. Time spent in front of the tube is time alive that is lost to nothingness. Plus most of the crap on the telly these days isn’t even moderately halal and I aint got time no how.

Happily, my old vices haven’t been tempting me. The sitcoms all seem painfully stupid and the movies/ dramas are too exaggerated and unrealistic to swallow. Cartoons are nice, but I guess I’ve outgrown the age where I can watch them for more than a few minutes at a time. Even the documentaries and news features are usually too ‘spun’ to enjoy. Weirdly though, what I find myself watching while slaving away on my elliptical trainer is…….. (wait for it)……. (steady now)….. the food channel – or more specifically, BBC Food.

*Sigh* I’ve finally come full circle. The angry little feminazi tomboy I was just a few years back has been replaced with a wannabe gourmet. If only the softball team could see me now. Actually, it’s probably better that they can’t. I wouldn’t want to get pelted with cleats or buried under the pitcher’s mound like Jimmy Hoffa.

Watching cooking shows while working out is more than a bit abortive though. When I'm done huffing and puffing and battling the buldge, I hop down and wonder "Where's my triple decker fresh berry parfait as shown in the apty and perhaps forebodingly named 'Two Fat Ladies' show?" The only thing remotely resembling that in my fridge is the "triple decker mysterious leftover mold madness." You can't help but feel deprived. I'm often left to console myself with a block of baking chocolate and some soggy carrot sticks.

Thankfully though, I haven’t gone whole hog ‘foodie.’ I do have *some* standards. I can stand a couple of the shows – Delia Smith’s How to Cook and Cooking the Best – and just shake my head in wonder at the rest.

The Frenchie cooking shows are a whole group I pass on. I simply can’t believe that the supposed best food in the world is flavored with little more than a couple glasses of red wine (or bourbon, cognac, vodka, whatever suits your fancy), salt and a few sprinkles of black pepper. I guess the liquor is to fuddle your mind so it doesn’t realize that it’s partaking of some mightily bland food.

Even if they weren’t soaking things in the devil’s brew, I don’t think I’d want to make that stuff anyways. Oxtail Stew? Cashew Soup? Escargot? Pressed duck?! What did the duck ever do to me? And making teepees out of spring onions or drawing neat patterns in olive oil around a leaning tower of boiled beets just doesn’t float my boat. I'd rather have a nice sandwich any day.

Then there are the home-style old British biddy shows – hosted by pudgy mumbling lady cooks. They’re alright for learning how to make desserts, but their other stuff is insane. No matter what you do to lamb’s kidneys, I’m not eating ‘em. Suet isn't a proper foodstuff! And if a blob of ground mustard is what you consider spicy, then I should probably stick with Pakistani fare.

Again, it’s too heavy on the liquor – though they prefer white wine to the Frenchie red. Hey, ever heard of boiling things in say, water? They also seem to have missed that little thing that happened about 30 years back called the fitness revolution. If they’re not soaking things in butter, then they’re dousing them in full cream or drowning them in hollandaise. There’s a reason they call it ‘clotted cream.’ My arteries ache just from the sight of it all.

Come to think of it, even though I like to cook, I can't relate to most of the shows them nutty programmes. Maybe it’s cuz I’m living in the third world and we don’t have things like pickled capers and marscapone cheese while the BBC chefs don’t have the decency to cook with achar and dumba. Or it could have something to do with the fact that I’m a fundu Muzlamic type and thus, can’t enjoy a program that teaches me how to deep fry port-soaked pork chops in lard while singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Or maybe I’m just not as much of an epicurean as I’d like to be.

And all that cookery watching apparently is no guarantee for suave domestic skills. This evening I made Delia Smith’s Melting Chocolate Puddings and though I got the chocolate part – but the melting and pudding bit were debatable. *wail* I should go back to playing left field.

And I am free,
Free falling now.
I am free

After a week of deadlines and more deadlines I have won my freedom. I have sent off my articles, done my extra editing, and even caught up with the packing ahead of our move. For the first time in days I can just sit, relax and type a blog.

Balancing three separate responsibilities – my full-time job and two part-time writing gigs – along with the regular stuff that comes from being an adult – cooking, cleaning, errands and projects – has turned out to be more than I bargained for. This is worse than simply being spread thin - I feel transparent.

It’s funny how your body reacts to being over burdened. Though I haven’t even had time to keep up with my workout schedule, I’ve been physically exhausted all week, bogged down by an unshakeable malaise. You get this marvelously point-specific backache from sitting hunched over your computer for hours at end. That, and the dull burning ache at the base of my neck, isn’t doing my notoriously bad posture any favors. (Mom if you’re reading this: don’t worry, next week I’ll borrow a matka from the housekeeper, balance it on my head ala Punjabi kuri and walk ramrod straight just for you.)

I remember back in high school, reading about how the poet John Milton went blind from spending all his day reading and being perplexed as to how that could happen. Back then I figured I read a lot and still had perfect vision. Now I can understand. The past few days have been spent at my computer writing, researching or sorting through papers and my eyes aren’t pleased. Focusing on paper or a computer screen has become nearly impossible. I blink and forget to open my eyes again, idly thinking, “Ooh, this feels nice, why didn’t I do this before?” My owly-eyes have been doing this funny throbbing and feel constantly pinched. Even when I close them, I see a sort of gray-screen static and somehow I think that can’t be a good thing.

I’ve also realized there is a very respectable limit to the amount of information my brain is willing to digest. Demanding too much from it will only result in a “Danger Will Robinson” angry robot reaction – meaning, it shuts down. I’ve got writer’s block times ten. Stringing together sentences and formulating semi-intelligent thought has been nearly impossible. It’s taken me days to finish up my last feature, and even with a disgruntled brain, I can tell it’s substandard. I’m not even making much sense when speaking, which isn’t good when you have to get quotes from self-important officials on the phone. I’ve rarely felt so stupid.

What’s even weirder though, is the toll over-stimulation takes on your subconscious mind. What little sleep I’ve clocked this week has been ruined by the trippy sort of dreams typical of a high fever. They’re the type that are too strange, too involving, and don’t make for a restful sleep. What’s worse is that they continually revolve around the work I’ve been plugging at all day. You wake up over and over again, hoping to be rid of the taxing nightmares, but when you fall back asleep they start up where you left off. By the time my alarm clock goes off in the morning, I feel as though I’ve spent the night running and am queasy with fatigue.

Ah well. That’s life. I asked for this. I should just say my Alhamdullilah and be done with it.

Alhamdullilah.

"Second hand books giving Islamabad first hand knowledge

MARCH 2: Islamabad is often described as cultureless, though it is not clear what exactly is meant by that. In any case, the charge is not true. And one cultural feature of the Capital which is a source of great pleasure for those who read, is the number of old bookshops in almost every residential sector. In these days of high prices cheap second hand books are a boon one may have inhibitions about wearing second-hand clothes but there is no complex attached to second-hand books.

Some elderly people are so obsessed by books that they never give anyone any other presents except books. The trouble is that most young people, fascinated by the Interment and by massaging on mobile phones, have no time for reading, thus failing to imbibe the treasures of culture that books embody. They find reading a waste of time, and are heedless of psychologists’ advice that too much involvement with computers limits one’s personality…"

No, I didn’t write that. Go ahead and laugh. I’d join you and maybe even submit it to www.Engrish.com, except that I’m expected to fix it. Sigh. There’s only so much an editor can do. MEDIC!

This is also why I haven’t updated. I get my legally allotted day off tomorrow, but only if I take care of all my work for that day in advance. So here I am, at 2 am, doing the editing thang from home. Someone call PETA, Owl is being overworked again.

*tips over and dies*