I got to play a ‘game’ of basketball for the first time in a good many years the other day. Course, I use the word ‘game’ loosely – notice my little flying punctuation thingies. It was basically me verses my younger brother, half-court, to 11 (we were aiming for 21, as is tradition, but had to cut it short).
Funny how time can change so much, and yet so little. Here we were, me at 22, and my brother at 20, playing one-on-one like we used to when little us spent our days in the park with a ball as our babysitter. Within minutes we'd slipped back into our old roles, talking smack, playing the old moves and making the same excuses.
The patchy blacktop we stomped around on was reminiscent of the shabby court we used to meet on every day after school to play pickup games of 21. But instead of dandelions pushing through the cracks and gravel and broken glass glittering on the ground this court was very obviously in Pakistan. It was bordered all around by tall grass; a court in the middle of what looked like a savannah with an out-of-bounds made perilous by thorns and the occasional scorpion (so my brother claimed). There was no din of traffic, blaring music from passing cars or the shouts from other games. We played on a forgotten court in a neglected park with only the adhan and distant cricket game commentary echoing over us.
The single hoop barely hung to the warped gray wooden backboard by a lone bolt. It tipped forward at an unhealthy angle, ruining all ricochet shots and demanding a perfect arc on each – something neither of us was very able to provide. No one dare dunk – the bro out of the justified fear that the hoop may come away in his hand –and me cuz, what the hell, I’m 5’6, as if I could dunk! What were you thinking? I’m no Mugsy Bogues. ;)
Our game wasn’t all that different either. Me, I still prefer the outside shot, as my lay-ups have always been choppy and unnatural. The shalwar kameez and shawl of grownupness limited fancy moves that weren’t worth showing off anyways. My brother pointed out my shot had diminished to half a step away from a three. When I tried to maximize the point value, I sadly discovered that mid-way between a two and three pointer was my arm’s limit. Anything farther was too wide or a soggy little airball. The obnoxious chest-pass for a check had lost its bite, and had to be replaced by a polite bouncer. Time deflates basketballs and biceps with equal ferocity.
My brother’s game though, was far advanced. I think that may have something to do with the fact that in the four years I hadn’t played my brother he’d um, grown. Yeah, my lil bro, as I call him to the confusion of my friends, is about 6’3. He’s also got about 80 pounds on me, which means there’s little point in driving in against him or trying to block a shot. I try though, and he just laughs at me. What I lack in size I make up in pluck. And plus he’s kept up with the sport over the years and honed his game further. While me, well, I’m a girl in Pakistan. Court, ball and viable players are hard to come by, though an audience is unfortunately always quickly formed.
The game was played the same way we’ve always played it. He took it slow and never really broke a sweat. Me, I ran all over trying to find some space to get a shot off. He played his shots within the square. I played mine off-center from the free throw. When he drove in, I futilely attempted to stop him, laughingly telling him if I ever rejected one of his, he’d have to commit seppuku out of the sheer shame of it. When I got possession, he usually backed off and took his spot under the rim for the rebound. It was brawn verses, um, lack of brawn. And the winner was……
Me.
Hey, we went to 11. It was anyone’s game.
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Writing is supposed to be therapy, right? Lemme then lay right down on this metaphorical leather couch and try and figure things out.
I’m very tired these days. May have something to do with the fact that I’m not sleeping much. I go to bed around 2, fall asleep around 3 and then suddenly find myself walking around the house or raiding the fridge at 4. I go back to bed, wake up for fajr an hour later, and then fall in and out of sleep until I get up for work around 9.
For someone who’s recently halved their caffeine intake, this doesn’t make much sense. I need sleep. I just can’t seem to get any, and what little I do get isn’t restful. I rarely dream, but when I do, they’re the sort of nightmares that keep you from wanting to even close your eyes for some time.
It’s no wonder I feel as ragged as I do. I’m a bit of a wreck. I caught myself crying today over the stupidest thing, and I’m not the crying sort. It was frustration mainly. I’m just so tired, and so frustrated at everything, and then mad at myself for feeling like this. As they say in the brain-numbing Pakistani press – it’s a vicious circle. If you imagine an angry little circle monster biting at things and gnashing its teeth, then hopefully you’ll laugh and this pathetic little blog entry will be redeemed. If not, twas all for naught.
I need some R&R. I want to go hide away alone for a while and just be.
I was going to write about my crap work situation – how I haven’t had a day off in three weeks and how I won’t have one for another four, but I decided not to. That would be whining for nuttin. It’s no one’s fault but my own. If I wanted to, I could quit, or put my foot down, or go postal, or something. I don’t. I work. I shouldn’t complain.
On to more ridiculous things.
Some of ya'll know I have a thing about wombats. I wouldn’t call it an obsession; it’s just an interest, the same way I have an interest in learning how to juggle, though I don’t do much about it. I’m far too lazy and attention-span-deprived an individual to ever have an obsession. I just find things neat and then I move on. I have a healthy interest in the absurd is all.
It all stems from something I once read. A couple years back my sister brought home some books from a clearance sale. One of them was called The Visitants, and though the magenta-foil cover with a little elf thing kneeling on it should have been a fair warning as to the content, for Rs 50, Abez couldn’t resist.
I’m not going to bore you guys with a review of the book. I read it, I wondered at the state of the publishing world, but I’ve read worse. Anyways, somewhere in the 400 pages of bargain-bin literature was a character who had a pet wombat. Perhaps it was my purple-prose addled brain, or perhaps the writing was really that persuasive, but the idea of having a pet giant marsupial really appealed to me.
You decide.
“The wombat was a youthful, robust and respectable member of her race, and if not particularly bright, she nevertheless possessed a myriad of insights into the nature of her world denied to her more intellectually agile creatures. She had been a frequent visitor to the woman’s house for several years now, enjoying equally her undemanding companionship and the food scraps she so cordially shared. For her part, Jennifer Huxton found the stout marsupial to be of unimpeachable character and exceptional sensitivity and she considered herself to be quite privileged by the beast’s continued attention. Not being a native to the region herself, she wasn’t even sure if there were meant to wombats in this part of the country. She was, however, very certain there weren’t supposed to be small, golden-skinned Elves running around the place.”
The wombat, a minor character in the very odd story, is revealed to be a sort of psychic little animal that always knows when to appear in time for meals and is able to commune with the refrigerator in a shared rumbling whir. Plus the elf calls it the wrong-bat, which was probably the clincher in my favor.
Charming, no?
It seemed like an ideal animal to have; one-part dog, one-part cat and one-part guinea pig. A three in one pet, if you well. To top it off, it eats leftovers, is psychic and speaks appliance. What’s not to love?
Since then I’ve casually mentioned to all my Aussie friends that a wombat would be an ideal gift to me. They usually laugh uncomfortably and change the subject. Apparently they’re not typical pets – wombats, not Aussies.
I wondered why such lovely animals with such wonderful potential weren’t domesticated, so I looked into it. First off, it’s illegal. Australia doesn’t export them as pets. Some are endangered and all are dangerous. They’re also large (can weigh upto 40 kilos), aggressive, antisocial, destructive (will chew through anything but steel), fast (can run up to 40 kmph) and territorial. Dejected, I related the info to my family, along with the animal’s unsavory characteristics. They listened, laughed and someone said “Aniraz, you don’t need a wombat, you ARE a wombat!”
Pshtosh. I can’t run that fast. ;)
Anyways, yesterday we had a party for the forgotten birthdays of Abez, Chai and myself. If you guys remember my birthday last year, the cake was a bright green brontosaurus with blue eyes. We made a horned parrot for my mom's birthday last year. Tradition demanded that this time had to be better, and weirder. A wombat it was. Lovely, isn't she?
I was wandering through the aisles of a local grocery store the other day when I saw a face I recognized staring back at me from a wall of talcum powders. It was Melissa Joan Hart of Sabrina the Teenage Witch fame. Her picture was plastered on the front of a powder called ‘Charming,’ manufactured by a local company. Though the photo must have been taken at least 10 years ago, beneath that poodle perm and blue eye shadow there was no mistaking the woman.
If you’re shocked at how far down she’s come in the world and are wondering what she’s doing trying to sell powder to Pakistanis, lemme explain. In the badlands of Pakistan there are no applied rights - copy, property, intellectual or otherwise. Anyone is free to use any image, info, product or name. If you happen to be someone or something a local businessman thinks will sell his product, then expect to become a victim of personal pirating. And here in the land of the anglophiles, nothing sells better than Gorapun - Whiteness.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen some hapless gora personality unwittingly used to sell products in Pakistan.
The race of supermodel/actress/singer Mila Jovich is one of the industry’s best-kept secrets. She’s an undercover brown person who owes her pallor to some Paki cosmetics. I know this because she apparently uses Freshee brand bleach cream. Her deadly white face is printed large on the boxes of the stuff, as if trying to tell the Pakistani public “You too can be a Caucasian supermodel! Just apply peroxide paste to your face and viola!”
Another supermodel - (you never knew this was such a precarious profession) - Kate Moss has a secret identity. Her name is really Cindy and she’s either Mormon or Muslim. What other possible excuse could she have for being the poster girl to the non-alcoholic Cindy Malted Beer. There’s a shot of the slightly unwell looking brunette on their poster. And though I don’t see a bottle of the stuff in her bony hand, I’m sure it’s the reason behind her emaciated good looks.
And it’s not just down-and-out celebrities of the 1990s that make it to the shopping aisle in Pakistan. We love us some progress here in the des too.
Last week I noticed a familiar face trying to sell me a phone-card. Something about her wasn’t desi, no matter what her Urdu caption tried to tell me. Desi models never sport a tan, they’ll sport a pink, an ivory and sometimes a white-out, but not a tan. This chic was very brown – thus, not Pakistani. The name came to me later. It was Jessica Alba, who had a movie out last year called Honey. Research reveals she’s only been on the fame radar a little while, relatively speaking, but she’s already been a victim of the *queue thrilling music* Pakistani Persona Pirates!
You never knew the price of fame ran this high.
I bet they don’t know either.
This, ladies and germs, is my FIRST LAYOUT!
*queue deafening applause*
I call it “Ketchup and Mustard Go to Ikea.” You like?
Actually, I’m just piggybacking off of Abez’s pre-made template, but hey for a hopeless technotwit like me, this is a big accomplishment. Not only have I managed to forget all layout and photoshop programming I once knew back when I did graphic design, but I’ve also developed computer-induced narcolepsy. I sit in the wheely chair and suddenly I’m comatose. You can ask Abez how many times my eyes glazed over when she was explaining things to me. But I did it! WHOO HOO!
Enough self adulation. I know it’s hecka basic, but yay for me anyways!!!!
Like the lizard who jumped from the high Iroko tree, I will praise myself if no one else does. –Chinua Achebe
I have a sad confession to make.
*stands up and clears throat*
I am a salt eater.
I eat salt on everything. Salt in soup. Salt on salad. Salt on fruit. Salt on salt. My favorite breakfast is a piece of dry toast with salt sprinkled on it. I intersperse my sips of tea with salt. I even have a salt shaker by my desk. If I’m feeling peckish, I’ll get a glass of water and drink it with some salt. Sometimes, when everyone else is eating popcorn, I’m just eating the salt.
Despite all the grossed out looks I get (CHAI!) and the comments (Dad says: Beta, your arteries must be as hard as rocks!), I’ve never really done much about this weird preference I have. I don’t eat a lot of sugar or fried junk so I figured comparatively this was healthier.
Of course, there have been times throughout the years where I’ve tried to cut down my salt intake. Mainly, I just refrain from shaking tons of it on everything I eat, but it usually takes all the zest out of life. I always figured I gotta have my salt, arteries be damned.
Yesterday though, I saw a program on the Discovery channel called “Ten Years Younger” that was a more medically sound and less voyeurism-fueled version of those makeover shows. In it five people between the ages of 33 and 52 were given the chance to bring their physical (as compared to numerical) age down by ten years through diet, exercise and some lifestyle changes. The long and short of it though, was that high-sodium diets like mine pretty much dig you an early grave and were a no-no for all the participants.
My oh-so-advanced Googling reveals that sodium is an essential mineral or micronutrient which along with potassium helps to regulate the body's fluid balance. Dietary sodium is measured in milligrams (mg). The most common form of sodium used is table salt, which is 40 percent sodium. One teaspoon of table salt contains 2,300 milligrams of sodium.
High salt diets have been found to cause and aggravate a number of illnesses.
BLOOD PRESSURE
There is very strong evidence that links high salt intake to the development of high blood pressure (the pressure of blood in the arteries). The higher the level of blood pressure, the greater the risk of a stroke (paralysis of one side of the body) or a heart attack (blockage of one of the arteries supplying blood to the heart muscle). Evidence also suggests that a high salt intake is responsible for the rise in blood pressure as we get older. A reduction in salt intake will have an immediate effect on lowering blood pressure, and in the long term is likely to prevent the rise in blood pressure with age.
STROKE
Salt intake is very closely related to the number of strokes that occur in a community. Whilst this is in part due to the increase in blood pressure that the high salt intake causes, salt also seems to have a direct effect on strokes independent of its effect on blood pressure.
BONE DEMINERALISATION (Osteoporosis)
High salt intake leeches calcium from bones and excretes it in the urine. This effect, along with other factors, leads to the thinning of bone. Thin bones are more fragile which results, as we get older, in fractures. It is now recommended that salt intake should be reduced as one strategy to reduce the risk of osteoporosis.
STOMACH CANCER
When different countries in the world are compared there is a close relationship between the amount of salt eaten in the diet and the number of people who develop stomach cancer in each country. The World Cancer Research Fund now recommends that salt intake is reduced to decrease the risk of developing cancer of the stomach.
ASTHMA
A high salt intake may play an aggravating role in asthma. In other words it is not a direct cause, but if you are likely to suffer from asthma, a high salt intake may possibly make it worse. Some carefully controlled studies have shown that reducing the salt intake may be beneficial in conjunction with the other treatments for asthma.
KIDNEY DISEASE
There is increasing evidence that a high salt intake may have adverse effects on the kidneys when there is some underlying abnormality.
FLUID RETENTION
The higher the salt intake, the greater the amount of fluid retained in the body. Switching from your usual salt intake to a much lower salt intake can cause fluid loss of up to 2 litres (4 pints) or 2kgs in weight. Many women with a tendency to ankle swelling, bloatedness and tightness of their rings at the end of the day will feel very much better if they take less salt in the diet.
-end shameless plagiarization-
Sigh. So there’s my new mission - cut out the salt. If I live through this, then I’m taking on my unnatural caffeine consumption next. I have a feeling though that without her four cup a day and salt eating habit, Aniraz isn’t going to be a fun or happy person.
Then again, she never was, was she?
My head is like a snowglobe. Inside swirls thousands and millions of little specks, each distracting, and as a whole – like a school of fish or the eddy of a tide - overwhelming. If I were to tip my head to shake out the little snowflakes that float around in my mind, I’d find few that had much to do with anything of value. I used to be able to clear the air of those pesky little disturbances to get a clearer image of what lay at the core, at what mattered. Now though, I wonder if there even is anything beneath the froth of worth. ****** Lately I feel like I’m too much in the dunia. Of course, we’re always in the dunia, as that’s the irritating ball of dirt that we’ve been asked to spend our ephemeral lives on, but what I mean is that I’m too immersed in it. I have come to care too much about the things I usually try to avoid and that bothers me. I’ve become rooted to what I know is temporary and distracted from what I should be aiming for. This isn’t how I like to be, and I wonder what I’m supposed to do about. I want to just up and leave before I get too entrenched. I never wanted to be the kind of person who cared about salaries, planned their next big purchase and dreamt of interior decorating. This is too ordinary. This is buying into the illusion.
********* When you read The Chronicles of Narnia, which character did you most identify with? Was it Edmund, Lucy, Susan, Peter, Aslan, the White Witch, Caspian, Eustace, Polly, Digory? I long to be like Reepicheep, but try as I may, my coracle has yet to reach the end of the earth. *********
Hmm…. Interesting things… what interesting things have happened around here lately?
I have the absolutely worst sleeping schedule. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been ON schedule since we got back. After sleeping through the first two days back in Pakistan I seem to have utterly and completely ruined my rhythm. I go to bed after fajr, then wake up for work in a few hours, then sleep about an hour in the day, then do it all over again then next day. Somebody call a doctor, cuz I’m broke. Hemlock came over and brought donuts. There is good in the world. Zeba forced her to Dance-Dance-Revolution while I lazed about reading and occasionally cheerleading for them -if one can cheerlead while lounging on a pile of pillows. She’s gone back to her Lahore though. We miss her already.
I’m still trying to learn how to moonwalk, but now I have tutorial and a neato video to follow. Now nothing can stop me – except gross lack of coordination. Dang. I finished reading Thackery’s Vanity Fair - and no he didn't name it after a magazine. I bought a copy of the book as reading material during my trip to Amreekistan, but couldn’t find the time or the presence of mind to actually get into it. Back in Pk, where the bored hours never end, I have plenty of time. It was interesting though, but more from a social perspective than a literary one. A bit melodramatic and emotionally overwrought, kinda like Dickens, but the underlying tone of sarcasm from the writer made it easier to swallow. The exaggeration was intentional, it seems. I’ve got more job offers in the past week than I’ve had in a year. There is only one Aniraz so I gotta pick one. Sigh. Can’t I try them all. Or better yet, can’t someone just pay me for sitting around, wasting my time and typing up these brilliant thoughts? *wiggles eyebrows* *smiles winningly*
The next person who tells me I'm too thin is gonna get hit. Upside the head. With my NON-bony fist.