Almost twelve years ago …

Mohd: 10 months
Me: 11 years old

I pick him up and thrust him on our computer chair and swirl it around as fast as I can. It goes round and round and he bursts into cackles. I’m looking at him, his cheeks falling out of his face and his little head losing control. I put him down. With no control over his little body, he bumps his head on the floor and laughs so much, a string of baby saliva drools all the way down from his bib and moistens an area on the carpet. He picks himself up again and thud! He’s on the floor again, laughing even more than before. Soon enough, when his dizziness subsides into a stillness he doesn’t want to hold on to, he looks at me, then points to the chair. With his chubby little arms outstretched, he emits a soft coo - indicating in his abstract language that he wants another ride and we start all over again.

Ammi screams (as usual). “Kya kar rahi ho! Kya kar rahi ho! Chakkar mat dilaai jaao usko!”

But I don’t listen … the moment is too precious. Can’t you see what I see Ammi? His feet are smaller than my pinkies. He does not recognize his own face on a mirror but he understands what’s fun and more so, knows how to demand it ...

Twelve years later ...

Mohammad: 12 years
Me: well, calculate based on the info above : - )

He has grown up into those younger brothers who bug the nerves out of their older sisters. He no longer drools on carpets but he seems to enjoy showing us how runny his nose is when he catches a cold. He will fart ‘unforgivingly’. He worships the PS2. He watches his TV shows religiously. He loves burgers, but will not have one without Pepsi. He loves outer space. He loves cricket. He loves rollerblading, ice-skating, skateboarding … wheels beneath his feet (that have obviously outgrown my pinkies). He collects cards. What cards? I’m not sure. I just know all boys his age do it. The F word makes him grin and the S word makes him curious. He mimics his teachers. He wants to learn how to play the guitar. He wears caps on a bad hair day.

He hates it when I get cuddly. And I try not to get cuddly. Why make my little brother, I mean, why make a "big boy", uncomfortable? I do hug him sometimes. When he was a newborn, I loved the smell of his head. It was like baby powder. Of course I don’t expect him to smell like that anymore, but when he smells like axe, I can’t help but yearn for the time when he didn’t need this unnaturalness; so I ask him, “Deodrant?” He frowns. “Yeah! I’ve started like, sweating a lot!” He looks tanned. The feeble hair on his upper lips that was an innocent blonde colour has turned into a greyish smudge. I don’t have to tilt my head downwards to look at him. He’s my height and we stand face to face, like we did when I used to carry him. “Like, even my face sweats sometimes! See these pimples?” He points to an almost invisible zit near his chin. No more soft cooing. His voice is different. It seems he's trying too hard to sound like a teenage boy but hesitating to.

Ammi comes into the room, “Pagal mat bano! Kuch nahe hai! Nazar bhi nahe aata!”

But I don’t listen ... the moment is too precious. Can’t you see what I see Ammi? Mohd’s on the verge of hitting puberty!

Got tagged by Dee

Rules:
1. Post these rules before presenting your list.
2. List 6 actions or achievements you think every person should accomplish before turning 18.
3. There are no conditions on what can be included on the list.
4. At the end of your blog, choose 6, or less, people to get tagged and list their names.
5. The tagged peeps write their own blog entry with their 6 suggestions.
6. Leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged.

Here goes ...
1. Invent something that would put the wheel, bulb and telephone to shame.
2. Visit all of the seven wonders of the world.
3. Compete on The Apprentice show.
4. Fly a rocket, not a plane.
5. Learn sign - and not a European - language.
6. Bungee jump off Mt. Everest.

Welcome Back Me

A few months ago, I realized I haven’t traveled much outside Pakistan or UAE, so one evening while reading Oliver Twist with my little brother, I suddenly decided; I wanted to go to London. A few weeks later, I made it there ...

I felt like such a ‘small’ girl in such a vibrant place. And funnily enough, when I came back home, I was treated as the ‘big’ girl who went to London. These labels are a result of Pakistani-ness and Pakistani-ness always follows me ...

Adding masala to the nimco, while walking from Westminster Abbey to Trafalgar Square, in the midst of a swarm of tourists, cathedrals, museums, memorials, ancient buildings, pubs, street markets, souvenir carts, red buses and phone booths, this is what managed to instantly grab my attention and ironically, it left me amused for a long time …

Confessions

Here are some things people don't know about me and tonight, I want to unburden myself.

- I spent my Eid money on laxatives once upon a time and lost 5 pounds in two weeks. I was ten years old.

- I flip through Vogue at magazine stands.

- I visit http://theskinnywebsite.com

- I spent the past year making small dietary changes. People have only very recently started telling me that I look less fat than before. They say I have lost some weight. I just smile and ignore because I dread my body becoming the focus of their attention. They don't know I have lost over fifteen pounds. And I want to lose another fifteen pounds.

Ali: Fizz, remember you told me if I wanted something, all I needed to do was wish for it?
Me: Yea
Ali: I tried it but it's driving me crazy
Me: Ali why are you so unhappy all the time?
Me: Why don't you think of the things that you do have?
Ali: I don't have anything!
Me: You have a PS2
Me: You have WII
Me: You have roller blades, your skateboard
Me: You have a bike
Me: What more do you want?
Me: Why don't you just be happy about all these things instead of crying over ... I don't know ... not having a PSP!?
Ali: :(
Ali: oh man I wasn't even thinking of that

========================

"'You have both suffered a lot,' he says. 'Now that they are going to kill me tonight, I want to free you as well. If you want to, you can leave Pakistan while the Constitution is suspended and Martial Law imposed. If you want peace of mind and to pick up your lives again, then you might want to go to Europe. I give you permission. You can go.'

Our hearts are breaking. 'No, no,' Mummy says. 'We can't go. We'll never go. The Generals must not think they have won. Zia has scheduled elections again, though who knows if he will dare to hold them? If we leave, there will be no one to lead the party, the party you built.'

'And you Pinkie?' my father asks.

'I could never go,' I say.

He smiles. 'I'm so glad. You don't know how much I love you, how much I've always loved you. You are my jewel. You always have been.'

'Time is up,' the superintendent says. 'Time is up.'

I grip the bars.

'Please open up the cell,' I ask him. 'I want to say good-bye to my father.'

The superintendent refuses.

'Please,' I say. 'My father is the elected Prime Minister of Pakistan. I am his daughter. This is our last meeting. I want to hold him.'

The superintendent refuses.

I try to reach my father through the bars. He is so thin, almost wasted away from malaria, dysentery, starvation. But he pulls himself erect, and touches my hand.

'Tonight I will be free,' he says, a glow suffusing his face. 'I will be joining my mother, my father. I am going back to the land of my ancestors in Larkana to become part of its soil, its scent, its air. There will be songs about me. I will become part of its legend.' He smiles. 'But it is very hot in Larkana.'

'I'll build a shade,' I manage to say.

The prison authorities move in.

'Good-bye, Papa,' I call to my father as Mummy reaches through the bars to touch him. We both move down the dusty courtyard. I want to look back, but I can't. I know I can't control myself.

'Until we meet again,' I hear him call."

Daughter of the East, Benazir Bhutto

========================




May her soul rest in peace

Blab

So much has happened in my life over the course of my absence. And by absence, I do not mean my disappearance since Sahar's birthday (see entry below).


Almost exactly one year ago, blogging had started to create a khujli in me. You know khujli? Khujli is the Urdu/Hindi word for that sudden and mysterious, skin deep irritation that you feel at times. Itch you say? No. Itch is too pharmaceutical a word. You can curb an itch by applying dermatological products over the area but you need no such medicated cure for khujlis. For dealing with khujlis, you need a dash of animal instinct. It’s only cure is digging your own nails into yourself, and cutting it off in a quick motion. (Ever seen cats stretch a limb to their ears and do something that resembles a fast forward Bollywood dance? Yes! That’s a cat getting rid of her khujli) And believe me, if you don’t get rid of your khujli, you can end up with wrinkles on your face because regardless of where you are feeling khujli, it makes you squint, and that puts pressure on the sensitive area around your eyes.


By the way, I cannot believe I have managed to grab your attention with such meaninglessness and yet you're still reading this ...

... and you continue to do so ... surprising ...

It is as surprising as the comments people leave here; the few who still visit and expect something or, in a height of desperation, request something. I have thought a million times about why I stopped blogging. Perhaps I got intimidated when I found out so many of the people I see everyday were reading it. And considering how much my writing rubbish deviates from how I behave around others, being read by them can be as embarrassing as khujli on an area I do not want to scratch in public. Don't 'teehee'. I'm just talking about my nose.


I am not going to present a summary of what has happened over the dates that will never make it to my archival list. Alas! What a chronological loss. It is sad because I will tell you something - a lot has happened over the past year, but let's leave it till there - just a casual, shoulder-shrugging 'lot'. If I started presenting the details, it would take me as much time to type them all in as it would take for my Organisation Theory lecturer to hush up once she starts talking.


Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm ... I'm lost ...


Maybe I should start telling you how dysfunctional my writing ability has become. Not that I had any before, but I could do far better than khujlis and hmm-ing. I used to write poetry which I still read for spiritual purgation and then wonder, "Was I really so creative?" We all compliment ourselves when we no longer deserve it. Notice what old women do when they see photos of their sixteenth birthdays? They smile their toothless smile and in their shaky voice, they say "Look how pretty I was!" So if I were to use the old woman analogy over my situation, then my writing abilities would be my teeth ...

Is that why you press your lips when you smile Fizza? No silly. I do that to hide the wrinkles on the corners of my eyes!

Sahar's little corner of wishes ....


HAPPY BIRTHDAY babe!


Much love!

I hate it when I'm online and someone asks me to send them pictures ...

For a long time, I secretly held the broken pieces of my shattered dreams, pressed inside my hands so tightly that drops of blood were waiting to seep through my clenched fingers. Yet, I could not allow myself to open my fists because I was afraid that those pieces would slip out of my palms and land in a luckless spot where someone would crush them into a state of non-existence and I would have to spend the rest of my life in a world where my aspirations were killed under a stampede of despair. But he carried such warmth around himself that whenever we spent time together, my stiff fists would melt in the comforts of his aura and, bit by bit, one by one, the broken pieces of my dreams, would make way through the loosened confinements of my fingers and land on his lap like little cascades of displaced tears looking for a home. I was afraid he would pretend he never saw them, and snub them back into my hands by wiping them away but instead he traced their stains, matching each shape with the boundaries of those shattered pieces until the outline of every piece articulated another. Slowly and slowly, the enigma was puzzled out and long lost tracks were mounted back into my imagination.