an itinerant observer

The morning after Karachi drowned, I did something I do not usually do. At 0700, I walked into Zahid’s room. He lay unresponsive, frothing at the mouth. Twenty-five years old, once trained patiently by my mother and later woven into the daily fabric of my household. Reliable yet often clueless, a boy who grew into a young man - always present, always willing. Now limp in my arms, his breath shallow. He had likely just seized. What if I had not gone? The question shadows everything that followed. The floodwaters of a climate-changed Karachi had receded just enough. The rain had stopped. The roads were empty, strangely permissive. Had they still been blocked; this story could have been another one entirely. Security guards from the neighboring house helped me carry him to the car. My sister-in-law hurriedly drove us to AKU Clifton ER , where competence was ready to act. My former residents, now instructors and SMOs, stepped forward with calm assurance. Nurses and staff I had once ...

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since he left - though it’s a complicated kind of absence, more presence-in-absence than true departure. My father, Abu, was not the type to explicitly guide or advise. He was not a mentor, and certainly not a friend in the typical sense. We did not have those deep, heart-to-heart conversations. Instead, he was this quiet, steady presence in my life, sometimes maddeningly so. A provider? Yes. But as a father, in the conventional sense - someone I looked up to, leaned on, shared my struggles with? Not really. And yet, in some strange way, he was always there, quietly shaping my life choices without interference, accepting whatever I was doing, however unremarkable. I have often wondered if he would approve of the decisions I have made, like the time I signed his code status as Do Not Resuscitate . I remember standing by his side, grappling with that decision, feeling both alone and strangely anchored by the quiet figure he had always been. An...

Ready to traverse a landscape rich with human emotion, ethical quandaries, and the quest for meaning amidst chaos? ‘ Poems from the (ER) Pit’ offers a glimpse into this world, not through clinical case studies, but through the visceral medium of poetry. Each poem illuminates diverse facets of emergency care. Through poetry I navigate the emotional, ethical, and philosophical terrains of emergency medicine. This collection, more than a series of poetic expressions, is a call to reflect, to empathize, and to act. It invites you into the heart of emergency care, challenging you to see beyond the clinical to the deeply human(e) side of healing. ******************************************************** In the dim light of dawn, a child’s battle ends, not with triumph, but with silence. This moment, captured in “C’est La Vie” is a stark reminder of emergency medicine's raw reality. The poem serves as a prelude, inviting us to confront life’s precariousness and the profound impact of...

Introduction In a world that seems on the brink of self-destruction, the profound question posed by John Kaag in his book 'Hiking with Nietzsche' resonates powerfully: "What are the possibilities for human existence in an age determined to annihilate itself?" This query propelled me on a profound journey of self-reflection, marking my ten years in Pakistan after fifteen years in the United States. As I immersed myself in the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, I began to explore the realms of nihilism, existentialism, and absurdism, searching for solace and meaning amidst the chaos and ambiguity of the 21st century. Nietzsche and Rumi The convergence of Nietzschean philosophy and the teachings of Rumi, the great Sufi poet and mystic, is a serendipitous encounter that has reshaped my perception of existence. While delving into Nietzsche's works, particularly through 'When Nietzsche Wept' by Irvin Yalom, I embarked on a journey through Turkey, traversi...

  T oday heralds beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds Regardless, this story must be told. On the anniversary of death One year later, Back from his journeys – inner outer. “You are no different!” says Shams The one - teacher, friend, lover Assumptions? Narcissus’ Shams - sun, mirror, lover And in that love’s reflection With many layers shed Love One year before, On the eve of death Girl on the second floor Who was she to Narcissus? To Shams everything And yet he wishes to turn back time To eliminate the darkness by the sea? Have you really not fathomed those indecipherable tattoos? That can be seen but not felt; if felt then not heard. And yet palpable to the eye and ear In the darkness by the sea. Pain Of continued separation. But what’s done is done And what’s done cannot be undone. One year was all it took For one to become one And in that one year, perhaps… This esoterica from an insomniac’s dream mus...