an itinerant observer

“Baba, today you may pick me up early and take me to the zoo”. And thus Noori had spoken. Noori the kindergartner was obviously having some withdrawal symptoms since she had not been to the zoo in over a month. Noori and Baba frequented the zoo, at times twice a month, albeit for brief visits. Having a yearly membership to the Houston zoo enabled such frequent jaunts to one of the most favorite shared activity spots for the daughter-dad duo. What was more likely though: Mowgli’s spirit had entered Noori that morning, the way she was rattling off about the characters of the jungle book. After school I took Noori straight to the zoo. Hence, the jungle book, without offense to Mr. Kiping, was re-drafted by Ms. Noori. Mr. Sher Khan and Mrs. Sherni Khanum were ignoring each other. They had an argument about who was arranging dinner that night. Colonel Haathi was brushing his tusks after a huge meal of elephant chow. Bagheera was pacing up and dow...

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 ca...

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...

Why am I so attracted to the way of the birds? I have spent much time watching, thinking about, and photographing them. Occasionally I have been caught writing odes to them. But regardless of all that, I just could not fathom the source of this affiliation that might have bordered on obsession. Furthermore, whenever my child asked ‘why do you love birds so?’ being unable to generate a convincing answer was frustrating. The frustration about not knowing why I was so inclined to birds in my travels was addressed recently in the form of two occurrences. First I came across a word - G oǩotta (pronounced ‘Yo-Koh-Tah’) – that in Swedish literally means ‘dawn picnic to hear the first birdsong’ . It refers to the act of rising in the early morning to watch the birds or to go outside to appreciate nature. And then I came across ‘The Year of the Quail’ . In this book, the gifted and acclaimed photographer Ines Roberts takes you through a photographic journey of the first year in the li...

Today marks week six of relocation from Houston to Karachi. As you are well aware by now, I have been writing the Karachi-Houston diaries. Through these compilations I try to compare and contrast what is in Karachi with what was in Houston. I’m like that. Writing analogically helps me make sense of my present and past life.   Today, my routine muse (in my head and heart) was missing in action. Normally she would assist in helping me focus on something intriguing to write about from both the Karachi and Houston perspectives.   So I asked the child instead. “Today, what should I write about?” I expected either no comment or something noncommittal from the child, since she would seldom take me seriously. But this time the reply came promptly and without hesitation. “Today write about Saffron and Abigail!” Saffron and Abigail are not exotic condiments. Nor are they administrative staff at my workplace in Karachi.    They are two fairy friends of Tinker B...