Mixed Bag

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Of Cigarette Packs and Elephant Dung

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Where can you go to see the following? (1) Creative photography on cigarette packs. (2) Innovative co-existence with elephants. Answer: Sri Lanka. Last summer, my family and I went on a week-long sojourn to Sri Lanka. That it happened to coincide with the heat wave in Karachi needs further explanation, in case you think I created a respite for myself primarily because I wanted to get away from angry sun gods. Truth be told, I felt guilty that I was vacationing in a tropical environment while the heat-facilitated death toll rose in Karachi… Anyway, after that trip, there was a strong urge to write about the island. I'm not a travel writer, but after experiencing the ‘wonders of Sri Lanka’, I couldn't stop myself from telling you about that land. Although considered a ‘developing nation’, there were aspects to the country that completely defied that label. As I was visiting from Pakistan, the analogy thus created was insightful. A runner's tale "Are you a...
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Sitting at Nadir’s Table

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We shared beginnings - different years, same places: Karachi Grammar School and Aga Khan University. A thin but sturdy thread in the doctor fraternity. We also shared the country club in Karachi, and in its gym is where we often crossed paths. Not to spot each other’s lifts but to swap maps of the world. Like the time I was heading to San Francisco for a conference and Nadir, between sets, gave me a street-by-street guide to the city, covering both work and after hours. He could have been moonlighting as a tour guide. That trip of mine went fantastically.  He was never my official career counselor, yet we had enough one-to-one sessions in the club’s garden to make it seem otherwise. He would talk about being at AKU, then moving away, shifting between academic medicine and private practice. When I spoke about my own trajectory in similar terms, he was always gracious in his mentoring. Later I realized he was like that with many others too. His funeral, with its sea of people ca...
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Fragments from a Pilgrimage: Rumi, Shams, and the Rest of Us

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I didn’t think much of it back then - Konya. A few days carved out from a longer trip. A loosely held plan. But now, years later, I can still recall how it felt. Getting to Konya wasn’t easy, or at least not emotionally. I took a ten-hour overnight coach from Gaziantep. It wasn’t just a geographic shift. It was me, testing myself. Years ago, on my first trip to Istanbul in the late 2000s, I was mugged; trapped, manhandled, left shaken . That experience embedded a quiet anxiety whenever I thought about returning to Turkey. But this trip was different. I needed to reclaim something. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be in this country, move through it alone, and feel safe. And I did. Nothing happened. Not in Konya, not elsewhere. That, in itself, was a kind of healing. Now mind you, Konya wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderclap, no burning bush. Just presence. And silence. Not empty silence, but the kind that listens back. I stayed two nights. Walked between Rumi’s tomb an...
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