All the things a straightening iron wouldn't fix

My mind plays a visual of the thousands of concentric circles dancing upon the surface of the water that stood on the rooftop I did not dare to step on in the pouring rain. In the doorway raindrops fell on my toes spoiling my favourite ECS chappals. In my hand the tea lost its flavour and warmth, steaming into oblivion. Zen and acid combined, nature and Japanese gardens and hippies in my mind, a raindrop dives into the uniform puddle and a newborn circle merges with a dying repercussion and runs into another repercussion and joins it and runs to the edge of the water and runs back and in the millions of collisions per second there is no noise, irta'ash I think and I am drowning in the large, shallow sheet of water, marveling at the simple beauty of the laws of physics, of circles running into each other.

On a trip to introspection with Ali the shahtoots damp from the rain covering up the floor send whiffs of salt and humidity our way and it smells like Karachi, it smells like the beach.

In a living room crowded with thirty odd people I sit with Nani Amma trying to hear what Mamoo is saying to someone about those cartoons and Nani Amma is saying something, drowning them out and I don't want to listen to her, the other conversation is so much more interesting and I nod my head as she speaks, not listening. I follow her hand with my gaze as she points to Abdullah and Elizeh sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room looking at a picture dictionary together and looking at each other and talking, four year old midgets in a room full of grown ups and Nani Amma says do you see those children? Do you see them talking? That's God you can see between them.