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To Resume or Not to Resume (Mom Part II)

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“ Should we resume the monoclonal antibodies that help her heal or preserve the fragile calm we’ve found in their absence?” The question looms, heavy and unrelenting. My mother, the matriarch, now stands at a delicate crossroads. These past two months without medication infusions have brought a surprising lightness to her days. She moves with more ease, takes joy in simple tasks—cooking, cleaning, even making those sugary desserts again. One evening, as she kneads dough for chapatis , she pauses and looks me in the eye. “Do you think I can get through this without more treatments?” She asks. I don’t know how to answer—but in that moment, her strength reminds me that this is her battle, and I am only there to support her. It’s a reprieve that feels both precious and precarious, shadowed by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Another day, the warm aroma of cardamom wafts through the kitchen as she prepares our favorite halwa , her hands moving with a rhythm that feels both f...
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Seven Years and a Morning Visit (Dad Part IV)

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Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since he left - though it’s a complicated kind of absence, more presence-in-absence than true departure. My father, Abu, was not the type to explicitly guide or advise. He was not a mentor, and certainly not a friend in the typical sense. We did not have those deep, heart-to-heart conversations. Instead, he was this quiet, steady presence in my life, sometimes maddeningly so. A provider? Yes. But as a father, in the conventional sense - someone I looked up to, leaned on, shared my struggles with? Not really. And yet, in some strange way, he was always there, quietly shaping my life choices without interference, accepting whatever I was doing, however unremarkable. I have often wondered if he would approve of the decisions I have made, like the time I signed his code status as Do Not Resuscitate . I remember standing by his side, grappling with that decision, feeling both alone and strangely anchored by the quiet figure he had always been. An...
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When Breath Defies Air

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Rakhshee has never done things halfway, and I should have known from the start that her greatest lesson—the art of unyielding resilience—would be her gift to me. She is a teacher in the truest sense, but her methods are far from orthodox. Back in Karachi, she was my history teacher, and her classroom was as much a theater of stories as it was a lecture hall. She did not just teach history; she made us see it, feel it, question it, bringing figures and events to life with a voice that demanded attention. Through her teaching, she subtly reshaped my life’s course, though I did not realize it at the time. Years later, as I drifted deeper into academic medicine, entrenched in medical charts and lectures, I was reminded of Rakhshee’s wisdom—the stories, the humor, and her knack for nudging others toward a broader view of life. Her voice, in many ways, drew me into the world of children’s literature—a realm she opened to me with unexpected passion. She taught me that the only real critics ...
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Learning the Art & Science of Storytelling: A Necessity for the 21st Century

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  Storytelling is as old as humanity itself. For thousands of years, it has been humanity’s most powerful tool for understanding, connecting, and transforming. From the first cave paintings to today’s TED Talks, stories have transcended time, language, and culture. But in an era of data overload, rapid technological change, and growing social complexity, storytelling has evolved from a timeless tradition to an indispensable skill. This essay explores storytelling’s relevance in healthcare, business, and design, as well as its potential and challenges in the age of social media, highlighting why it is both an art and a science essential for our time. Why storytelling matters Storytelling transforms data into narratives that resonate, bridging the gap between information and emotion. While facts tell, stories sell. This ability to engage, inform, and move people has made storytelling a cornerstone of leadership, marketing, and innovation. I recall a particularly challenging n...
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Echoes Across Time: From Macondo to the Mediterranean

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I recently revisited One Hundred Years of Solitude —this time through Netflix’s lush adaptation. The series swept me into García Márquez's Macondo with its breathtaking cinematography and meticulous attention to detail. Though decades had passed since I first read the novel, its spirit of magical realism, woven into Colombia's historical fabric, felt familiar. The cycles of time, the endless loop of beginnings and endings, reminded me of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence, the whirling dance of Sufi mystics, and Taoism's tranquil acceptance of life's flow. But the truth is, like the insomnia plague in Márquez's Macondo, the story had faded from my memory over the years. I don’t know if my first reading of One Hundred Years of Solitude in high school truly shaped me. Perhaps it was that novel, alongside The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende and even The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien, that collectively left their mark. It wasn’t until last week, while watching th...
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Lost in Transit: Movies, Dying, and (S)Mothering

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Prologue: Grounded in Houston – A City of My Many Lives The delay begins in Houston—a city etched into my identity. It’s where my kids were born, where I spent fifteen formative years, and where every return feels like both homecoming and farewell. Today, it’s a five-hour layover that stretches into an eternity. “Why this flight? Why me?” I mutter. The minutes bleed into hours. Airports have a peculiar way of amplifying existential questions, as if the pause in transit reflects a broader pause in life. When I finally reboard, it feels less like travel and more like drifting—an uneasy sense of being uprooted and untethered. In-Flight Double Feature: Cinema at 30,000 Feet Somewhere above the clouds, I scroll through the in-flight entertainment and land on Mother, Couch —a bizarre, dystopian family drama. A mother anchors herself to a couch in a furniture store, refusing to budge. Her children orbit around her, paralyzed by her immobility, tangled in invisible threads of expecta...
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