Sometimes I get crazy ideas. Well, actually, a lot of times. But hey, nutters like me make up the spice of life, so quit being scandalized. We keep it interesting. Take my word for it. ;)

The other day I had an idea. Abez and I had just finished a few hours of fruitless shopping at a mall when we decided to go home. 'Home' was, by my estimate, about three miles away. The night was young, the weather was nice, and traffic was killer, so we decided to walk.

It started off well. I recognized my early landmarks and was confident I'd find more as we went. "Look, there's the shop that sells intergalactic alien-space-invader dresses," I'd point out to my navigationally challenged sister. Abez, beat down into compliance by those of us who profess to have a sense of direction, smiled hopefully and we continued on.

After a mile, I had to stop and knock the rocks out of my shoes. "Wish I was wearing socks," I muttered. "Oh, that's not good. Should we call a cab?" Abez asked. "No, I'll be fine. We'll be home in no time anyways. Lets keep going."

So we did.

We went some more.

And some more.

Then I stopped in an intersection and scratched my hijab, which probably is a bad sign, since my head wasn't itching. "Um, there should be a ugly roundabout here. But there isn't. Maybe it's further down." So we turned right and kept walking. "Where's the Baskin Robbins you promised me sir?" Abez asked about two miles into the walk. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe we turned early. No worries though, we're not lost. The city is on a grid we're still heading in the right general direction," I sagely said, referring to the dark mystery that is my internal compass - my trump card. Abez, not in ownership of one of those, though she does have a neat dashboard mounted version of the same, again nodded and followed.

Somewhere down the unexplored new road, Abez said "Hey look, an ice cream parlor! It's not a Baskin Robbins, but I don't care. Lets go in!" We selected a two-scoop and accidental three-scoop cone to fuel us with guilt and calories. Ice cream in hand, we continued our long trek. And yes, by then it was a trek, in probably the Biblical sense of the word.

We'd walked at least three miles and I still hadn't seen the 'near home landmarks.' I was desperately scanning the horizon for. Then we stumbled upon.... THE OTHER MALL. There are two malls near our house. Near is a relative term, but this is the one that I didn't think was in walking distance. After about an hour of fast-paced trekking, somehow we found ourselves in front of the far one. Abez looked at me and smiled a bemused smile. I tried not to look surprised. "Yeah, I knew that was there. I'm still not lost." "Of course not. But maybe we should catch a cab." "Well, lets walk to that major intersection, and if I don't recognize any of it, then we'll do that."

So we walked another half a mile and stood on the corner and looked around. Nothing was familiar, everything was Greek -er- Arabic. It was also getting really late and the ice cream energy had begun to flag. "Um, I wonder if mom is worried about us yet. I'm sure she is. We should catch a cab and hurry home," Abez suggested. I grasped at the straw offered and answered "Oh yeah, we don't want mom to worry," this despite the fact that momma is a self-proclaimed 'non-worry-er' and probably hadn't even noticed our absence. Abez hailed us a cab and we got in.

Turns out, though not lost, we were still a good three miles from home. Apparently, Aniraz The Navigator has a bad habit of spacing out the middle of her route-memorization. I knew the beginning, I knew the end, but I had no idea the walk had such a huge middle. After about 15 minutes of driving (with me now attempting to pay attention to the roads), we pulled up in front of our flat. The entire distance between home and mall was probably around 7 miles. *blinks* Hmmm... Well now I know.

Yesterday my little brother suggested we walk home from Dubai. I wonder if internal compasses are hereditary.

How is that I feel like I've already lived an eternity here in the United Ates of Emiratia? It's really only been about two weeks, but it already seems like forever. Blame it on boredom. When you've got no distractions, you're left to sit there and absorb your surroundings and experiences. Generally, I'd be spacing out with work, friends, blogging, or chores. Now, all I've got is me, my truncated family and the four walls.

Not one to converse with infrastructure, I've turned to roaming. I spend much of my day wandering up and down the neighborhood, trying to find my way to anything within three miles. I wake up, eat my breakfast, put my shoes on and go. By the time work starts or our shipment of household goods finally arrives, I'll know my lil ol neighborhood in Sharjah like the back of my hand.

Whodathunk, after years of being a generalist, I'd finally specialize. Too bad my specialization is Rolla - brown-man district of Sharjah, home of pokey dosa shacks, sari stalls, 5-dirham junk shops and unrecognizable groceries. Already Knicq bhai has initiated me on my fledgling Malayalam vocab. After mastering the wiggling head nod for yes, I think I should call it quits. It's a lovely language, I don't want to ruin it by trying to speak it.

Speaking of languages, I really have to tackle Arabic. My two years of classical Arabic classes were pretty much a bust for colloquial understanding. It's like studying Shakespearean English to live in New York. What made it worse was that my teacher was a very nice Punjabi who'd never even met an Arab, meaning his accent was atrocious. He spoke it like Urdu. We never even attempted to pronounce the guttural letters, so now hearing them, they bounce right off my ears and leave me jangled. I'd be wise to take a crash course in colloquial to prepare me for my new job as a reporter.

Sigh. Me a gumshoe. Not what I wanted but better than nothing. Funnily enough, when my would-be-boss asked me what my biggest shortcoming was as a journalist, I neglected to mention that I'm more than a bit anti-social. It's not the best quality for someone who's supposed to grab random strangers and interrogate them. I guess I'll manage though. I've put up with greater discomfort for work and wasn't it me who said they wanted to be challenged and taken out of their comfort zone? Careful what you wish for.

This pathetic update was brought to you by Laban Up. It's the salty, dairy cousin of Seven Up. I think it's a sick joke. Don't be fooled. Run away. Save yourself.

*sneaks out of blog*

The sounds and the smell of the cab are briefly displacing. The air is dry with none of the faint ocean salt and wilting humidity to flavor it. It smells instead of clean dust. A muffled Pashto commentary flows from a hidden radio. I sit down and the driver finds my eyes in the rear view mirror.

"To where?" he asks. "Sharjah City Center, Khan sahib," I answer in what I hope is articulate Urdu. Graying thick eyebrows pop in mild surprise. Rolling along, he answers "That's ten rupees." I nod, and motion my waiting mother to sit down. We quickly pull away from the curb.

Eager to learn the route of my new home city, I turn to look out the window. My quiet mother rides beside me with her usual silent stillness. We sit, touching, with my head resting slightly on her shoulder. There is nothing to be heard but the smooth but fuzzy dialogue issuing from the radio.

A few city blocks are sped past before the cabbie breaks the standard reserve and asks me a question. The usual question. "She your mother?" he knowingly asks, glancing at the blonde-haired, blue eyed Caucasian in the rear-view mirror. His accent is that familiar one that all Pakistanis love to emulate - Urdu made soft, almost unformed, with longer vowels and slight nasality. I shift slightly on the vinyl seat to better see the driver and answer, "Yes, my mother."

"He is from Britain?" "No, America," and before the driver can ask the obvious follower, "And I'm from Pakistan." It brings the usual, knowing laugh. Most Urdu speakers take my slight twang as the accessory of a Pathan. True frontiersmen, however, know better. This one could probably hear my Western origin the moment I opened my mouth.

"You mean your babba is from Pakistan, hmm?" "Yes, that too. And you Khan sahib?" I parry, hoping to distract. "We come from Afghanistan," he proudly answers. "Ah." "so this is Pashto, or Dari?" "It is Pashto."

There is silence again for the next few blocks, which surprises me. Typically I would expect to spend the next few minutes trying to explain my confused origin. The driver skips the usual interrogation and jumps a few steps ahead. "She is not Muslim?"

This too is standard - what with my skirted, scarfless mother sitting beside her robed daughter - but it is usually preceded by much formal bush-beating. "No, she is not Muslim." "Christian then?" he asks in semi-English and I flinch, hoping my mother hasn't guessed the topic of our discussion. I usually try to shield her from these, as I fear they would only alienate her. I quickly look over, but realize she is oblivious - as a non-Urdu speaker, deaf to the conversation and mute to participation.

The cabbie lets out a breath, tingeing the air with the smell of a long-closed mouth. Then he begins. "Why haven't you invited her to Islam?" Now it's my turn to sigh. "I do. We do and always have. But invite is all we can do. La iqraha fi deen, there is no compulsion in faith."

He nods and I see his brow furrow. "But..." he begins again, then stops. "But Islam is so perfect!" he finally splutter, as if he has never encountered one who could turn it down.
"I know," I answer quietly.
"It answers all the questions! It gives you peace of mind! It's the only religion that bears scrutiny! Look at all the others hard enough, study their books, and they only confuse. Islam, the more you look, the better it gets!"
"Yes, you have said truth Khan sahib."
"Then what?! What does her religion have that Islam doesn't?"
"Familiarity I suppose. Man stays with what he knows. He prefers the path of his fathers. It is his identity and to change it would leave him feeling uprooted."

The driver's right hand moves in the air as he stabs out his thoughts while the left one steers.
"And you talk to her about Islam? You tell her how good it is?"
"All the time."
"Then?"

This is an old dialogue with words that flow of their own volition like blood from a wound. My answer flows the same way. "Faith. That comes from God alone. He puts it in our hearts and opens our eyes even when we don't want to see. Right now, she still has faith in her own religion. She is a righteous woman with a great devotion to God. It's just misguided is all. But until that cup runs out, she will feel no hole that needs filling. You can't pour something on top of a cup that's already full. It just overflows."

I again look over to my mother. She has closed her eyes and is leaning back against the seat. I reach over and hold her hand. The wound I thought was patched with numb scar tissue long ago throbs dully.

"Then?" comes the frustrated and tired question for the millionth time. He sounds as hopeless and resigned as I feel. It's amazing how far we have journeyed together in this short taxi ride.

"Then pray."
"Pray?"
"Yes, please pray for her. When Muslims ask me about her, I ask this of them. Maybe if enough of us pray to Allah to open her eyes, ears and tongue to Islam, it will be done."

He weighs my request and finally answers, "Inshallah."

Walking down the pan-thook stained streets I dodge groups of happy men in colorful dhotis shooting the breeze. Theirs is not in any language I understand. It's fast and smooth Malayalam or possibly Telgu, I wouldn't know the difference. It seems a sad loss, not to know this lingua franca of such relaxed and unconcerned-sounding people. I make a mental note to pick some up.

At the small cafe outside our hotel I ask the waiter what the difference is between masala dosa and rava dosa. I ask in 'hindi,' he answers in something that reminds me of listening under-water. I can somehow understand his answer but it's all muddled. The jist of it involves pepper and something else. I order the masala dosa and some tea.

The dosa arrives on a divided tray with the chutney and bhaji regimentally seperated by neutral territory. The dosa itself lays supreme like a decadent raj, spread wide along three tray sections. Sleeves rolled up, we dig in. One hand reaches for the steel tumbler of water while the other shoos at visiting cockroaches. We move the table aside, and they stand sideways on the wall, wiggling their antenna in protest. Sorry bub, my dosa, not yours.

The chai I sip makes my cavities hurt. We call this 'laborer tea.' It's got all the essential ingredients to start your day of hard work - sugar and caffeine. The waiter stands expectantly but I wave him away with a coconut-chutney covered hand. No, I can't handle another cuppa. This one already moves me to turn cartwheels and give powerful orations from the tabletop.

I finish all that I can of the dosa, realizing that I have not the appetite it takes to dispatch it completely. The waiter looks disappointed. I am as well. Wasting food is a cardinal sin, but overeating is an even greater one. Again I mourn not having that lovely South Indian metabolism that matches the meal.

We leave the cafe and I pull a book from my bag. As we walk back to our quiet hotel room I lose myself in the words of Arundhati Roy. Not surprisingly, I find the subconscious journey to Kerala not a difficult one. Afterall, am I not already in India?

No time for proper update. Hiding out in ramshackle net cafe in brown-man district of Sharjah. I fit right in. Harhar.

Still in the midst of major running around and house shopping. This is almost as tiring as the packing itself, and definitely more frustrating. I dunno who are worse, ditzy taxi-drivers or smarmy real estate agents. Both can be fixed with a good chapal upside the head, methinks.

So yeah, please pray for us. Pray we get what we need as soon as possible. And while you're on the rug, throw in some sincere requests for well-paying job-ocity for yours truly. I fear I bungled my interview. Such happens with no sleep and absent brain filter.

Here be some boredom inspired haikus. I think Abez and I were competing. Dunno who won. Here are mine. She won't let me post hers. I'll take that as a sign of my victory, if not greater spazzy nerd-dom.

Flies in plane cabin;
not unwanted, rather sown.
Fuelless free engines.

Food on tray table
showered with gentle sprinkle
from dandruff't headrest.

Shameless leering goon
about to win best seat in plane
Go ejection seat!

*takes off Beatnik beret*
*bows*

Remember when I was like "poor tailors, they have such a tough time, boo hoo?" Well scratch that. Now it's "damn tailors, friggin idiots!"

*pulls out hair*

I'm a simple (wo)man. I ask little in life and less from my tailors. I'm not like those aunties who come into the tailor shop demanding the earth for nothing in exchange. I do not threaten, insult or berate, nor do I flirt and ask for special treatment like other girls. I'm a consummate professional and always respectful. I'll pay you what you ask to do what I ask.

That said, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!

To one tailor I gave four jalbabs and two kurtis to be made. What I got back was a bagful of grief.

The blue jalb: What was asked was a simple jalbaya, straight hem, no chalks - with two lines of embroidery along the side.

What I got back was a misshapen sad-sack. The waist has moved south for the winter. It's now resting on my hips. The embroidery, instead of sedate and tasteful, looks like I'm being grabbed by a fat crab. The neck is huge, which I suppose is meant to match the MASSIVE stove-pipe sleeves. And the crowning oddity: it has a slit. On ONE side. Like a provocative evening gown?! It's a jalb for corn's sake!

The green/ gray two-tone - This was another simple jalb. The fabric was made to be reversible; mossy on one side and ash gray on the other. I asked that he use the gray side to make a stripe down the middle with beaded piping to line it. What I got was a completely monochrome jalb with cockeyed piping trailing down the shoulders. When I asked him what happened to the stripe, he rapidly yelled something in Punjabi to the tailormonkeys in the crawlspace overhead. Then he shrugged. Jee thanks.

The blue-green kurti. This fabric had mad potential. I lovingly picked out some beads to match and selected the neck design and cut. Those he followed, but oddly, gave me three-quarter sleeves, which means I won't be able to wear it in public and can't pray in it. As if I need to have costume changes for my five-daily prayers or anytime a non-related male visits. I'm not a flippin Bollywood heroine.

The grey striped kurti – Same problem. Three-quarter length sleeves.

The white and tan jalbs he just didn't make.

Oh, and ALL of them were three days past his deadline.

You can tell I've had a bad day. Just a few hours ago I discovered the upholsterers put the fabric on my chairs UPSIDEDOWN! What was a tasteful and delicate print on the right side is hideous, dark and animal-print-esque on the back. And there's no changing it. His excuse, "But baji, it has knots on the side you wanted." Yes, it's called texture. I paid extra for it.

This must be God's way of making the move easier.

*sigh*

Holy moly. I'm exhausticated. Seriously. It's 1:30 in the a.m. and I only got home an hour ago. This was the world's longest day, but I still have far to go, so I'm trying to cram some bloggity goodness into the top.

I got me a mile-long list of Stuff What Needs To Be Bought/ Packed / Accomplished Etc Before Moving. On that list is 'empty out the freezer.' This might be the most unpopular job on there. Every time I mention it to me familia I get groans of agony.

You see, cleaning out the freezer entails EATING everything that we've frozen over the year. It's an ugly job, but someone's got to do it. And no, I don't believe in throwing food away *scowls*. I live in a country where people are malnourished and many go hungry. I have no right to toss food that is still edible, even if it does taste slightly like freon. There is barakah in all halal rizq and it should be eaten gratefully and not wasted.

Lecture done, I am going to share with you my sad list of frozen food. Feel free to jump in and offer to eat it up for me. Especially you guys. That's what guys are for. I know this, I have brothers. Unfortunately though, the one at home is forever dieting. My dad is picky. They're a defective bunch of males.

* 8 boxes of feta cheese. This has got to be the hardest to deal with. You can't just EAT feta. It's potent stuff. A mouthful will curl your toes. You can only use it in other things, and sparingly at that. So how do I get rid of it all? I've proposed feta EVERYTHING until we leave, but my family isn't buying it. They're so uncooperative. So yeah, I'm thinking, host a party and give the feta away as door prizes. "Hi! How are you! Glad you could make it! Have some feta!"

* Two bags of ground beef. This is easily cooked up, if I but had the time. I don't. I've personally been living on crackers since we started this mayhem. Standing over a hot stove when I'm dead on my feet just doesn't appeal to me right now. I'd rather either pack it in a box *ew* or chuck it at the loudest of the banging carpenters upstairs.

* Shami kabobs. I made these myself and they're pretty damn good. These, I can eat. If I can remember to.

* Miscellaneous baking chocolate. I don't know if we have to eat this stuff. It'll keep, right? Chocolate, like diamonds, is forever.

* Coriander. The vegetable sellers here like to give freebies when you buy stuff. It's usually either a handful of green chili peppers or coriander, or both. Subsequently, we have a lot of frozen coriander. The peppers, thankfully, as a non-food biohazard item, are chucked over the wall by my American mom, who doesn't approve of severe hotness in food. I should just start sprinkling coriander over everyone like party confetti.

* Chicken bits. I seem to be averse to cooking entire amounts of everything. I use a little bit and put the rest in the freezer. Now I have a few bags of chicken odds and ends that haven't yet met their culinary doom. Remember the Franken-blender-stein? Man, I shudder to think of what I could cobble together with these leftovers. It'd be all wings and necks.

* Lamb broth. I promised my mom I'd make her some Arab lentil soup with the broth. That was then, this is now.

* 3 dozen chicken burgers. We used to serve these at our restaurant. Then people stopped ordering the whitey food cuz our Paki food was just so damn awesome. That's why we still have feta and also chicken burgers. These I don't have to worry too much about though, cuz my dad is doing a good job of living nearly entirely on them. If he keeps this up we may finish them off by the end of the month. Or they'll have finished him off. Erg.

* Mystery grain. It's a goodly bag of some sort of grain that is not flour, cornmeal, gram flour, farina or whole wheat. I called in my panel of experts (mom, dad and me) and we did a pinch taste test to figure out what it is. No dice yet. I think I'll just throw random handfuls into anything that requires thickening. It worked for the kheer yesterday.

* Assorted sprinkles. These we have POUNDS of. Thirty-five pounds of three kinds of sprinkles to be exact; holdovers from when we had a bakery. They've been resting their vacuum packed selves in the freezer for two years. I don't think we have a snowball's chance in hell of using all these up. Nor should we try. It would probably result in artificial color poisoning for all of us. Instead, I was thinking of making a small bean-bag chair with one substitution. I think sprinkle-bag chair has a nice ring, don't you think?

* Bucket o' stew. I made this for my brother, thinking meat and potatoes were guy food. He didn't dig it though. With lil bro's new-found maturity not only does he now bathe more often than me, but he also eats vegetables. *blinks* This is hardly the goony-boy I grew up with. Since its rejection, the stew has been hiding out in the freezer for a rainy and desperate day. That day is today.

If you guys have any ideas on how to do away with these unsavory frozen foods, please lemme know. Or if a five-pound bag of sprinkles would hit the spot right now, don't hesitate to ask for some. Act now and get our special deal – a box of feta free with every comment! (Offer valid only in the Contiguous United States while supplies last. Void where prohibited.)

A paradigm of human patience can be seen in the professionals involved in Pakistan's clothes industry.

I tell you why.

In the weeks before our move, my parents have twisted my arm into finally getting some clothes sewn. Generally, I'm a ragtag bum, and I likee like that. But now that Abez is off in marriage land, methinks my parents have designs on my singlehood. Designs to do away with it, if ye know what I mean. Bumped out and up of my traditional role as 'the curmudgedly younger sister' I'm now first in line before the firing squad and they want me to look the part. *THWACK*

Nice and well-fitting clothing, in my opinion, is just nail polish on the camel's toes, especially when the camel still spits, as this one does. It's all formality, since I'm not mentally marriageable, but there's no arguing with the parentals. They want me to make some clothes NOW! (And smile while you're at it, and stand up straight, and quit making faces at everyone! *wry grin*)

So I am. Yep, I'm duteous like that *raspberry*. And maybe a bit opportunistic. Lord knows my wardrobe has seen better days. And it's usually a sure sign you need a new one when your impoverished housekeeper turns her nose at the giveaway clothes you were wearing till yesterday. My favorite suit isn't fit to scrub floors in. Or with.

Getting new clothes here is not simple task though. Women in Pakistan rarely buy readymade suits. No, here each female is a fashion designer and every suit is custom built to the wearer's individual specifications from the bottom up.

Fabric is bought on the bolt for the three-piece shalwar-kameez-dupatta (shirt, pants and shawl). Every corner market here has a fabric shop where women come to create suits from the hundreds of varieties of cloth on sale. Storekeepers will pull down their entire stock, unfurl their fabrics and throw them at your face, hoping impaired vision will induce you to buy. Some men even model the fabric for you, but we won't talk about that right now.

After hours of smelling, scrutinizing, touching and tasting the fabrics, it's common to see women walk out with nothing. They leave the store in complete disarray, and though you would suspect to see the owner weeping softly in his pile of silks, he doesn’t. The salesmen simply sigh (and maybe spit a few choice words) and begin to fold it all up again like the sad robots that they are.

The madness doesn't end when you get your fabric though. Then you have to take it to the bailwala who sells lace, trim, piping, buttons, tassels, fringe, fur, mirrors, beads, etc. This stuff is necessary for anyone who's anyone to embellish the sleeves, neck and hems of their clothes. A plain suit is just not done.

The notion stores are usually holes in the wall where three sellers man a counter and two walls of wares. Like monkeys crammed in a small cage they bounce around, snaking between each another as women shout to be shown the piping of their choice. Imagine the stock floor, but instead of sweat and testosterone choking the static air, it's perfume and estrogen (and maybe some more sweat).

For each suit, dozens of trim will be pulled down and then discarded in the endless pursuit of perfection. It is a hunt for that one bit of frippery that will turn five yards of cloth into a sartorial sensation, ideally anyways. The laces are put through a screening process so rigorous - where the texture, style and color is fanatically analyzed - that you'd think the women were panning for gold.

In the midst of all this the bailwalas are expected to manage like fashion-savvy octopi. Not only do they have to pull out a dozen trims at once, but they're also expected to have a good eye for color and knowledge of what's in and what's out. When a selection is finally made, in a process as complicated as the choosing of the pope, then comes the haggling. "You said this was 6 rupees, but I want it for five!" The thrill of the hunt comes in the challenge, and what's the fun when don't fight for a rupee off?

The last man on the food chain of fashion is the tailor. He's the one women rush to after they've left the cloth and notion sellers with a nervous twitch and a hankering for a desert island. It is on the tailor's weather-beaten counter that the final product is brought together.

The tailor is expected to decipher the badly-drawn creations and understand the inarticulate directions babbled at him by a council of would-be fashionistas. "I want this like the one Saima was wearing in 'Love is Like Love' but don't make it all cowy." The suits are designed with all the deliberation of a new constitution. "This trim goes here, here, here, but not here, cuz that's too OTT."

After directions are meticulously noted, it's considered within rights for them to be dumped. "Never mind, instead do it like this picture, but totally different!" Each aspect and angle of the suit comes with specifications written in stone and woe be to the tailor who fails to follow the commandments. "You RUINED my cloth! I won't pay for it now! I'll still wear it of course but you have pay ME for the fabric you destroyed!"

Not surprisingly, being defeatist and yielding seems to be an occupational hazard of tailoring.

And verbosity and hyperbole is an occupational hazard of clothes-making.