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...

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...

The Biscuit, although the name is reminiscent of all things British, cannot be dunked into your Earl Grey tea that you sip for breakfast. Nor can he be eaten with your breakfast grits, as he is not the small piece of bread with a firm browned crust, available all across America. The biscuit that I am referring to is a two month old puppy in Karachi, Pakistan. He is ¾ Labrador and ¼ Golden Retriever, presumably with an impeccable pedigree. When you see him you might agree, but don’t ask me to produce a birth certificate or other document that vouches for nobility in his ancestry, because I have none to show. Does it matter? When your child, Rayaan my son, as in this case, is ecstatic to finally obtain his doggie-pup as compensation for moving across the globe to Karachi, from his birthplace and primary home, Houston, then confirming purity of the dog’s gene pool becomes unnecessary. Why is Biscuit called The Biscuit, you might be wondering? I was hesitant to call him that, given ...

As happens frequently now my mind (heart?) tends to gravitate towards the next writing mission for the Karachi - Houston diaries. “Perhaps you should take a break from writing a new entry? It is after all a break from work too”, I felt like telling myself the other day. But the muse intervened. “Write about ritual customary celebrations in Karachi and Houston.” The muse obviously won. Ritual celebrations that are supposedly suffused with religion are always interesting to observe. This year’s barri (big) Eid is a case in point. A few days prior to the start of this celebration, some family members, males for the most part, enthusiastically promoted touring the animal bazaar. “We’ve got to pick the choicest goat, sheep, buffalo, camel, or a combination”, said my cousin-brother. That seemed to be a valid aspiration – for him. What I learned from him: factors that weighed into the selection process, other than price, included type and number of animals the neighbors were buyin...