freedom is the freedom to choose whose slave you want to be.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

lest I forget.

Last weekend:

I heard Abdullah struggling with something that sounded suspiciously like it used to when he was little(r) and struggling with constipation (concentrating very, very hard). Delighted at this opportunity to barge into the bathroom to embarrass the (shit out of) incredibly skinny, extremely modest five year old little boy, I burst into the toilet only to behold the most amazing Abdullah-stunt yet, Abdullah resting his stomach on the marble vanity around the sink, feet skyward legs in the air, washing his hands. He had made an S out of himself and hooked into the sink (little shit is too short to reach the faucet), could barely breathe but had successfully, independently washed his hands.


Also noteworthy was lunch at Pir Sohawa because both Abdullah and Yumna were gaping at the brats on the next table like they were exhibits at a zoo, and Yumna told us a (very unfunny) joke that lasted the entire drive from Pir Sohawa to F-6, Abdullah was feeling queasy (Meray dil ko kuch ho raha hai – How do kids learn how to articulate these feelings? What’s a dil and what’s the ‘kuch’ that’s happening and – uff, mindboggling) and at one priceless moment said to himself very quietly “Baarish ki khushboo aa rahi hai”.

Also last weekend:

My first reading circle meet. The house in a cricket-infested corner of F-7, a light breeze blowing and myself, supremely aware of wearing too much perfume, that fact leaving me self-conscious for the entire time I was there. Predictably the youngest, dumbest person there, only having read ‘about’ Karl Jung in managementpsychologysociology textbooks and I am sitting there staring at the floor and not participating and listening very hard trying to make sense of the stories and ideas being thrown around from all directions and despite that ineptitude, that feeling of incredible stupidity and ignorance, as the conversation flows from Greek mythology to archetypes to the collective unconscious to dreams and fairytales and folklore, on the drive back home it feels as though someone has watered my brain.

Last night:

Ammi Papa out of town and Faiqa’s got two friends over, making dinner in the kitchen and I move from one room to the other, empty and restless with nothing to do (howisthatevenpossible). Bad cable reception and too-black hair. Too sleepy to be awake but too awake to sleep I decide upon the phone and dial a number, three rings later REM start singing everybody hurts and I just lose my nerve.

Many hours later it’s time to pray and I sit on the floor and ask for more and more and more. More, sorrier, and smarter, hungrier, and more cautious than last year.

One week at home and I’m already beyond redemption. One more week of MERVs, SoEs, RTAs and coffee breaks and seeing Ali everyday and buss. Buss?


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