an itinerant observer

I met Jacob Shahid Masih years before I understood why I kept returning to him. We worked together briefly during a medical elective in a rather unassuming place in Northern Pakistan that quietly reshaped how I thought about faith, care, and belonging. I have written about that time before. He was a nurse by training. Looking back, that almost feels incidental. What stayed with me was the way he moved through the ward. He never seemed in a hurry. He simply seemed present. With patients. With suffering. With silence. He sang. Sometimes devotional songs in Punjabi. Sometimes playful ones in Urdu. Sometimes simply because the moment could hold them. I never knew where one tradition ended and another began. I never thought to ask. Jacob seemed equally at home in Catholic churches, Sufi shrines, hospital wards, and in the company of people whose beliefs differed from his own. He never appeared preoccupied with defending an identity. When conversations drifted towards religion, he ...

Rakhshee has never done things halfway, and I should have known from the start that her greatest lesson—the art of unyielding resilience—would be her gift to me. She is a teacher in the truest sense, but her methods are far from orthodox. Back in Karachi, she was my history teacher, and her classroom was as much a theater of stories as it was a lecture hall. She did not just teach history; she made us see it, feel it, question it, bringing figures and events to life with a voice that demanded attention. Through her teaching, she subtly reshaped my life’s course, though I did not realize it at the time. Years later, as I drifted deeper into academic medicine, entrenched in medical charts and lectures, I was reminded of Rakhshee’s wisdom—the stories, the humor, and her knack for nudging others toward a broader view of life. Her voice, in many ways, drew me into the world of children’s literature—a realm she opened to me with unexpected passion. She taught me that the only real critics ...

“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...

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality Open your eyes , look up to the skies and see I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy …” Bohemian Rhapsody by Freddie Mercury And I was hooked. How could I not be? I was 15 when I heard the above, a lifetime ago. Being drawn into those words could merely be attributed to a teenager’s existential angst, but in my head, it was clear that Freddie Mercury was writing and singing for me and me alone. That he crooned the song in a most rhapsodizing manner, was a bonus. Thus, I began my love affair with Bohemian Rhapsody, arguably one of the most influential songs of all time, performed by the band Queen.   I was in high school when I fell in love with that song. For me, that was a time of trials and tribulations. Societal acceptance at that age and stage of my life essentially boiled down to peer acceptability. Perhaps it was not so surprising that except for those fe...