an itinerant observer

To, Medical Students Wherever & whenever Dec. 31, 2015 Dear Medical Students, Upon returning to Pakistan and resuming my medical career in Karachi after 15 years in Houston, I became acutely aware of my buttons. Those, if touched, would get my goat. If done at a particularly inopportune time then activation of said buttons would make me rebellious. And that was not a good omen for you. Perhaps you could extol my being attuned to my ins and outs – in particular, realization of my dark side, what triggered it and how I manage to control it, being part of the learning that you, my dear medical students, forced upon me.    Today’s letter is about the most significant of those buttons. I call it “The Button”. I realized early on, “The Button” was being called “Sir”.  It all began when I started receiving seemingly innocuous email from you. Email that would inevitably start with the salutation “Dear Sir….”, or ‘Respected Sir..”, or “Dear Respected Sir…”. At

Disclaimer : This is not a movie review (as I'm not a movie critic). It started with the need to have minions at my beck and call 24/7. Never ending work, without a break, and lack of readily available home help had led to a frustrating situation. Although I was desirous of minions, in reality it was highly unlikely to happen. So I relegated myself to the virtual world of minions. I'm not a huge fan of Disney-Pixar's animated movies. This time, however, my kids ensured that I would accompany them to watch the latest ‘cartoon’. Not having watched ‘Despicable Me’ prior to this I was a bit curious to see for myself what all the hangama was about. My kids had been incessant about the minions. So on Eid day 3, since I was neither on call at home nor in the ER, I took my kids to watch the much anticipated movie. It was not entirely disappointing. The minions’ main objective is simple: to seek out and offer their services to the most evil person alive. Thus, the evil doer

When I hear the word ‘Pakistan’ on CNN, BBC, or even FOX news for that matter, there’s that sinking feeling of, “Oh no, what now?” Reflexively I expect another story of doom and gloom to unfold. I might rush to Pakistani newspapers and TV channels hoping that they might provide a somewhat objective viewpoint. Alas, they too, at times, tend to obfuscate reality and create an alternative one that is a better fit for conspiracy theorists.    It is time to move past political punditry and journalistic jingoism. Perhaps it is time for the Diaspora to talk and write about good things in Pakistan.       Before reaching this semi-conclusion, I felt I had arrived at a crossroads - I could either delve in apathy and antipathy for Pakistan, or write about a potential way out of my dilemma. I choose to write since that is my comfort zone. I will try to describe the problem first. What's happening in Pakistan is complex. ‘ Corruption’ , a common buzzword, is rampant. The life

“Enaya has told another child in class that the world will end on December 21, 2012. This is unacceptable behavior…”,  were the 1 st lines of the email from the class teacher. Enaya aka Noori, the 6-year-old 1 st grader had happened to mention the Mayan prophecy to her young class fellow. She had done so without realizing the repercussions of mentioning doomsday scenarios in a public school setting. Maybe saying such things in a private school might not have generated a hyper-anxious email from the class teacher. Ayesha and I promptly responded to the email. I think Ayesha did so a bit apologetically. I, on the other hand, gave a complete account of the Mayan prophecy that I had taken quite a fascination to. I explained to the teacher that per that prediction made many hundreds of years ago, the world was going to end in a few weeks. I went on to inform the teacher that what Noori had mentioned was well known to most, if not all in Houston. The publicity of the world ending

“Noori! You cannot keep watching YouTube videos on my cell phone”. I must have screamed a hundred times that day. “Okay Baba , can I look at pictures on your facebook?” I came really close to losing it again, but exactly at that moment I had a facebook status-like epiphany. “Noori, is facebook a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked of my 5-year-old kindergartner. The conversation that it generated led to interesting realizations. “FB is good Baba , because you can see photos on it”, said Noori. I was not oblivious to the emphasis that my kindergartner was placing on the acronym. Rayaan, my 10-year-old son happened to be present then. One might have very easily overlooked him, as is the norm [he prefers being in the background]. This time around, although it appeared that he was deep into his book, he was listening in. “FB is bad because people spend too much time on it”, was the comment from the ‘wise old man’. “No Bhai , it’s fun because you can find out what’s happening in peop

Ms. Primrose, the possum, had kept us guessing as to her real identity. Noori had thought that she was some mysterious person in her backyard that was digging up the grass in a frenzy, looking for buried treasure. At night time, the movement in the backyard would activate the motion-detector lights. These inexplicable happenings in her own backyard were driving the excitable kindergartener’s imagination wild. One day, while pottering around in her backyard, Noori thought she had finally figured out who this really was. She came up to me excitedly and pointed to the fence and screamed: “ Biloongra !” (Biloongra is a kitten in the Urdu / Punjabi language). I was amazed to see the creature that resembled quite an unusual Biloongra - certainly could have been a mutant one. Unlike a regular cat or kitten this one happened to have a snout and a long hairless tail. While it scaled the fence it occurred to me that this was not a Biloongra at all. It happened to be a possum. And

Noori woke me up first thing in the morning and wished me a happy anniversary. “What’s that Noori?” was all I could mumble. After realization sunk in I knew I was in for the doghouse—again. It was poetic justice that just a few weeks ago I had written how I was given to forgetting Love Demonstration Situations (LDSs): birthdays, anniversaries, and the like. That post in itself could have been a potent reminder, but here I was forgetting my own anniversary AGAIN! The horror of doing so last year crossed my mind: let alone remember, I had happily driven away with Noori’s Aman Chachoo to San Marcos, almost 200 miles away, on a jaunt, presumably to buy furniture for his townhouse. I had returned close to midnight; kids were fast asleep, and Ayesha was past reason—rightly so. Redemption was not in reasoning with her that I was merely helping a good friend move around bulky furniture. Nor was it in the Coach handbag that I got for her as peace initiative. As all the above rattled aro

"Happy Birday , Baba !” The emphasis on the chicken in that birthday wish was not lost on me. Although I appreciated my kindergartner’s signature artwork, I couldn’t help but cringe inwardly when I thought how fast the fortieth was approaching.  When I am in a thoughtful mind frame, especially on my birthday, words are conceived. I tend to shy away from too much fanfare on my birthday. I feel that it should be a subtle rejoicing and reflecting of what I have gone through the previous year and preparation for the next. The icing on the cake, no pun intended, would be to spend that day quietly with a few near or far, but dear ones. But then that’s me. For some, birthdays are of grave significance: to be CELEBRATED and indulged in—decadence then has no limits. Thus, conventional wisdom for me would be to give it the importance it deserves on a case-by-case basis. Should I be sad that there is one less year to live or be happy for the potential opportunity that still exists

“ Baba , what are you reading?”, Noori peered over my shoulder to get a look at the book. All my reading life I have been much irritated when anyone has tried to peer into my book, especially by the over the shoulder route. It’s as annoying as someone peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your email, while you’re working at your desk. Yes, I accept the double standards, but it’s okay for me to look over the shoulder of the other, but I certainly cannot tolerate it when I am the recipient. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and very patiently told my 5-year-old kindergartner, “It’s a book called ‘the forty rules of love’”. It vaguely occurred to me, given the nature of the book, to pat myself on the back for not being short-tempered with her. “Is it about love?”, Noori asked. “Yes and no”, I said, “It is about love and no love for the other person”. “ Baba , when there is no love for another person then is there hate?” She wasn’t going to let go of this rare disp

Apologies : Event postponed till further notice as a precautionary measure owing to road blocks on Thursday evening. 

The economy class of the domestic flight from New York was stifling, cramped and nauseating. Luckily I was in the aisle seat. On boarding I made myself as comfortable as I could and had resumed reading the mystery that Adelia was trying to solve. Adelia happened to be a ‘doctor of the dead’ (likely a pathologist) in twelfth century Cambridge, hot in pursuit of a psychopath killing children in that rustic part of England. The gruesome manner in which the kids were being massacred is a story for another day. “Aha!” that was Adelia about to make a crucial discovery.   “Arrrghhh”…hmmm, that sounded a bit off. That was not in the book. I looked up and saw an elderly white man approaching my seat. “Arrrghhh”, that was him clearing his throat. “Great!” I thought to myself, quite unkindly, “I’ll have to share the space next to me with this sick man”. I didn’t want to catch the flu, swine or otherwise, on a domestic flight. Not that catching it on an international flight would hav