an itinerant observer

  “If you ever had to adopt a baby then whom would you settle for?” This was the question that I posed to myself recently. Not that I had to nor wanted to adopt a child. I have two of my own (biological ones, so my wife tells me), and they are more than a handful. It all started in Karachi one fine morning while I was working in the ER. A young couple had brought a two day old baby girl to me. The ER triage slip simply stated “baby adopted” as the reason for coming to the ER. I had never come across that as a presenting complaint in the ER, so my curiosity was piqued, irrespective of it being early moments of my ER shift without adequate caffeine in the system. It turned out that the baby had been picked up half an hour before, from a major orphanage in Karachi. The baby had been delivered the day before, per the orphanage staff’s speculation, and she had then been left at the doorstep of the orphanage. Although babies being abandoned there might have been a normal occurre...

A previous essay ‘I feel, I write,therefore I am’ ended with the sentiment, ‘I feel, I read, therefore I am’ . Prior to drafting the new essay I had to decide on a book. The title of the new essay ‘ in and out of randomness’, although not all that random, was based on the book ‘ The Black Swan’ by N. N. Taleb. The book has nothing to do with the same name movie of Natalie Portman fame. A black swan event can be positive or negative, good or bad – it is deemed highly improbable, yet it causes massive consequences. The book is a fascinating, history-heavy account of how unpredictable today’s world is and how utterly random events are. Taleb writes more from a broad world historical perspective, but I wonder if a similar argument could be applied to one’s own life events…those that one considers to be monumental or life altering? In retrospect, we tend to tell ourselves a story and things or events seem to have occurred linearly and the outcome for that event was predictable based o...

“One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all And in the darkness bind them. In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.” [The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien] My fantastical imagination kicked in, all over again, when I bought a plaque for my garden. It said, “Not all who wander are lost”. If you l ooked closely at the small print you realized that this was a quote by J.R.R. Tolkien. For the ‘Tolkienians’ out there, I needn’t expand on the greatness of the epic ‘The Lord of the Rings’ and ‘The Hobbit’ . I read those, for the first time, when I was in 8th grade. If I were to tell you the year I would be (carbon) dating myself. My father’s old tattered copy of ‘The Hobbit’ triggered it all. Needless to say I became a lifelong Tolkienian . With all due respect to the Trekkies out there, my Trekkie neurons had to create some harmonious living quarters with the Tolkienians . History repeats itself. Not surprisingly Rayaan, my son...

It started again last week. Noori excitedly came home with a huge card stuffed in her bag. She shoved it into my hands, gave me a hug, planted a kiss on my nose, and asked, “ Baba , will you be my Valentine?”   I could’ve said yes, no, or I don’t know. Several options. But, how does one really answer that question? I could’ve asked her what that meant to her. First impulse was that she was giving in to her kindergarten peer pressure and that had led to the ‘inquisition’. My mind generated alternative scenarios as to what would happen if I were to ‘discuss’ this more with her. Based on my past performances of forgetting love demonstration situations (birthdays, anniversaries, and the like), I have been taken to task frequently. I have been told that I don’t love or care enough. That is an absurd thought to me. You either love or care or you don’t: in my (simplistic, maybe?) mind there’s no gradation of love. Thus, doing more (or not) or saying more (or not) should not necess...

Mr. Teddy Graham came home for the weekend. This had been much anticipated and discussed ad nauseum since the beginning of the school year. Noori was really excited. Mr. Graham’s heavy ‘suitcase’(a bag pack really) stuffed with odds and ends, was a treasure trove for my little one. Mr. Graham is likely the most essential, most peripatetic, and most photographed (think paparazzi), kindergartner that has ever existed. He gets to travel to each kid’s home for the weekend. He gets dressed in different outfits and then enjoys different places (parks, restaurants, movie theaters, malls, to name just a few) and gets his  photos taken in those settings. A letter is written by the student about that weekend spent with Mr. Graham and along with photographs, the ‘compilation’ is filed away and thus a legacy is created. Upon first introduction, what struck me as a bit odd was that Mr. Graham was very comfortable in a dress. Unlike his name, he appeared to be a hot pink ballerina. ...

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 ...

Yesterday I wanted to ask the beloved for some understanding, but I wasn’t quite sure how. So with a heavy heart and heavier eyes I walked into my garden. It was raining outside. To seek refuge from the deluge I walked to the side of my house. I had the urge to run my hand against the wall of my house (it’s a rough brick veneer). It gave me the earthiest sensation! It grounded me and it curbed the downpour. I looked up at the sky and then I let my heart approach the beloved. Today I got the answer. The re’s a yearning to dance and thus create a whirlwind.  Yet the beloved is not around to partake of the ecstasy.  Because the only time given to me is the present, I did and do dance – albeit, intermittently. When I pause for breath, there’s agitation of the head-heart that time is limited in the sea of timelessness. So I asked the beloved: what next - where do we go from here? [from rambling of an itinerant ] Acknowledgment: First published ...