My chand raat was amazing. But not in the nicer definition of the word. As in amazement causing. See for yourself.

Since I’ve returned to Arabia I’ve been staying with a friend at her cozy little apartment. A few days back the lovely girl headed home for the holidays, leaving me in charge. Her instructions were simple - don't burn down the house, keep the door locked and arrange to have a leak fixed. Straight forward stuff, impossible to goof up, no?

Don't worry Hem, I haven't reduced your home to cinders. Er, it's sort of more on the other side of the elemental spectrum. It's, um, rather wet.

See, like requested, I called up the landlord and asked that a plumber be sent to fix a pipe that had been gushing water in the bathroom for the past few days. And as requested, I stuck around to meet the plumber and be there when he fixed the place. My job was really just to open the door and make sure the guy didn't try to steal Hem's sizeable throw-pillow collection. Hey, don’t scoff. It’s pretty enticing cushionry.

Well the plumber fellow did show up. And I very masterfully showed him the mini Niagara in the bathroom. “See!” I'm a champion pointer outer of things. That I am. And I additionally passed on the very complicated directions of "Fix! Please." I then sat back to lose myself in a novel while the repairman busied himself.

Fast forward an hour. With my expert management, things couldn't help but be going well. The throw pillows were all still present and accounted for, the apartment not on fire, and very soon the leak had been fixed. With that success under my belt, I got ambitious and asked the fellow if he was just a plumber or a fixer of other type things as well.

In his broken Hindi he explained that he did electrical work too and had heard that the apartment needed some of that as well. Ah yes, Hem had mentioned a mysterious blacking out of the many ceiling lights in the house. I again utilized the ability only my combination of orangutan-long arms and stunning hand-eye-coordination could allow - more pointing out of things. "These keep dying," I said, gesturing to a light bulb overhead, in what I hoped was my own technical sounding Hindi. The handyman nodded and proceeded to pull out wires and turn knobs and suchlike. You know, fixit-ing.

Having gone above and beyond the call of duty, I returned my reading. I was just getting to the good part when *POP* the undead-but-not-in-a-zombie-way lights went out. From the darkness I hear a sheepish voice ask me: "Know where is DV box miss?" DV box? Hmmm..... Is that like the abbreviated version of a DVD holder? Or a piece of furniture, like a TV trolley? No? Cripes. "Er, no idea." I could faintly make out a head-wobble of understanding before the fellow went out on his own DV box search mission.

He must have found whatever he was looking for because the appliances in the house started humming again, though the lights remained dead. "I go to the shop miss. Back soon very much," Sir Handyman told me and then disappeared. "Righto," I muttered, already back to reading, now by the light of my laptop screen. "Good thing Hem isn't here to bop me for reading in the dark. Or for having lost ALL her lighting, for that matter," I thought.

So I decided to keep the door unlocked *GASP* and my position at the ready for the return of the handyman. Ever the good-girl and expert houseguest, I stayed totally put, which just coincidentally allowed for me to be an evil slothmonkey who was lounging on the best pillow stash this side of the Atlantic while reading lovely literature. Ah the sacrifices we must make…

I remained in that state for gosh knows how long (SUCH A TROOPER!) until I realized it was getting dark out. And still Sir Handyman had not yet returned. I was vaguely wondering what happened to him when there was another loud *POP* - this time from the bathroom. I didn't have more than a half second to abstractly wonder as to its cause, drenched as I was immediately by the 12-foot jet of water that was spouting forth . The source – the verysame pipe the handyman had just ‘repaired’ before he left.

Ignoring my desire to shriek and cower like a girl – or, er, rather after a few seconds of shrieking and cowering - I manfully jumped up and ran to the bathroom. But of course the floor WOULD be wet, and being wet WOULD make it seriously slippery. I didn't get two feet before my own two feet went flying beneath me with ambitions of touching the ceiling. They were thankfully not realized ones though, as I landed abruptly with a wet *WHAP*, my fall broken by a kind but hard wall.

“Ah,” my stunned self thought, “Now would be the time to lay back and moan.” And check for missing appendages. But I couldn’t enjoy it as I was still getting rather wet from the puddle that accumulated around me (which begs the question of – did I fall so hard I put an indentation in the marble floor and cause all the water to run down to me? Let’s not check.).

So up I hopped again – this time slightly more carefully – and yanked the bathroom door shut. “Ah, genius! That’s it, let the nasty leak do its worst! The pillows and I are safe behind the door.” But then there was another *POP* and I realized the manic stream was now ricocheting back into the bathroom and was deluging everything in sight – including the bathroom lighting. Egad. I took a deep breath, said my goodbyes to the pillows in case I didn’t make it, wrenched the door back open and dove in.

I’ve yet to talk about what happens on the other side of a bathroom door on this blog, and hope to continue this streak, so I’ll skip ahead. A few minutes later I emerged looking a bit like an upright otter but more like the Wicked Witch of the West a second after Dorothy dumped the bucket on her head but just before she’d fully melted. As you can guess, I’d staunched the flow and kindly absorbed most of the wayward water with my clothes, hair and dignity. *drippy grin*

Sorry Hem. Two out of three aint bad, right? I mean, I do hope you can forgive me for leaving the door unlocked.

And the pillows send their love.

My life is weird. Unconventional. Bizarre. Often unlucky. Sometimes charmed. Totally blessed. Still always weird.

But you know, that’s exactly how I want it to be, if not exactly where. I’ve been at its helm for a long time now, since those years gone when a lost little girl realized that she was Alive and the captain of her soul. It was then that I formed an idea of who I wanted to be and where I wanted my life to take me. And with those vague notions, I took my ship out of the placid waters of conformity and hit the high sea.

It has been longer still, and I’m still at the wheel, charting my own course. Sometimes I admit, I get a bit sun-baked and forget where it is that I’m trying to get. Sometimes I let the Siren call lure me back to shore for a while. And every so often I misdirect myself and get beached. But for the most part, I’m still out there, piloting by the stars, aiming for a point on the horizon, and hoping to get there one day.

And sure, it’s slow going. But I think I’m getting closer. It would help if I was a better navigator. I can’t seem to avoid choppy waters or jagged rocks. Hell, I even get hit by the odd iceberg. Worse still, sometimes I deliberately steer myself into stormy weather for kicks. And yes, I manage to be surprised when I get a broken mast or a leaky hull for my foolishness. If this was more than a crew of one perhaps I’d stage a mutiny, but I’m already the first mate, cook and deckhand. I'm all I've got.

Best I can do is keep scanning the heavens and my soul to see if I’m on course. I need to be frank with myself about where I want to end up and whether the current path is likely to get me there. And quit torture-testing the damn ship! It is NOT indestructible. And neither am I.

Ah, the adult world. So exciting and adventurous. Full of freedom and experience. Heartbreak and intrigue. Risk and danger. Eat your heart out kiddies – THIS is what we grew up for...

The other night my fellow Single Woman On The Loose Hem and I went out to paint the town red. It was only the beginning of the work-week here, but already we needed to let our hair down. Interviewing and number crunching is wearying stuff. We deserved a break. So the Hem and I climbed into her muscle car, cranked up the music, tipped back our seats, and set out. Such a picture of grown-up cool we must have seen – two world-weary chicks in their fancy ride and funky clothes – out on the town.

After cruising at a smooth 100 mph down the Abu Dhabi highway and leaving some would-be racers in our dust, we reached our destination. Hem pulled the car into park, took off the shades that had been fetchingly perched on the top of her head and tightened her shoe straps. In the passenger side I flipped down the mirror, checked my hijab and pinned down a loose end. We then exited the vehicle and headed straight to the main attraction.

The jungle gym.

No, this isn’t code for something sneaky or a new night club. I mean it. A jungle gym. You know, bars that you climb on, crawl through and hang from. At the park. No, not the hippest place to see and be seen. A proper park .Where my Abez and her little ones were already there, ready for action.

After scrambling to the top and giving the nephew a bit of a fright (aunties aren’t supposed to be this limber!), we moved on to the slides. Hem picked the windy rainbow one. I launched myself down the bumpy red. We squealed all the way down the short ride to the bottom and raced back up to the top – the real thrill being we could still fit down the things. Score!

Next we tried the swings where I showed Hem what I meant when I had told her I spent most of my time at school out-jumping the boys. “They build these things strong,” she winked at me from down below as I kicked hard into the air.

Monkey bars were then given a try – I can still swing across them – if I lift my feet off the ground first. Sigh. Hem then tried a pull-up that left her a bit rickety – the evening’s first casualty.

That wasn’t going to stop us though. We hurried over to the other attractions. Bridges were ran across, tubes crawled through, and bars hung from. “You look better upside down yaar,” I said, squinting at Hem. “Yeah? I think those men sitting on the benches over there think you do too,” a wry Hem answered. Er. Run away!

We ran to a more deserted corner of the park with more slides and big patches of clear grass. “Ooh, lets see how many cartwheels we can do!” Many eons ago, Abez and I took a month of gymnastics where she wowed the teacher with her bendiness and I managed not to snap in half. After, say, nearly two decades of storage I’ve since given my rusty cartwheel a go, but didn’t have the space to try and see if I could do more than one. “I’m sitting this one out,” the wise Hem said, and sat back to watch the show.

Abez seamlessly landed one before begging off with a pulled muscle, leaving just me. After five cartwheels, the world was shaken loose from its moorings. On the sixth, I landed on my feet, but only for a second before I collapsed in a giggling heap with my nephew running a circle around me laughing. I tried to stand up but couldn’t walk a straight line. “You look wasted,” they laughed. “I am. On the cheap.”

The evening culminated with a group teeter totter session before we called it a night. We gathered up our purses, straightened our clothes, and stumbled back to our cars. A bunch of crazy ladies, looking for fun. And finding it. At the park.

“You’re a journalist? Oh, you must be one of those intensely curious types,” I often hear. Usually, I just nod and smile. Yes, I do like to know things, about as much as the next person. But somehow curious doesn’t strike me as exactly the right word to describe me.

I don’t know if I’m a curious person as much as I’m just a damned persistent one. That there is much in the world that I will never experience, I’m fairly ok with. Ignorance is bliss. That there are things so complex and deep that I can simply not grasp them, I can live with. But that there are things that I’m not understanding when I put my mind to it, drives me up the wall. It’s more that I’m stubborn and insist on succeeding at something when I try to, than I am a pursuer of knowledge.

And when I don’t get stuff, I do a hellova lot of research, lose myself in thought, and ask around for answers. And that, Blogistan, is where you come in.

Over the years I’ve met a lot of you. Some of you I know in “real life.” You know real people who hitherto meeting me had no connection to Blogistan. It was only after threatening yours truly for being elusive and incommunicado that you have been (somewhat reluctantly) shown this little corner of the internet where I spout off. Now you wish you hadn’t nagged me, eh? ;)

And then there are the now scores of bloggers who I have met up with, arranged or accidental. I long ago lost count, but just last week it was pointed out that I’m probably Blogistan’s equivalent of Kevin Bacon – some bizarre social nexus that most of you can reach in seven steps or less. Spooky, that.

So yes, I can safely assume that many of you – bloggers, blurkers, and folks who’ve crossed paths with me at some point in my life and got this URL as a pathetic souvenir – have met me. No need for a handcount. You’re going to want your anonymity once you know what I’m up to.

See, one of the things that I’ve been boggling my brain about, trying to understand, is my perception. How I am viewed. Cuz despite the fact that I’m probably one of the most harmless and silly people you’ll ever meet, strangely I come across a little differently. Especially to guys.

“Oh, I’m sorry the fellows were being so shy around you. They told me they were intimidated,” a friend tells me after bringing me to see her group of her buddies.
“Owl, you scare the **** out of boys!” my big bro told me when he came to see me off at the airport.
“You need to keep that otherworldly thing you channel sometimes under wraps,” another friend advises.

Intimidating? Scary? OTHERWORLDLY?! Dude, I am so very very very terribly human. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. I say dumb things. I stutter. I make awful mistakes. I’m spacey on the best of days. I crack jokes endlessly, my favorite victim being myself. I’m so much an open book that I routinely get myself into trouble. But then, sometimes you can’t see the forest through the trees.

So, yeah, those who’ve met me – now’s your chance to share. Guys, did you find me intimidating? Why do you think I scare some people? How on earth am I otherworldly? What’s this all about? Help a girl out. :) And feel free to post anonymously.

Guzarish hui hai kay Khatoona Owl aik blog post ‘Urdu’ main karain. Bahout din huain hay jab say main nay aik mazakiya post likhi, toh socha tha kay ooskay jaga yeh chalayga. Afterall, jub bhi main Urdu bolti hun toh log barday hastay hain. Aur haan, agar thumay laga tha kay main Urdu may apnay aap ko Khatoona Oolo banati, toh tum ko ghalat fahmi thi. :P

Toh jee, jaisay aap ko dikhraha hai, main aik hud tak Urdu bolti houn. Dosray logoun ki samajna aik doosri baat hai. Manhoos moozakard aur moinnus hum ko nahi soojthi. Koorsi hoti hai kay hota hai? Koorsioun ko dafa karo!

Kya kehsakti houn yaar, main unpard jahil houn. Teen saal main Pakistan may iskool gai, aur teen saal baqaidgi say main fail hui. Jab main wapas Amreeka gai toh main aik gyara saal ki grammar school drop out thi.

Is ka matlab yeh nahi hai kay main nay kooch bhi nahi seekha itnay saaloun may. Kaafi sarray fazool kisim ki cheezain seekhi hai, jo main ab woh main aapkay saat ‘share’ karoungi.

Dubba main dubba
Dubbai main cake
Humaray abbu lakhoun main aik

(Wah ji wah!)

Titili oordi
Oord na saki
Bus may behti
Seat naa mili
Driver bola
Aoo mairah paas
Titili boli
“Hut badmaash!”
Driver boli
Yeh kya baat?
Titili boli:
“Gadhay ki laat!”

(How profound!)

Akar bakkar bumbay bo
Aissi noway pooray soh
Soh maiy luga dhaga
Chor nikalkay bhaga
Acha kana kaounga
Sipahi ko bolaunga
Rail boli chika chik
Double roti
Biscuit.

-Khatum shud-

What do you look like, in the faded photo album of collective memory? How are you remembered? Are you the one always looking out of frame, reluctant to be even seen? Or the clown, pulling a face? Or the thinker, stooped in internal reverie?

I wonder how I am remembered. Because I am only a memory to so many. There is more Owl in those cranial scrapbooks than there is in life. To know me in the moment, is to know smoke. Never really there. Always changing. Impossible to catch.

But the snapshots, they tell you something. If nothing, a glimpse into that splitsecond present. What you are now. Later, who you were then. And seen in a line, a story of change.

We store our own albums, and they can't be flipped through and shared like their tangible counterparts. So I can only guess what the big picture looks like. Some stages I can speculate pretty well. Afterall, there have been real pictures taken.

Owl the little girl - shy smiles, wide eyes, shrinking posture. Owl the preteen - smile now faded into a nearly blank look of watchful scepticism, caught a bit like a wild animal on film. Owl the teenager - uncertain posture replaced with an arms across the chest, head thrown back stance, face a mask of disinterest. Owl the young adult - teeth now showing in a wide smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, seated legs crossed, a proper grown up donchaknow.

And lately, it is Owl with head slightly cocked, questioning eyes, lips gently curved in what can pass, only just, for a smile. The Modern Mona Lisa, my mother teases. Hands clasped at ease, feet turned, as if ready always to walk away.

And behind those eyes, now there is a thought: shall I make a new memory? Is it time for a change?

I find myself in a foreign land again. I have been hereabouts before, but not exactly. A new city for a new adventure.

Outside my window it's sand as far as the eye can see - a flat, dust colored horizon broken only by the odd stunted tree. Brave, that tree, that tries to grow in this scorched earth, where the day sky is a constant squint-inducing haze, the night cold and black, and a wind known to blow so strong that the locals thought it the vortex of an angry jinn. It's no wonder the palm and scrub that defies the odds and reaches for the heavens is compact and gnarled. We all bear the scars of our choices.

They say nothing makes a person feel smaller, and more insignificant, than standing alone in the desert. More so even than the ocean. The desert has all of its monotony and none of its movement. The dunes shift only at an eon's pace, and flora and fauna are scarcely seen. Your common peer is the grain of sand. Either you are alone, or you are one of an uncountable multitude, miles deep on all sides and below.

And there am I. A gnarled tree. A grain of sand. A desert jinn.

Strange that though I sit now fed after hours of fasting, I am still awash with a gnawing ache.

I leave in a day, back to my life of uncertainty and searching. Behind I leave some of the kindest, most generous and lovely people I know - dozens upon dozens scattered across the continent. And I can't lie, it hurts. There's not much more to say than that, so I'll just leave some of the highlights of my last few days in the US.

*******
Around the iftar table the other day with two of my closest friends, one asks:

"Owl, what would you do if we made you miss your flight back home?"
Eyebrow raised, I answer: "Uh, I'd beat your butt."
The other friend answers before anything can be added, "Yeah, but I think it be worth the beating!"
"DEFINITELY!" they shout together.

Oh *HEART*

*******

Nado dedicated a song to me after issuing a vague threat earlier in the day that there was one out there about me. "But I'm not going to sing it at you, oh no, I'm going to make it so much worse. I'm going to show you the music video!" she said, grabbing me by the shoulder and turning me towards her computer.

With that, she pulled up Mariah Carey's Heartbreaker.

*cue five minutes of cringe-inducing cheesefest*

*********

"Owl, quit moving! Stay here! People should only live in the countries their passports are from and yours is blue!" a friend argues, trying for the dozenth time to convince me to stay back and be their house mouse.

"Oh you're right. That's exactly what passports are for. Keeping you IN your country," I deadpan.

Friend looks stern for a minute and then breaks out laughing.

******

"You're going just when I can see you again!" one of my oldest childhood friends wailed on the phone.

"Yaar, I'm so sorry. I've been around all year but we just kept missing each other. What can I do, I'm flying out in two days."

"You can stay with me! I'll drop you to the airport! Or wait, you can just STAY WITH ME!"

*PANG*

**********

What hit me hardest of all: When my lovely Neekers showed up unannounced, deciding to forgive, or at least forget, my unintended insult to her months ago and see me before I left. Hun, I am so sorry for hurting you and it was my mistake. Thanks for sharing your time with me and giving me another chance.

*********

And to all of the other beautiful people I've had the honor of calling friend here in North America - thank you. Inshallah, we will meet again. But if we don't, please do me the kindness to forgive me my errors and remember me in your prayers as you are in mine. I love you all.

Just in case I haven’t made it painfully clear on this blog of mine – I am an idiot. Yes. Indeed. And for stating that, I get the Captain Obvious award of the week. Sorry Adnan, you can have it back later.

See, it’s Ramadan again. That wonderful month of fasting and charity. Of spirituality and self reflection. Muslims do this every year, and I haven’t missed a Ramadan since I was 9 (yes, even before I chose to be Muslim I fasted cuz it was fun and the thing to do). It’s always a good experience.

And yet, for the past couple years, without fail, I view its arrival with nervousness and dread. Like I don’t want it to come. Why? Cuz fasting is hard? Duh. I figured that out a long time ago. I also know that I can handle it. I have a couple days of migraines and month-long dull headache, but I’m fine. The hunger is never that bad, and the thirst is only temporary.

I think the apprehension comes from my own self doubt and weakness. Ramadan used to be a time of great improvement for me. I would live my convictions to their highest in that month. And so often, those changes would become permanent. I started praying five times a day one Ramadan many years ago and have kept it since. I gave up my TV habit another year. Swearing, backbiting, and music were all left behind during this annual spiritual bootcamp, though sadly they’ve slipped back into my life to varying degrees.

That’s a big part of the problem. The list of things I need to do, give up, move past, remember and practice, has grown immense. It seems I spend all my energy just trying to keep up with my own status quo, to stop it from slipping any farther. I’ve not tried to introduce any permanent change in a long while.

And that’s perhaps what makes me apprehensive whenever this time of year rolls around. Like I mentioned earlier, Ramadan is reflection time. And I’ve become more and more reluctant to look in the mirror. That’s bad. If you can’t handle seeing who you are, then you probably don’t want God seeing you either. And that’s pointless, because there’s no where you can go and nothing you can do to get out of His sight.

So here’s to trying to get back to good:

No more music. I no longer spend endless sleepy hours driving, so whatever poor excuse I had to turn on the radio does not exist anymore. What was wrong with it way back when is still wrong now. It rarely instills me with anything good and instead fuels pride, lust and dissatisfaction.

More time and thought in my prayer. I still pray, but not with the passion I once did. Today, when I was kneeling in prayer, it occurred to me that I hadn’t ‘updated’ my dua in a long time. I was still praying for my father to get well – his life-long medical condition cleared up a few years ago – and had not included the names of my newer friends on the list. While sure my dad can always use good health, it’s pretty bad that I’d been reciting my dua on autopilot. I need to focus.

No more backbiting. I’m not as bad at this as some, but when I’m wronged I do tend to vent to someone about it. It’s better to say nothing, because why let the person who hurt you do it twice – first through their action, and the second on the Day of Judgment when you have to give your hard-earned good deeds to them for backbiting against them?

More love and patience with my family. I am sad to say that I’ve completely withdrawn from some members of my family. Tired of being hurt, I’ve simply stopped talking. This isn’t going to fix anything. Though I still think their behavior is wrong, I know that they’ve done enough good to me in the past to draw some forgiveness from today. I need to come back to life.

No more anger. When I was teenager, my anger defined me. I wore it like a cape. It was the first thing you noticed about me and the last thing you forgot. It took a lot of work to get rid of it and I was happily empty of that corrosive emotion for years. But somehow again I am allowing myself to be defined in contrast to everything else around me. And when I am angry, I am self destructive, which is why so much spiritual degradation has occurred.

More modesty. I’ve become indifferent and numb to many things on many levels, and somehow along the way the way I dress has been thrown in. It’s slipped past the radar because it’s not fueled by vanity or exhibitionism, but by simple apathy. It’s time I cared again.

More thoughtfulness. The goal I made years ago to chill out and quit being so intense has spiraled a bit out of control. I tend to be terribly flippant now, and I can’t get myself to care about much of anything anymore. I don’t make much of an effort to learn or think. I’ve become lazy and vacuous. This has to stop. I’m going to start with some serious reading and maybe even assign myself some homework. We’ll see how it goes.

More Quran. One can’t expect to become a better Muslim if they deprive themselves of the word of God. Everything a person needs is in the Quran. I just have to get myself to read it more often. And apply it.

So I maybe mentioned that my younger brother got married last month. That leaves me as The One That Got Away. Or THE PROBLEM, as my family prefers to see it. The familia alternates between forgetting I exist to suddenly remembering that, “oh yeah, there IS a second daughter/sister, and whoa, um, she isn’t married yet. How’d that happen?! Quick, do something!” That something usually just takes the form of some very amusing heart-to-hearts (“Beta, would you like to marry a cousin? You can have your pick!”) and just occasionally, I get treated to some downright hilarious ‘help’ like the following IM convo I had with my elder brother.

Bro: salaam
so what u tink bout my idea for you to go to grad school and find yourself a husband
Owl: I think that if they would pay me to attend their university, I'd consider it
But I'm not going to take a hit for a degree I don't value just so I can be the oldest person in a room again. I did that at my fellowship.
Bro: DAYMN!!!!
Owl: Yeah, I know
I'm difficult
Bro: gee, WHAT EVER!!!
Owl: hahahaha
Bro: you should go and apply for Stanford’s Fellowship
be the only person to do both
Owl: Er, I doubt lightning is gonna strike twice yo.
Bro: seriously
ok
mehmood knows one guy
(five minute pause)
Owl: So you said Mehmood knows a guy?
Bro: yeah
Owl: Is him being a guy his lone qualification?
Bro: mehmood is going to talk to him first, then give me his contact info
Owl: ah, ok
He'd better not be fobulous. If one more fob come calling cuz I’m ‘gori’ I’m going to bust open a can of whupass.
Bro: I told him I’m looking for 25-32 professionals, social, moderate/conservative (not crazy) and fluent in English this is for the sister who just finished spending a year at Censored University on the Journalism so person needs to be social, not loud but social, not like Censored Socially Awkward Friend to which he says he knows a guy who volunteers for ICNA
is in the US on a study visa from Pakistan
is quiet but social
but his student visa expired
but I said that’s all good!! she dont wanna live in the US anyways
Owl: Hahaha, so you’re basically saying he needs to get hitched in a hurry? And this is good how?
Bro: no
can you keep a secret
Owl: Sure
Bro: aparrently his family back home is loaded
but you would not know by meeting or talking to him
Owl: Why is this something that is a secret?
Bro: thats the word on the streets
because i was told that tidbit in a discrete way
(Disclaimer: Er, telling you guys about some unknown Pakistani guy’s financial awesomeness isn’t letting any cat out of the bag, right?)
Owl: Um, I don't really care about money
Bro: i know
Owl: It’s just not a big requirement for me.
Bro: thats why its a secret
Owl: What I am interested in is a degree of self actualization
and some higher purpose to life beyond making money and having kids
Bro: so, go find yourself a muslim physician
who goes to U of C, or Northwestern
Owl: Once again you just want me to become a College Borg Member
You will be assimilated!
Resistance is Futile!
Boo!
Bro: no, im saying find a guy who went there
they are pompus and self aware
i mean
either they are pompus OR self aware
Owl: Aaaah
Well, I don't have any 'ins' to that world
Bro: sure you do
Owl: And I’m not about to pretend to interview them for stories
Bro: while you are in chicago make phone calls to the NU and UoC muslim clubs
tell them you wanna hang out
Owl: Hahaha, it takes WAY longer than the time I have left here to break into a social circle to any depth
Bro: http://groups.northwestern.edu/?set=asg
Bro: The MSA president is a revert
so she WHITEY
tag her directly, do things our family way: completely unconventional
and here is UoC
http://msa.uchicago.edu/
Owl: Why do I care if someone is whitey?
Bro: cuz you can bond white style
like your skin color fool
Owl: Oh, yeah, we'll eat mayonnaise sandwiches together
Bro: hell ya
Owl: And do the awkward white person handshake
And then she'll share her stash of eligible men with me
Bro: just try, or else I will do it for you damn fool
and they’ll be like me - insane, self absorbed, arrogant, self actualized, self serving, self feeding, self -loathing sheep in lions skins
Owl: Whoa. I dunno yo. I'm not comfortable hitting up strangers for the matrimonial hook up
Bro: gee
you let friends of friends
damn strangers in the first place try to set you up
Owl: Yeah that was a fluke and I didn’t ask for it.
Bro: your friends are damn strangers, strange as hell
so, you have an online profile also dont you
Owl: Huh? What’s that?
Bro: like a naseeb?
Owl: Oh! No, I don’t
Bro: Then I’ll make one for you!
Owl: NO WAY!
I SHUDDER to think how you would describe me
Greatest selling points: SHE'S VERY DURABLE
Biggest problems: SHE CAN TALK
Bro: Just call that guy
Owl: what guy?
Bro: they guys name is Censored Random Desi
773 XXX XXXX (censored)
Owl: Who is this?
Bro: the guy mahmood mentioned
Owl: Whoa. Your secret rich Pakistani guy who’s visa has just expired? I should just CALL him right now? Yo, that is so not how it's done.
Bro: he knows to expect a call from either you or me
Owl: A girl doesn't just call up some guy she doesn't know
Bro: dang, talk about being afraid
Owl: No, you know I’m no chicken. It's just weird
Bro: you want me to give out your cell #
Owl: No, but me calling him is the SAME THING – when he answers my call, he’ll have my number.
Bro: like I said, BE UNCONVENTIONAL
you are not a normal girl.
Owl: Yeah, I know I’m not
Bro: You’re a type A maverick. so we must do things in abnormal ways
Owl: But still. I'm not sure I want to bother calling this guy.
I mean, you haven't told me ANYTHING beyond him being Pakistani and rich – neither of which answer questions that I care about – nationality and finances
Bro: then, let dad, or mom, call
Owl: Whoa. That’s even WORSE. The parents are the LAST people to get involved. Okay, I’m gonna tell you how these things go down.
Bro: Here’s my friend’s address. Email him, get all those details you want about the guy.
Owl: No, there really is a system for this. It goes like this – You, the brother, seek out an honorable dude. You find someone, and you find out about them – what they do, how old they are, if they have all their limbs, you know, the BASICS. If they are normal (unlike some of the guys you’ve suggested who you later admitted have PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS!) you pass on the details to the girl, who vets them to see if they work out with what she requires.
Bro: unless you want me to ask
Owl: If they do, then someone sets up a no-pressure, casual meet
And you see if you can handle the person in person
Bro: yeah yeah yeah.... WHAT EVER!!!!!
see, I dont have time to play middle man
Owl: You are SO bad at this
Bro: so you can pretend to be me, you want access to my email address
no, I am just super busy
Owl: Seriously yo, come on, if you're going to try and help me you have to make a little more of an effort
And take some responsibility
Bro: HAHaHahA
hey, I am trying
ok fine, I'll call him when I get home.

(He never called. But I’m not complaining)