an itinerant observer

Noori the first grader was excited. She had received a golden star for her poster titled “all about my hero”. When she showed me her award winning entry I was quite pleased. Her hero happened to be me, her father.   Her poster was composed of photographs of me – at various places and in various poses, unbeknownst to me. She had highlighted a few facts about me and what I did. There were captions such as, “the best dad ever!” , “my hero fixes children”, “my dad dances salsa” , and so on.   I tried my best not to let that hero worshiping go to my head.   “Who’s my hero?” I asked myself, instead. I’m like that – a lot of clarity comes from seeking answers within. The likely heroes are the usual suspects Over the course of four decades that I have been living on this earth, roughly equal amounts were spent in two very distinct cultures.   For long stretches I’ve either lived in Karachi, Pakistan or Houston, Texas. If I go per cultural or societal specifications, then it’s a n

“Avery is dead, Baba . My friend told me”, said Noori, my 5-year-old kindergartner, when I picked her up from school that day. I had known that ‘fact’ since it was on CNN. Avery wasn’t quite 5-months-old. Avery was the only baby I had known with a bucket list . “Baby Avery”, as she was fondly called, became a household name after the blog written by her dad went ‘viral’. Avery was recently diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy (SMA), a devastating neuro-genetic disorder with poor outcome. Although I am a pediatrician, I must remind myself that everything becomes ‘recent’ when you are just 5-months-old. Avery was very special for a number of reasons. I got to know the baby entirely through Noori and the baby’s mother, Laura. Laura is a kindergarten teacher….no… THE kindergarten teacher who taught Noori. She is the kind of kindergarten teacher that I never had the privilege to be taught by when I was Noori’s age. Laura and her kindergarten classroom were the inspiration for Noo

Mr. Cisneros’ ‘the extinction of the passenger pigeon’ was a beautifully constructed piece that resonated long after it had been read.  It was interesting to be reminded of one of life's greatest realities: when power is inherited, not earned, it runs the horrible risk of being misused. Mr. Cisneros’ mention of the half-baked-ness of the perpetrator communicates this well: all it took to wipe out a species from Earth was a 10-year-old's falsely inculcated sense of luxury; an attempt to get rid of his boredom, perhaps. But ending life in the blink of an eye is one thing; and forcing someone to spend 29 long, painful years in captivity is another. Sure, Martha has been 'allowed' the luxury to breathe and croon - but little else. She has been cursed with the feeling of 'never knowing'...and that is one of the scariest prospects in life. To be denied innate emotions and abilities - to fly, mate, have a family - is criminal, and I cannot think of a worse pun

As a young physician I would challenge the potential fatality of illness, and my medical chutzpah pooh poohed the concept of being on death’s door. Now that I’m older and hopefully wiser, I think I have overcome some of the discomfort that thoughts of dying and death generate. I understand that illness, dying and death are along a continuum. My recent exposure to illness, dying and death, in my own patients, family or friends, makes me ponder my own mortality. From a non medical perspective, overcoming fear of death is part of life. I think our concept or definition of death is somewhat limited and restrictive. If you consider dying and death to be a journey then that realization can be quite emancipating and exhilarating. You are then more likely to embrace both life (and death?) more passionately. One of the hardest things for any parent to deal with is the death of their child. As part of the kindergarten diaries, I wrote about the life and death of the baby with the bucket

John James Audubon, the famous ornithologist, first noticed the migrating pigeons in 1813, then estimated to be as many as five billion in the United States. On March the 14 th , 1900, a towheaded boy of 10 proud of his new rifle shot and killed the last male Passenger Pigeon while it ate its last meal as any condemned prisoner. The last authenticated female Passenger Pigeon named “Martha” lived an ordinary life. She lived for twenty-nine years in captivity eating, drinking, sleeping and perching, perhaps listening for the beckoning call of a mate that would never come. On September the 1 st , 1914, while sitting on her naked branch, her head slumped, her body quivered and unbeknownst, fell to the floor lifeless. She was never to know the closeness of mating, raising squabs, or the joy of togetherness in flight. The support of multitudinous wings fanning the winds around her was forever denied, a sensation only the flock can offer. Captivity deprived her of experiencing her true nat

On Observing Itinerantly “What does itinerant mean?” someone asked after obtaining my book. The question was a source of annoyance primarily because I expected the presumptive reader to seek out the meaning of itinerant prior to delving into the observations of one. But then I thought about the question from a broader perspective - the ethos of being an itinerant observer: what does it really mean to observe during one’s journey? An itinerant observer is really a time traveler. He observes life - human, animal, or plant – and then documents what he sees irrespective of perceived space or time aberrations or limitations. What does that mean you might ask. Well…if you consider time to be cyclical then the past, present and future don’t align themselves on a linear continuum…and then observing itinerantly becomes second nature. But what does that mean you might ask. If so, I will refer you to the preface of my book in which I tried explaining all of the above ‘phenomena’ to