Author: Abez

I went out to commune with the dog last night. Don’t laugh, that’s not the funny part of this blog. I try to hang out with her (the dog) just before I shower and change my clothes, that way I fulfill both the Islamic rules of Tahara (dogs is dirty beasties) as well as the social rules of dog ownership (dogs deserve belly rubs).

Anyway, I went out to commune with the dog last night and found her reclining happily in a pile of what appeared to be formerly-clean shirts. This would be funny except that they weren’t any clothes that I recognized. I was puzzled. First of all, where did the dog get two men’s dress shirts, and second- why would the dog choose to wear them both at the same time? The dog drooled happily in my direction as I stood scratching my head and trying to figure thing out.

At some point a raindrop hit me on the nose and I looked up to the second floor balcony where our upstairs tenants sometimes hang their laundry, and then beyond that to the cloudy night sky. I’m sorry to say that it took me a few minutes to come to the proper conclusion.

Obviously it was raining shirts.

Hallelujah, amen.

I accepted the shirts as divinely bestowed and rescued them from the dog. As I walked back into the house and began down towards the basement, my father called out to me. “Beta, did those shirts fall into the driveway?”

“Yes,” I said excitedly, “Aren’t they nice!”

“The man upstairs said they fell there this morning and we weren’t home.”

I thought it was rather presumptuous of him to pretend like they were his shirts when they fell onto our dog, but since the shirts were too small for my father and too big for us, I let them go. I don’t know our new tenants very well yet, but I wasn’t expecting them to go around claiming other people’s shirts from heaven.

The nerve.

It’s been an interesting 36 hours folks. I got food poisoning, and this time it wasn’t even my fault. I ate Rasmalai from a bakery that apparently does not believe in expiry dates and within an hour I was feeling a-mighty bad. When I went to the tabib, (hooray for Dr. Sohail!) he greeted me with the usual, “So, what did you eat this time?”

It would be a running joke except that half the time I eat things that aren’t even funny. One time my doctor really scolded me. “You got sick from eating pani-poori for lunch so you went out and had limka for dessert? Are you trying to kill yourself?” He scribbled a prescription vigorously on the paper and said, “Now you can’t have anything but yogurt, white rice, and bananas for three days!” I hung my head in shame and left his office that time promising that I would take better care of myself in the future. I resolved to follow his orders and to be a better patient.

When I went to the doctor this morning he prescribed antibiotics and ordered me to eat a ‘soft diet.’ I said thank you, collected my prescription and went to work.

On my way to work I picked up a pop, which is liquid, and liquid is soft.

When I got home for lunch I had mashed potatoes and gravy, which were mushy, and mushy is like soft. I also had a little bit of Salisbury steak that had been pressure cooked for a long time. It was tender, and tender is soft.

For dinner I had leftover pizza, and microwaving it made it all floppy and soggy. It was definitely soft.

After dinner I had some nice soft chocolate ice-cream that had nice soft cookie bits in it.

I’m feeling better already

I don’t really sound like a Gora Saab. (White-man) At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself all these years of speaking Urdu as a second language, and I would like to believe it, honestly I would. But I admit, my Urdu’s not perfect. –sigh- I’ve never studied Urdu before actually, not beyond the basic introduction to Urdu writing that I got back in sixth grade. (Alif say Allah, bay say balla…)

So is my Urdu good or bad? Well, that depends on how I introduce myself. If I tell people that I am an American, they say my Urdu is wonderful and they compliment how far I’ve come in just four years. If I tell people I’m Pakistani then they tell me my Urdu is disgraceful, especially for someone who’s been back in Pakistan for four years. But if I don’t tell people anything about where I’m from and just jump head-first into Urdu conversation, do you know what they say?

“So, how long’s it been since you left Afghanistan?”

And that’s how I know that I don’t sound like a gora saab. I sound like an Afghani, or perhaps a Pushton, specifically one from Peshawer. Case in point:

When I had my appendix out in Karachi a few years ago I was rushed to the emergency room wearing shalwar qameez and an ajrak (traditional Sindhi chadar). I was later changed into hospital clothes but kept the ajrak to cover my head. I got to keep the ajrak until I was wheeled into surgery and it was time for the anesthesiologist to shoot me up. They always talk to you while they’re putting you to sleep, and they decide that you’re out cold once you stop responding. Well, my anesthesiologist decided to ask me where I was from, and just as he pushed the needle into my IV tube he said in Urdu, “So Abez, you’re from Peshawer?”

“Peshawer?” I replied sleepily in English, “I’m not from Peshawer, I’m from Chicago.”

The anesthesiologist did a double take and the last thing I remember before passing out was hearing the surgeons and the nurses laughing at him.

I know my accent is funny. If you’re ever heard a pathan speaking Urdu then you know what I sound like. It gives my cousins a good laugh every now and then, but it’s not that bad. I can say Khyber you people, and I can open my mouth without making people crack up.

Most of the time anyway. <:(

When you change cultures, the cultural rules change. You do things differently depending on where you’re staying and who you’re talking to. Like prank calls. In the US, a prank call begins with Hello, and goes something like this.

Hello?

Hey, is your refrigerator running?

Yeah.

Well go catch it then! Haw haw!

Pakistan, however, is a Muslim country, so we begin our pranks calls with the tradition Islamic greeting- AssalamuAlaikum. For example:

Me: Jee?

Caller: AssalamuAlaikum

Me: Walaikum Assalam

Caller: (In English) Do you want to talk about &@*?

Which brings me to another rule. If you want to say something inappropriate on the phone, you say it in English, and you pronounce it badly. And maybe since English isn’t your first language you recite the pre-practiced line deliberately while reading it off of a piece of paper. Or at least sound like you are. And there’s a good chance that your pronunciation may be a little off, so when the person you’re prank calling goes ‘wha?’ you repeat it a little slower and a little more nervously. And when they hang up on you, you hang your head in shame and lament having paid more attention to eating paste than doing your English lessons as a child.

Or you could just spare yourself the hassle of trying to be filthy in another language and go with your mother tongue, Urdu. (but don’t forget to say salaam first) For example:

Me: Hello?

Caller: AssalamuAlaikum

Me: Walaikum Assalam

Caller: Aap soi nahin? (you’re not asleep yet?)

Me: Kia? (what?)

Rule number three, don’t call English teachers at 2:55 am. They’re likely to scream at you, like the time when you put a live lizard in the teacher’s desk and the reprimand left your ears ringing till recess.

Me: Kaun ho? (Who is this!)

Caller: (sounding less confident) Um, Waseem?

Me: Kahan say? (From?)

Caller: Islamabad?

Me: Kyoon phone kia? (Why’d you call?)

Caller: (meekly) Mujhay neend nahin araha tha… (I wasn’t sleepy)

Me: Kya tum pagal ho? Baysharam! (are you nuts? Shameless person!)

-click-

And, although a follow-up phone call may be considered polite in most cultures, it isn’t always necessary with a prank phone call. After the fifth time you call in three days, you are likely to be greeted by a less-than friendly male, possibly a father or brother, possibly very over protective and given to profanity. On an interesting cultural side-note, it is possible that you may be sworn at in either Urdu or English depending on:

-the education level of the angry male

-the time of day, English being the language of work and therefore daylight, Urdu being the language of socialization and therefore night-time.

-whether you begin you call with hello or AssalamuAlaikum.

:p

Here I am with sporadic internet access again. Oh well. Seeing as how this is more like the norm than the exception I can’t complain about it any more. So right, Blogs away.

Funny thing about living in a proper neighborhod, you get proper neighbors. I mean ones that aren’t goats or buffalos or gawking villagers. And even funnier is that they visit you, weird! Like when you’re sleeping on the sofa and then suddenly people walk in. And you have to go from zero to sixty (zero being bed-head and sixty being hostess) in the half second you have before they realize you look all logy.

We’ve met some very interesting people though, MashaAllah, ones I’m actually going to call back and invite over to lunch just cuz we like em so darn much. Like Maryam number 4, (as compared to Maryam no.s #1-3) who we’ll probably introduce to Blogistan and hey won’t she be surprised to find out she’s already been mentioned and is now world famous! :p haw haw

Well, not all of our visitors have been as great though. Our first visitor was actually a lizard. Our second was a large toad that made its way to the middle of the living room floor. It sat there rather expectantly, and I think it might have been miffed when we didn’t serve coffee and cupcakes. I wouldn’t be surprised if the toad hopped back to its house and then lambasted us for our poor social skills. Now we’ll never be able to show our faces in the neighborhood again!

*runs away sobbing*

But yeah. New neighborhood, new neighbors. New episodes of “My Insane Life” coming soon to a blog near you.

He came. It finally happened. The man I’ve been waiting for forever… the phone guy. YAY!!!!!

But there’s a catch. After waiting three weeks for a phone line, we found out that the computer’s modem was damaged in the move, so now the computer has to be repaired. But the shop is closed till Monday for remodelling. And the damage will take a few days to fix. So by the time I get both a working computer and a working phone line together under one roof, it will have been a month.

And I’ve typed up various blogs since then, and designed at least four new layouts (yours too, Hijabified) and written pages and pages of letters which are now stale and probably shouldn’t be sent anyway. I’ve also had a very blog-worthy few weeks, having received a proposal for a paper-marriage, witnessed a major accident, been attacked by a car seat and sat in a pile of biryani. Good stuff folks, good stuff. And there was the earthquake last night too, and the various testimonials people have told me of their experience with it.

Me: woke up and thought the house was swaying

Aniraz: woke up and thought she might be getting sick and having a dizzy spell.

Dog: woke up and barked ferociously at all and sundry

Dad: Slept through it (no surprise)

Student: woke up and thought someone was underneath of bed and shaking it.

It was a scary earthquake too, lasted for at least a minute, and as the newspaper says, it was 6.8 on the Richter scale. Fortunately the epicentre was rather far away, somewhere in Afghanistan, and no casualties have been reported. Man, I would like to go back to our old house, the one we just left three weeks ago and check up on it. As we were moving, we took down the curtains and wall hangings and furniture discovered cracks, huge cracks in the walls and stairwells from the last earthquake, which was just about a month ago, and far less severe. That house was rather shoddily constructed actually, just bricks and cement with an overly large quantity of sand mixed into it. How do we know that there was too much sand in the cement? The corners of the walls had started to crumble off in some places, and water from a single drippy faucet upstairs caused water damage all the way down to the ground floor.

Alhamdulillah, our new house is made out of RCC, Reinforced Concrete-Cement, which means there are steel rods in the cement, holding it all together. And things are mostly unpacked and looking relatively normal, so yeah, it’s all good. 🙂 I will end this hodge-podge blog with a joke,

A man joins a big corporate empire as a trainee.

On his very first day of work, he dials an extension and shouts into the phone – “Get me a coffee, quickly!”

The voice from the other side responded, “You fool! You’ve dialed the wrong extension! Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“No,” replied the trainee.

“I’m the CEO of the company!”

The trainee shouts back, “And do YOU know who YOU are talking to?!”

“No!” replies the CEO indignantly.

“Good!” replies the trainee, who puts down the phone.

Frustrated incorporated.

Still no phone line, and additionally, my mobile phone has been on the fritz. I have blogs typed at home but the disk drive isn’t working so I can’t save them and bring them to the net cafe. *sigh*

But hey, Alhamdulillah, life here in SensoryDeprivationville isn’t as bad as it could be. At least we have gas. 😉

Sincerely,

Sensei

Desert Island #123

Isloo, Pk

Dear Everbloggy

AssalamuAlaikum & Happy Jumah! I personally, am quite happy about Jumah because the people from Owlie’s Office are gone for prayers and I have free reign of their computers, mwahahaaa…

-ahem-

Right, well the house is looking pretty good. Most of it anyway. Or parts of it. Specifically those areas where the carpenter hasn’t left tools and woodshavings and nails all over the floor. What can I say, some of this house is a work in progress. The work will be somewhat on hold now though, since my poor Daddy-dearest has caught bronchitis from all those cold showers before the gas was hooked up. 🙁 He’s asleep at home on the sofa right now, that’s how we left him anyway. I hope he stays there because he needs to get some rest. He’s really run himself ragged with trying to supervise what’s left of the house contstruction as well as run a restaurant, scream at the phone company people and be the CEO of the house, all while coughing. 🙁

The last time my dad had bronchitis (a few months ago) he was so out of it that he accidentally took his entire course of antibiotics in one day and then spent three days sleeping it off. Ah, the irony of Owl & I making sure he’s taken his medicine, sleeping with a blanket and trying to keep him from getting sicker. It’s a bittersweet reversal of roles when a child takes care of a parent, and even though I’m glad to be able to help my dad when he needs me, it’s a depressing reminder of my own father’s mortality. 🙁

Hug your dad today.

And make sure he’s wearing warm socks.

-Sensei

#321 Quarantine Quarters

Sector Eek 14/1

Isloo, Pk

Dear Everybloggy

I never thought I’d be happy to announce this kind of thing but….WE HAVE GAS! ‘0_0’

(har har)

Pardon me. Last night the stove worked for the first time in a week, and you know what I did? I made fried chikken, glazed carrots and macaroni and cheese. And you know what? It was delicious. We should have gas more often. 😉

InshaAllah the phone line should be connected soon, and that was I can get back into blogsurfing and spewing nonsense online as usual. In the mean time, I’m days behind in my email and haven’t been blog-surfing in what feels like forever.

-cough cough- JUNKIE! -cough-

Right, well I look forward to reading your replies even if I don’t seem to be responding to them. So write me back ok?

Peace!

-Sensei

Dear Blogistanis

AssalamuAlaikum

I thought I’d write y’all a letter to let you know how things are going. We’ve put away most of the boxes and clutter, but the house is still not ship-shape. This may have something to do with the oven in the middle of the living room floor. I might be happy to have an oven in the living room, seeing as how baking and lounging could be a great combination. You could be sitting on the sofa, and then you just reach over to the oven and pull out a tray of fresh cookies. But since we still don’t have the gas in our house hooked up, the oven in the living room isn’t all that much fun.

Today is actually Day 8 in the new house, and for all it’s downs (notice how I left out the ups) it’s been a learning experience. Never take basic utilities for granted. And, never tip a seven-foot wardrobe until you know what’s on top of it. There could be something hard and pointy on top, like the carpenter’s measuring tape. And when you tip the wardrobe it could come sliding down at terminal velocity and then bang into something soft, like your head. And then you could get a purple welt on your forehead, just like mine.

But basically we’re doing ok. We’ve learned a lot of things, like how to make scrambled eggs in the microwave, and how to turn an old kool-aid container into a sea-worthy teakettle that can be nuked for ten minutes. We’ve learned that restaurant food every day makes you feel fat, and that we’re better off microwaving Chinese noodles in pyrex loaf pan for twenty-five minutes instead.

Well, it’s time to go now. I’ve got work in fifteen minutes and have to cut this letter short. Hope you guys are doing good, and don’t forget to write back!

Sincerely,

Sensei Abez

#321 Clutter Street

Sector Eek 14/-1

Isloo, Pk

Day Five: Still no gas, no phone, and no hot water.

You know who good friends are? Those are the people who show up in your cluttered, chaotic house, navigate through the cardboard boxes and find you to take you out to dinner. They’re also the people who let you shower in their house. Good Friends Zindabaad!

PS: Lil Grey, we miss you already. 🙁

Day three:

Have been accessing blog by sneaking into Owl’s boss’s office when he’s not in. I don’t have much time, the other employees could return at any moment and then I would be discovered. There’s not much time, only enough to type up another short blog, stuff it into this little green bottle and then throw it out to sea.

*splash*

Day two of roughing it. Still no gas, no phone, and no hot water. Environment contains toxic levels of dust and cardboard. Native population unhelpful. Home PC damaged in the chaos.

SOS

Alright blogistanis, this is it. Tomorrow morning we move into a house that is so new that the phone, gas, and hot water have yet to be hooked up. Which means no internet, no cooking and no bathing.

Pray for us. Please.

*dies*

Chuck Chiselface: Good morning folks, and welcome to another edition of “Extreme Home Obstacle Course!”

Greta Grinstoomuch: Hiya folks, we’re coming to you live from this week’s crazy course, precariously located in the home of Abez, our contestant for this week.

Chuck: And what a contestant she is Greta, have you seen the battle scars on this one?

Greta: Oh yes Chuck, they say that Abez is an experienced obstacle-course runner, having over a week with this difficult course, and the bruises to prove it!

Chuck: That’s right Greta, and let’s take a look! This 3D image of Abez shows you just how many hits she’s taken while trying to navigate her way through this cluttered house, look at the shiner on that elbow, and the huge contusion on that shoulder!

Greta: Yep, that’s a big one Chuck. She got that one in the Bedroom-Doorbell Rally held last week when she took a turn too quickly and slammed into a stack of boxes she wasn’t expecting.

Chuck: Ouch! And look at the scratch on her knee, that one’s from the furniture that was pushed out of the way to make room for more obstacles. They say it snuck up on her in the middle of the night and got her good!

Greta: It may have, but she may just get the furniture and boxes back! They’ve been strewn about in a pre-move madness that can thwart even the toughest of obstacle course contestants. Not only are there narrows passages, hairpin turns and stacks of dangerously balanced boxes to stand in the way, but the marble floors present of slickness factor that would upset the balance of a cat!

Chuck: That’s right folks, and today is Abez’s chance to prove herself in the ultra-tough, hyper-extreme course, the Phone Call Challenge!

Greta: Boy that Phone Call Challenge is not for softies. Our contestant will have to start all the way on the second floor, and then when the phone rings down stairs, will have only thirty seconds to rush down and answer it before the caller gives up!

Chuck: But that’s not the hardest part, the hardest part is the course, a wicked staircase cluttered with boxes and crowded to a hairpin turn at the bottom banister. Then there’s a quick left to right switch as you have to juke past the refrigerator and then the computer table in a matter of seconds, then skid quickly left and make it to the telephone across the treacherously slippery marble floor!

Greta: That’ll be quite a task Chuck, and to think, she’ll be working without a net!

Chuck: Well, it’s T minus five second until the phone will ring, let’s watch!

Greta: Five, four, three, two-

-ring-

Chuck: And she’s off! Our cameras have her leaping from the upstairs sofa and rushing to the top of the stairs!

Greta: Oh, and now she skids to a stop just before falling headlong down the stairs, that was a quick save, these marble floors are killer! Wait, she’s flying down those stairs!

Chuck: Oh, and a brilliant save there, she just grabbed the banister and is swinging around it to avoid smashing into the wall at the end of the stairs, what a pro!

Greta: Oh no, look she’s clipped the side of the computer table and she’s losing her balance…

Chuck: She’s been turned about 180 degrees and oh no, not the fridge!

-smash-

Chuck: Oh, that’ll leave a mark, but wait, she’s still going!

Greta: I can’t believe it, she’s picking up speed and approaching the last turn! There she goes, and oh I can’t look!

Chuck: She’s sliding out of control, she’s heading right for the dining table and-

-wham-

Greta: She’s down! She’s down!

Chuck: I don’t like the look of that, see how she’s sprawled out on the floor, and there are only seven seconds until the phone stops ringing…six, five, four…

Greta: Get up! Come on, get up!

Chuck: Three, two- I can’t believe it, she waving away the paramedics and getting up!

Greta: There she goes, she’s limping towards the phone, oh this is amazing, I’ve never seen so much dedication in an athlete with such severe injuries…

Chuck: The phone stopped ringing two seconds ago but she’s still going on…

Greta: She got it! She made it to the finish! What a run Chuck, what a run.

Chuck: She might not have gotten the phone but I tell you folks, with a performance like that’s she’s a winner in my book!

Greta: Wow, that was amazing folks.

Chuck: It was Greta, this’ll be one for the records. Well folks, that’s it for today’s episode. Tune in next week for another episode-

Greta: And another exciting obstacle course, with “Extreme Home Obstacle Course!” Bye!

Chuck: Bye!

-end transmission-

Out of the chub that covers me

Though soft I sit from pole to pole

I thank forever the Lord that Be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the sweet clutch of circumstance

I have not pinched nor snacked around

Under the bludgeoning of chocolate chance,

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of fat and fears

Looms but the horror of the shade

And yet the menace of these years

Finds, and shall find me, unweighed.

It matters not how great the plate

How charged with condiments the roll

I am the Master of my fate

I am the captain of my…stomach.

-Abez

(Author retains full intellectual property rights of above literary masterpiece. No substitutions, exchanges or refunds. Offer void where prohibited. For external use only.)

Monday…looms menacingly at me with bared teeth and claws. I am inspired to yet another poetic masterpiece: (It’s a chant)

Eeek Eeek Eeek!

The beginning of another week!

Thank you. I’m feeling poetic in a cosmoplanetary hypermagnificent way, do you dig daddy?

Alright folks, this is it, the final three days of our move. You know what that means? Anything that hasn’t already been taped into a box now has to go. I’m holding out on the computer, they can box my toothbrush before I let them put the computer away, so I’ll be blogging until the very last moment when they shove me into the cardboard and wrap tape around me head.

Fortunately, with this move and my blogiversary being at the same time, I can be lazy…err…brilliant and just revisit my first week of blogging while I’m busy packing and unpacking. And I have a request too, will the on-going discussion about Islam and education and science and whether Mimi is single please move to Tora’s blog? I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it better than me for now. And it’ll save Tora the hassle of coming to my blog, he can defend from his own fortress. 🙂 Yay Tora!

And now, for something completely different.

March 7th, 2003

ZZZZZZZZZaaaa! That’s a Japanese comic book sound effect. I’m not sure whether it’s for wham, boom, or whoosh. But I think you know what I mean. English Night rocked! (roxtu? yes, it rocks too.) I’m too old to be saying things rock, but who’s gonna stop me eh? Filthy English pigdogs…

Today I got my (insert heavenly music) PAY CHECK. I ran out and commissioned: Four suits. They’ll be back from the tailor tomorrow. Now that’s service eh? This is low-season for him, so he’s churning my suits out lickety-split! Zza!

Shame be upon me and my materialistic ways, but when you work you gotta have a wardrobe. Otherwise people think you’re a filthy slob with no clothes. I actually AM a filthy slob with no clothes, but I can’t let my students know that. Every single one of my students is older than I am, with better paying jobs than I have, and the only thing I have on them is this *rockin* Amreekan accent and a reasonable grasp of da English language. He he. (so I can’t let my wardrobe slip, otherwise they’ll realize their teacher’s just a doofus in disguise!)

I have decided that I am not allowed to have a haircut until I lose ten more pounds. Needless to say, my hair is looking kinda shabby. (who cares? I wear Hijab! The Holiest Hat of Them All!) I think that’s it for now. I wonder if anyone but Amira is reading my blog? Not even my sister reads it…sniff…

See, this is what happens when you’re honest. Hmmph, see if I ever take a quiz truthfully again! :p

Power Rangers Movie!

What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla

Today is my one-year blogiversary, isn’t that amazing! Not amazing in the sense that my blog is amazing, but amazing in the sense that my attention span has permitted me to keep up with something voluntarily for this long. Where am I again?

(*sniff sniff* And I’d like to thank my producer, and my director, and my mother, and my producer’s mother…*bawl*)

But seriously though, I’d like to give props where props are due, to Amira who made me start a blog, to Tora who designed my first template, to Usman who helped me when I messed up that template (and subsequent templates after that). To eXcalbur who designed my second and most lovely layout, to Sahar who taught me stuff and tolerated my silly questions like “I made the text go invisible, how do I put it back?” and to Ahmed, who was kind enough to offer free image hosting. 🙂

And in honor of this one-year blogiversay, or maybe in honor of my terrible laziness, Sensei presents:

My first Blog entry!

Thursday, March 6th, 2003

This place is quiet, too quiet….the house is clean, the children are nestled all snug in their beds while visions of English Night at my house dance in their heads. English Night is all my ESL students coming over and playing Outburst, Pictionary, Scrabble, etc and scoffing little triangular sandwiches and secretly comparing their English levels to the other students’. So I had to clean the house, and now I’m taking a break and wasting time and brainpower typing this thing up. For who? Je ne sais. What fun!

The master has become the pupil, I learned something new from my students. I can now say the word lizard in five different languages.

Russian: Yareshitsa (YAH re-shee tsa)

German: Eidechsa (AYE dex ah)

Persian: Marmolak (mar MOE lack) Sooratat misal marmolaka! Your face is that of a lizard’s!

Turkish: Kertankele (care TON kuh luh)

Urdu: Chipkali.(CHIP kuh lee)

Break’s up. I bid this entry farewell and launch it into outer-cyber-space. Maybe someone will read it and tell me how to say lizard in five other languages? It’s really important you know. What with me being a citizen of the world, cosmopolite extraordinaire, I need to be fluent in such things. You understand of course. Peace!

Ever have one of those days when you get onto the computer to type a blog and all you can come up with is Aaargh?

Oh look, it’s 1:30 am again…

Aaargh.

Goofy Teenage Poetry

dig yours up today!

Can you find my donkey?

Can you find my donkey?

He’s wandered off, y’know.

I’ve never really met him

So I’m not sure where he’d go.

I don’t think that I’ve seen him

Or even know his name,

But despite this, he’s valuable

And needed all the same.

You’ve got a donkey, too

Whether you know it or not,

But he may not be four-legged,

He may be a lamp or pot.

Everyone’s got a donkey,

It’s something that they seek.

Not an object that you’ve lost

And will find again next week.

Your donkey is what drives you

In search of all your dreams.

It’s pursuit is what leads you

On a life of heady schemes.

Some donkeys are ambition,

And others- zest for life.

Either way your donkey can

Cause happiness or strife.

So can you find my donkey?

If you help me I’ll help you,

And together we will search

For my donkey and yours too,

Or for my donkey and your trophy,

Or my donkey and your soap,

For my donkey and your dreams

Or for my donkey and your hope.

June 30, 1997. 4 am.

Aaaaaaarrrhhhh…my hands are shaking. Not just my hands, my arms from the shoulder down are trembling in an embarrassingly old-lady kinda way. Why? Cuz I’ve been lifting weights. And do you know what the embarrassing part is? It’s the amount of weight I’ve been lifting. You really wanna know how many pounds/kilos it takes to make me sore and trembly? You really wanna know?

*drumroll please*

And the amount of weight that maxes out Sensei’s puny muscles is…

5 kilos. (…that’s 10.8 pounds for those who don’t think in metric)

Yeah yeah, I can see all you people out there rolling your eyes and going psshhh…five kilos. Whatta weakling! And me at home, you know what I’m doing? I’m rolling my eyes and going, psshhh…I am a weakling! I have no choice but to confess that I, Sensei, am a weak and puny mortal, and if my life were made into a superhero movie, I wouldn’t get the lead role. I’d be listed in the credits as ‘civilian destroyed by city-eating monster #2,’ right between ‘fleeing man’ and ‘dog killed in the beginning to wrench viewer heartstrings.’

I like to imagine myself as a rough & tough, butt-kicking ninja-type person, especially when I’m playing video games, but the truth is that I couldn’t even make a good video game character. They do all that running and jumping non-stop, and they never run out of breath or break a sweat. Take Gabe Logan for example, the ape-faced secret agent in Syphon Filter who sneaks, rolls, jumps, shimmies and sprints his way through sniper fire and explosions, all while carrying this really heavy gun. Does he ever get tired? No. Why I’ve run him through three levels straight without giving the poor man a breather, while I, on the other hand, can’t run down the block without stopping to clutch at my heart and wheeze like an octogenarian.

Then there’s Lara Croft, who has a vertical leap of what looks like seven feet and can push and pull blocks of solid stone the size of cars. And Samonosuke, the Samurai warrior from Onimusha, he whips around that big old sword like it’s made out of a TV antenna and manages to keep all his hair in place too. Now there’s a skill I’d like to master.

Speaking of Samurais, I shouldn’t even bother thinking I could be like Jack. Not only can the dude practically fly, but he drives his sword through steel like it’s made out of butter. I, on the other hand, can’t drive a knife through butter without wondering if it’s made of steel. To be fair though, as far as cartoons are concerned Jack is in a league of his own. Other cartoon characters are slightly less intimidating. In fact, there are a few that I could even liken myself to.

Specifically, Garfield.

Blogistani time-travel. We are moving backwards through history (woosh!), all the way back to July 17th, 2003. Note the following entry:

Oh yeah, yesterday I walked into my room and noticed that there was a shaft of light shining through the packing between the air conditioner and the wall. Did I say packing? I meant Styrofoam, there’s Styrofoam crammed into the space to close it off, and behind the Styrofoam is a bird’s nest. So yesterday I noticed that the birds, who had steadily been poking feathers into my room through the cracks, had finally pecked a large hole through the foam and forced a mess of feathers and straw through the hole.

(Tweet tweet. Hey honey, did you know this nest had an attached bed and bath?)

So I went downstairs and grabbed a roll of duct tape (nothing a roll of duct tape can’t fix) and a cutting blade and came back up with the intention of closing the hole. I climbed the bookshelf (thank God for sturdy carpentry!) with tape in my hand and the blade between my teeth and was highly shocked to hear the top of the bookshelf chirping.

Turns out a baby bird had climbed through the hole and fallen a foot to the top of the bookshelf. So I carefully scooped the bird up and nearly gave myself an aneurysm trying to put it back into the hole using only one hand without hurting it. (the other hand was holding me to the bookshelf!) What can I say? Baby birds are very uncooperative. I had to double the size of the hole before I could get the bird back in and then tape the hole over.

That was yesterday. Today the dirty laundry was chirping.

It was another baby bird, buried under a towel. I don’t know whether it fell down yesterday, same time as the other, and had been overlooked by me, or whether it was the same brilliant bird trying to commandeer my bedroom one dirty towel at a time. This time, I had the foresight to bring the digital camera up and take a pic before putting the bird back. I just finished gently cramming the bird back into its nest and taping the hole up again. If anyone thinks baby birds are cute, I invite them to look at the one that fell into my part of the house. (the birds only own the outside, the inside is mine)

Now fast-forward to today. (woosh!)

And que the theme from the Twilight Zone. (ne-no-ne-no-ne-no-ne-no…)

And altogether now…

They’re baaAAAAaaaack!

The sparrows are building a nest in the air conditioner again, and as I lay beneath it today trying to sleep and yet not think hateful thoughts about sparrows in general, I found myself inspired to rip off The Raven. So without any further ado, here O Tolerant of My Nonsense Blogistanis, is:

The Sparrow

(ne-no-ne-no-ne-no-ne-no…)

Once upon a noontime dearie, while I languished, tired but cheery,

Over many a quaint and fluffy pillow trying not to snore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my aircondition-or.

“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “at the aircondition-or –

Only this, and nothing more.”

Back into the pillow turning, all my dreams within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window, drat this:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this tippy-tap explore –

Let my snores be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

‘Tis a bird and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flap and flutter,

In there stepped a naked sparrow of the mangy days, Core!

Not the least of cuteness had he; not a mite of charm (nay) had he;

But, with mien of lizard palely fell onto my chamber floor –

Fell upon a pile of laundry just upon my chamber floor –

Fell from yon aircondition-or.

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to wear no clothes so plainly,

Though its buffness little meaning, little relevancy bore.

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird fall upon one’s floor –

Bird or beast with naked flesh upon his chamber floor,

Which I crammed back into aircondition-or.

And the sparrow, never ceasing, still is pecking, still is peeping

From the nest of straw and wrappers in the aircondition-or;

And my sleep has all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

As the scratch-scratch o’er me streaming throws my peace right out the door.

And my soul from out that shadow that lives in the aircondition-or

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

Hmm, is it Thursday already? Sheesh, time flies when you’re errr…bored. Yeah. Bored but busy.

Since we’ll be moving soon (‘nother house up the road) we’ve started delving into the closets and cabinets that haven’t been opened since the year 2001, when we moved in, shelved the boxes and threw away the keys on the storage. Now we have to go through all that junk. Sheesh.

Today Aniraz and I worked on the family room, dumping out drawers and crawling into cabinets. Aside from a head full of dust, we fond interesting things. Like my three-foot long purple flannel hat with a tassel on the end. I was missing that! And the left arm of one of my little brother’s old G. I. Joes. It may have been Sgt. Slaughter, I’m not sure. We also found:

Batteries. Dozens of them, and none of them work.

Rolls of film, all of them used and none of them developed. I’m afraid to turn them in, because I don’t remember taking them and some of the look very, very old. At 100 rupees per roll, I’m not about to take the risk of developing a roll that died sometime back in the seventies, or worse- was taken back in the seventies and will provide yet more pictures of my parents in loud polyester shirts with pointy collars.

Books we’ve never read and never wanted to. Sometimes when people move they go, “Hey! Abez and Aniraz like to read, and I can’t take my books with me, so why don’t I give my books to Abez and Aniraz!” That’s a brilliant idea, except that neither Aniraz nor I read crap, and so there’s a whole collection of books that have never been read past the cover. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover. But sometimes you can, for some books I don’t even need to read the titles, I can just look at the cover illustration and decide that I don’t want to read them. Books like ‘I Love You Mr. Pirate’, or the ‘Pouty Chick With Poufy Hair Giving Me a Saucy-Look’ book.

Dead dehydrated flies. I never thought it could happen, but apparently in my house, flies can die of starvation, and they sometimes choose the bookshelf as the place where they lay down to die, dry and crisp. *munch munch*

Oh well, on an unrelated note, Sensei is playing (but not necessarily enjoying) Syphon Filter II, only because it’s there. One game I’m finding surprisingly good is Bespelled, and I’m not normally a fan of online games. (I prefer the real deal, where you can actually cheat or throw pieces when you lose. :p )

I haven’t forgotten about typing a part II to the post I started a few days back (about growing up in a two-religion household), it’s just that I had to mention that we had two earthquakes today.

It was so amazing and scary at the same time, SubhanAllah. I felt the first one while I was praying, sitting between sajdas, and I got the distinct feeling that the floor beneath the prayer rug was undulating, like jello.

The second one was an hour or so after that, and as I was sitting on the sofa, I felt the legs begin to move back and forth and noticed that the chandelier was swaying a bit.

You know, you forget that the earth isn’t a solid, unmovable mass. I do anyway, and it’s a humbling reminder when part of it shudders and sets the tea-cups rattling in their saucers. This whole continent is just a crust of dirt floating on a sea of boiling-hot lava, and the sea of lava itself is the core of just one planet among billions in unimaginably large cosmos. And I, I am a trembling, mortal speck staring at the chandelier.

(which, incidentally, needs dusting.)

Alhamdulillah.

PS: A pox on valentine’s day.

(Hey Sensei, what’s up?)

1. I’m trying to brainwash one of my students, but it’s harder than I thought it would be. Hmmph. (mongrel)

2. I had such a big lunch today that it’s dinner-time and I’m STILL feeling full. *groan*

3. I’m wearing my father’s sweater and I’m sorry to say that it looks better on him than it does on me.

4. I’ve managed to distribute 4 dozen of the peanut-butter cookies.

5. My father managed to eat two dozen on his own.

6. I need a nap.

Zzzzz

Alright y’all, that there other comment box was a’running out of space. Here’s our spaghetti western so far.

A light breeze blew, stirring up the dust in front of the saloon and carrying it down to the stable where my horse stood. Good old Bullet, my trusty steed had carried me this far in my journey, through dry canyons, across roasting deserts, through Desi traffic, and now into Hell’s Teeth. Hell’s Teeth was one of the nicer names of this one-horse town, this out-of-the way den of crime and corruption they called Isloo. And they don’t even have a ice-skating rink.

I sat rocking on the porch of Ma’s General Store, cooling my heels and waiting. Ms.X could stomp all over the Mesa looking for me, but I was gonna be here waiting for her when she came back, and then. Well, then there would be some talking and maybe some fighting and maybe some shooting too, but one of us was going to lose. *queue rousing battle-score type music*

Two-fingers Mac came out of the saloon with his broom in his hand and started sweeping. He looked up at me mid-sweep and froze. He knew what was coming, so he took his broom and hurried back inside. Everyone knew, what with the way Ms. X had been a-talking up her outfit and riding roughshod over the locals, challenging them. And she had a-challenged me, but not afore trying to make me join her crew.

“Sensei,” she said with a chaw of tobacco in her cheek, “I reckon there’s room for a fast gun in my outfit. So long as you cut your allegiance to that other outfit, and stop wearing that there rag on your head. We pay better than ole Iz-laam any day now, don’t we boys.”

I rejected her outright. Told her where her outfit could go and what she could do with her pay. It weren’t pretty. But I wasn’t there to talk pretty, I was there to talk straight and shoot fast.

As I sat on the porch waiting, the bat-wing doors on the saloon opened and the sheriff stepped out. The sheriff, whose name was…

(Continued by Binje)

The sheriff, whose name was…

Ugly McPretty walked out in his usual outfit of black all over with the shinning silver badge which asserted his authority over the town. “I hear ya been waiting for Ms. X here Sensei, what in tarnation is all this about?”.

“Dont concern you sheriff, best you stay outta my way”. This comment from our hero took the sheriff back for a moment. With a stern look on his face, the sheriff walked over to Sensei and said, “y’all may have yer petty disputes, but dont ya have ’em none in my town. I’m the law here and everyone respects me fer it. I kept this town clean all this time and I aint about to derrrty up ma jailhouse over this”.

“I told ya before sheriff, and I aint gonna repeat myself… now let me be” came the reply….

The sheriff was just about to say something when all of a sudden….

(Continued by Baji)

The sheriff was just about to say something when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ms. X make a sudden movement. Time slowed. I saw her hand reach for a right-hand draw. Her lips twisted into a victorious sneer. My black scarf undulated in the wind. Dustballs rolled down the street coating vehicles, horses, camels, cows, and gawkers alike in a fine, thin layer of grit and grime. Before Ms. X could clear her weapon from its holster, I had already drawn, locked and loaded, and aimed.

“There may be room for a fast gun in your outfit, but is there room for a fast bullet in your slow brain?” I asked.

Ms. X froze. The only detecable movement was the angry tic at the edge of her beady little eye. Tobacco juice began to dribble down her chin but she made no move to wipe the spittle away. She knew she was just a hair’s breadth away from meeting her end.

*queue the theme music from ‘the good, the bad, and the ugly’ since blogistan has no regard for copyright infringments. ooeee ooeee oooooo…wah wah wahhhhh*

(Continued by Shady Wayne)

…The glint off my silver Peacemaker shone on Ms X’s face, as her shameful past slithered by in a flash. X knew her end was near but she loved her life just too much to let it get away.

“Your scarf’s off kid” she drawled and burst into a hissy laughter. Instinctively, my hand reached for my head and as I dropped guard for that split second, X jumped up and grabbed my gun. “Courage is being scared to death – but saddling up anyway,” she shrieked, and now it was my turn to stare down the barrel as a cowboy crooned in the distance…

“She found him with a sweet young filly

Makin’ calf eyes and layin’ it on thick

And before he knew what had happened

She stabbed him with a Texas toothpick”

(Continued by Abez)

“She found him with a sweet young filly

Makin’ calf eyes and layin’ it on thick

And before he knew what had happened

She stabbed him with a Texas toothpick”…

I lay on the ground humming this tune to myself. X looked at me like I was outta my blasted mind. And maybe I was, laying in the middle of the road with an enemy on my stomach and a gun in my face, singing.

Ms. X got a look in her eyes that I often a’seen in cattle when you cut them off. She was spooked. I smiled at her.

“I thought you was plannnin to shoot me Ms. X, not ride me.”

The people laughed. X swore and jumped off’a me, pointing her piece. I’m going to shoot you and I’m going to do it right,” she hissed, “So stand up and take the bullet like a man.”

“Very well then.” I got up slowly and made a big show of it, dusting off my chaps and straightening the scarf underneath’ma hat. As I stood I tipped my hat to Sheriff Ugly McPretty and he frowned at me. I turned and was about to drop a curtsey to the barber who was peering out of his shop windows when Ms. X fired.

She got me too, clipped my ribs and drew blood, but never more than than. Cuz I drew lead and took a shot off’m her that knocked the gun out of her hand. She was a-mighty mad, and she was clutching her bloody hand to her chest for dear life.

“Damn you Sensei!” she screamed, insulting me and turning tail at the same time. “The Boss is gonna hear about this, you can’t mess with our outfit and walk. You’re gonna get it bad!”

She said some more after that, ugly words as she ducked into a side-street and ran, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was busy being fuzzy-headed, and wondering why my side was hot and my shirt was red and why the ground seemed to be rising to meet my face.

They told me I passed out before my face even hit the dust…

(Continued by Mujahida)

They told me I passed out before my face even hit the dust…

During the following days I had only a few minutes of consciousness. Sheriff Ugly McPretty’s wife had taken me in and did her best in patching me all up. Unfortunately I was her first patient, her previous experience amounting to the healing of a paper cut on the Sheriffs thumb…

(Continued by Baji)

Unfortunately I was her first patient, her previous experience amounting to the healing of a paper cut on the Sheriffs thumb. My ribs still ached when the weather turned and I was going to have to work hard to get my left shooting arm back to its swiftness and stregth. But by the Grace of God and my own darn stubborness, I healed quickly and cleanly. Which is just the manner in which I hoped to dispatch of Ms. X the next time I clapped eyes on her.

I thanked Sheriff McPretty and his dainty lil’ wife for their hospitality and made tracks. Ms. X’s posse was surely on its way. I (somewhat less gracefully than usual) mounted my horse, tipped my hat to the McPrettys, and turned my face towards the blazing, setting sun. I was heading west. Right into Ms. X’s territory. If she wanted a fight, I was going to oblige and bring it to her…

(Continued by Momma!)

Suddenly out of the cornor of her eye, Sensei caught a streak of silver. She knew there was only one thing that traveled that fast in all the Wild Wakistani West. Her portable weapons of mass distruction she kept hidden under her hijab wouldn’t be able stop this!

She sensibly made for high ground and had just shimmied up Devil’s Chimney when the silver streak stopped with a screaching of brakes, and a curb jumping thud at the base. Out of her trusty steed, the Silver Bullet jumped the Indian Princess Grouchy Owl. Her kaajaled eyes and mehendied hands told Sensei she was on the war path again (or should I say as always?). Dictators and Potentates shuddered at the pass of her shadow.

She straightened her owl feather hijab, adjusted her silk sari(Hey, you asked for Indian, so you got an Indian-Indian) She extended her arm in the universal greeting of “Salam” to the starteled Sensei.

“I have news from the reservation.” she grunted.

(Continued by Shady Wayne)

“Fire away”, I said, although i knew what the owl had to say. She was my jumma woman, my faithful ally as I worked the daily grind in the Wild Wakistani West. Battle-scarred she wasn’t but I couldn’t do without her.

“Them cowboys sent you regards and a nod. They will be waitin’ at the usual place–the crooked tree by the ol’ wooden bridge.” I smiled and rode on as the Owl’s silver bullet burned rubber heading back to town. Just before I left ol’ McPretty’s house, I had sent word to my cowboy buddies. My adventures were a-lacking without them and I wouldn’t dream of hitting X’s territory if they not be ridin’ by muh side.

My silver Peacemaker, still smellin’ of a shootout, lay snug in its holster. And under my hijaab, I stacked them shiny throwing stars—a sensei special. I looked forward to seein’ mine buds; It was long since we had all saddled up.

A long, rough ride lay ahead o’ me and my faithful steed slowed to a canter as the crimson sun started to cast longish shadows.And as we rode into the desert, I hummed…

“And he rides the wild horses,

The same blood flows through their veins.

Yes he rides the wild horses,

Like the horses he’ll never be tamed.”

(Continued by Abez)

I was singing again, being in a singing mood. Things were looking up. My friends would be waiting for me and my side was healing up nice.

Of course, that meant that Ms. X’s hand must be healin up too, but that was something I could deal with. She couldn’t out-shoot me. She took a pot-shot off’me when I wasn’t looking, but I beat her to the draw.

Still, she would be mad, and mad people do stupid, violent things. I didn’t feel like singing no more. Nevermind. I changed my direction and started riding for the crooked tree and my friends. Some of them were excellent trackers, what with them being Indians- like Shady Wayne. He lived on the Hydro Reservation upcountry, where he…

(Continued by Christoph)

… had a cactus ranch. Shady Wayne bred the tallest, spikiest, cactusiest cactus herd this side of al Paso.

(Continued by Abez)

And maybe if his cactussy cacti gave him a spare moment, he and his guns could ride out to the crooked tree. I wasn’t sure if he was coming though. I wasn’t gonna force a body to take on another man’s fight. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to swing by the Hydro Reservation and say salaam.

It was a dry, lonely ride to the reservation, and my side ached and reminded me of how close I’d come to being a late-gunslinger, a Sensei deceased- an ex-parrot. All that reminding made me cranky, and when Bullet stopped at tiny oasis to refuel, I hopped off and kicked at the dust before I thought better of it. And then I heard a voice say, “What you got against that there dust?”

I was taken aback, I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

“Come out and show yourself,” I said irritably. Being caught off guard made me nervous and angry.

The voice came again and said…

(Continued by Shady Wayne)

“Lookie here kiddo; on yer left” I turned to look but I din’t see nobody ‘cept vast expands of sand and a dry shrub. Just as I turned to the other side, I heard a laugh and just then it struck me. It wasn’t an urban legend after all. There in front of me stood the folklore I had heard again and again right from the time I was knee high. “He he he”, said the talking shrub…

(Continued by Lil Baji)

I rubbed and blinked my eyes. My attention was directed to my left when I heard someone crooning “Rambling Man”. I whipped around, I saw a long, lean vampire playing a banjo. I scratched my right arm and tilted my head, trying to make sense of what my eyes were telling me. It wasn’t until I saw several squirrels dancing around in tutus that I figured something was seriously wrong.

I shook my head vigorously to clear it. Once. Twice. The hallucinations were gone. My right arm was itchin’ something fierce and when I finally gathered my thoughts and focused, I found a wee feather attached to a slender dart that was jammed directly into my arm. Uh oh.

(Continued by Baji)

“Well well well, lookee what we got here,” Mx. chortled, emerging from the shadows. “You ain’t so fast now, are ya?”

She was right. I tried to reach for my gun, to ball my hand into a fist, even to make some obscene gesture. Nothing. My arm would not obey.

“Looks like your trigger-happy hand is unhappy,” Mx. sneered.

“Least I got a hand,” I replied, looking pointedly at the stump at the end of her arm.

Her cruel smile wavered for an instant and then she really laid into me.

“Ya got yer hand, but you don’t got yer lil’ Princess Grouchy Owl no more. We do. And we got plans fer both of ya.”

Rage coursed through me. Instant, spontaneous, fierce. It cleared my mind for a moment, but I could feel the effects of whatever poison Mx. used on me begin to race through my body. Somewhat unsteady on my feet, I had just enough energy to glare at her.

“Why you low-down, lily-livered, yellow-bellied, good-fer-nuthin’. . . flea-bitten, card-cheatin’ . . . rassin’ . . . frassin’ . . . . . . ” My thoughts slowed and my anger melted into a sort of wavy, blissful feeling. My lips refused to form any more words. The world tilted. My vision wavered and dimmed. I could feel myself starting to fall.

“Not again,” I thought to myself. .

(Continued by Abez)

I can’t say it was unpleasant, being out cold. I remember a humming noise, and warmth, and the sensation of wanting to be left alone. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. There were snakes twisting around my ankles, holding them together. I could feel them growing tighter. I looked around and saw my hands in the jaws of a giant lizard, and felt myself being dragged along as it gnawed my wrists raw.

After a time the snakes calmed down and turned back into ropes and the lizard that drug me turned into a horse. I was still being a-drug though, hands-first behind a horse through the blistering sand.

At some point the dragging stopped and I felt myself being hauled to my feet. My hands were still tied, and so were my ankles. I was grabbed roughly under the shoulders and pulled towards a camp fire. I could hear its crackle, feel its heat, and I knew that alot of time had passed while I was unconscious. It might have been too much to hope for that someone would miss me and come looking. But still, a body could hope…

(Continued by Taha)

… with all the shadows leaping and dancing from the crackling fire I couldn’t be dead-on certain though normally only old Steady Hand Atticus could see better than me on any given day, matter of fact, as the story goes he once shot the head off a rattler 90 paces away just to impress a missus when the rest of us couldn’t even see it till we got closer. But ol Steady Hand Atticus is gettin on in years and his sight just ain’t what it used to be so that pretty much makes me number one…

…so when I tell you I thought ah saw a cowboy hat out there in the shadows well you can just take mah word to the bank but heck don’t take it to the one on Elm street ’cause one time ah found a gold nugget, OK well maybe I didn’t find it, maybe me and Shady captured it in one of our raids but Ahm tryin to tell a story here and if I says I found it then I found it…

(Continued by Raahil strong)

…and hope indeed, a body did have. Although hands and ankles still tied, sitting before that fire was soothing and reassuring in its own way. though, with daylight, even the strongest of camp fires would leave nothing but ash.

Time was running out, and something had to be done. For these hand and ankles were not bound by some ropes a mere mortal could remove.. for they had to burned off by the CINDERS OF ZAFA! Terror struck the hearts of commoners at the mention of its name. For it was a place, enshrouded by the jungle of Kanba, a place where only the lionheart dared to enter by night. But, there was something else… long ago, at the birth of I, a wise man had trekked the plains of south, only to arrive at the birth and give glad tiding of hope.

Still a little dazed and confused, I focused my eyes towards the one… the one who had rescued me.. Sayyidee, I feel as if i’ve known you all my days. Will you not make mention of your tale, will you not reveal yourself, my robed companion? Slowly before me, he pushed back the loose hood that had covered his head and had obstructed a view of his face…

Raised in the barren deserts of Namnor, Sayyid was a truth-seeker, a wise youth of noble lineage…

(Continued by Abez)

Or so I heard. Or maybe that’s what I thought I heard. I wasn’t even sure if that’s what I had seen, because I doubted my sanity when I started seeing hooded cowboys rising noiselessly from the desert sand. I told myself that it must have been them poisons that X shot me up with, but when the campfire suddenly went out and I found my hands free, I knew it had been more than a hallucination.

But I didn’t give it more thought than that. There was a whooping and a hollering in the dark, and it sounded like X and her crew were in for some trouble. I lit a shuck. I don’t care what some people say about the enemy of my enemy being my friend. Truth is, sometimes my enemy’s enemy hates me more than my enemy himself.

“Damn poison,” I muttered while dragging my boots through the cool, midnight sand. “Damn X,” I said when I realized that I left my horse back with X. I almost turned back for Bullet, but then I remembered that only the lowest, meanest varmint will hurt a good horse, and X may have been bad, but not that bad. Besides, Bullet was faster than sound and stronger than an ox. To shoot a horse like that would be a sorry waste, and I was counting on X’s greed to kick in where her compassion might leave off. I’d get bullet back later. For now, I was walking to the crooked tree with friends far ahead and enemies close behind.

I sat down on the sand just as the sun was beginning to peek over the dunes. I was dog-tired, my feet were chaffed from where sand had gotten into my boots and my lips were beginning to crack. I needed water, I needed shelter, and I needed them both fast. Once the sun came up I’d be a goner.

Once the sun came up I’d be a goner. I climbed to the top of the dune and tried to get my bearings. The Margalla Hills and Isloo were behind me, the ugly town of Pindi was to my left, and ahead of me lay an endless sea of white sand. I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t. I closed my eyes and sat down. That was a mistake right there. Never close your eyes and sit down. You might sit on a cactus, like I did. It was quite a cactussy cactus too. Tall and spiky, not at all a pleasant place to rest one’s laurels. I jumped up and whooped, and from somewhere in the sea of white sand someone whooped back. I knew that sound, and just then I knew them cactuses. I was on the Hydro Reservation, and here was a’coming Shady Wayne…

And now, Chapter Two…

It’s 1:30 am and everyone else is asleep. Whackos. They went to bed early on me. Hmmph! The night is young, I say! So here I am downstairs, on the computer, blogging in the dark. Hooray!

I was going to blog about Urdu expressions, specifically, one that I hear most often- Aap kiss matkay may say nikal kay aie ho? Literally meaning, What clay pot did you just crawl out of?

The proper time to use this expression on me seems to be the afternoon, when I have just changed out of my work clothes (jilbab) back into my house clothes (shalwar qameez.). As I walk down the stairs in the aforementioned house clothes, it is one’s duty to look up at the wrinkled qameez and the shalwar so creased that it hangs at the calves, and then say, “Aap kiss matkay may say nikal kay aie ho?” the implication being that until recently my clothes had been balled up inside a clay pot, and I inside of them.

Alright, so I don’t always iron my house clothes. I do sometimes, but to be honest, I boycott the iron from approximately June until September, when the weather is so hot that I don’t have to iron my clothes, they just wilt naturally in the 110+ degree heat. The weather right now is nice though, so how come I’m still being asked about clay pots? Well, the iron’s dead.

Deceased. It’s gone to meet its maker. (Black & Decker)

It hasn’t worked in nearly two weeks, and consequently my professional wardrobe has been reduced to only those things that are wrinkle-resistant. Or at least less wrinkly than other things. That leaves me with the black jilb, the red jilb, and the pinstrip jilb. I’m fortunate that some students only have class with me once a week, so with them I have two more jilbs and thus two more weeks before I have to fix the iron or begin the black-red-stripes cycle all over again. With other students I’m not so lucky. Some I have three times a week, and I’m running out of imaginative ways to bring variety to my wardrobe.

Week one:

Monday: Red jilb with paisley shawl.

Wednesday: Black jilb with silver pin.

Friday: Striped jilb with sandals.

Week two:

Monday: Black jilb with paisley shawl

Wednesday: Red jilb with sandals

Friday: Striped jilb with silver pin.

It’s only been two weeks, but if this keeps up any longer I’m going to get desperate.

Week three:

Monday: Red jilb with paisley shawl turban.

Wednesday: Striped jilb with necklace of sandals.

Friday: Black jilb with a delicate spray of toothpaste-fleck-flowers.

Week four:

Monday: Striped jilb with paper-clip necklace.

Wednesday: Red jilb with paisley shawl toga.

Friday: Black jilb with barrel on suspenders.

Week five:

Monday: Buy new iron. Wear its box to work with black jilb.

*Baked 8 dozen peanut butter cookies.

*Peeled an orange with a spoon.

*Began designing myself a new layout.

*Wore mismatched socks.

This is a sum total of noteworthy things I have done today. Somebody tell me how I could turn this into a blog.

While the action and adventure continues in our Blogistani Spaghetti Western (in the comments of the post prior to this one) I’ll get back to blogging.

I try not to be redundant and blog about the same topic twice in one week (I said ‘I try,’ not ‘I succeed’) but here’s another blog about traffic. I love Islamabad’s traffic. It’s not that we have so very much of it (except in Blue Area from noon to three) but what we lack in quantity we more than make up for in quality. Take, for example, our taxis. We may not have ten percent as many taxis as Karachi does, but we have one hundred percent of the taxi-induced mayhem. Just yesterday one of them drove through a red light and into oncoming traffic (me!!). And you know what the best part of that near-death experience was? That he was driving through the intersection backwards.

Our private cars are no less exciting. On the second day of Eid I found myself driving behind one of the thousands of white Corollas on our streets. There was nothing unusual about it except that the driver was going rather slow. And then he started to veer not-so-subtly to the right, directly for a grove of trees lovingly planted by Pakistan Tobacco Company Ltd. (Save the world, Kill those pesky humans) I pulled alongside of him and looked inside. The driver was asleep, hands on the wheel, chin on chest, foot on accelerator. I honked and he awoke with a start, swerving wildly. I sped out of the way.

Certain other parts of daily traffic here include neither cars nor pedestrians. Such as livestock. Incidentally, buffalos don’t know what it means when you honk. All you can do is roll up the windows and wait until the herd (and the smell) has passed you by.

I mentioned our suicidal pedestrians just a few days ago, but I forget to talk about the murderous ones. These aren’t the ones trying to kill themselves, they’re just trying to kill the others. And these would-be murderers are usually school-boys who think it’s funny to shove their friends off the curb just as a car is driving by. Their friends would fall directly into traffic if it were not for the fact that they are grabbed just in time. Ha ha.

Ha?

What can I say, pedestrians these days have a weird sense of humor.

Hey, on Saturday I actually met Ms. X, the proverbial Darth Vader from my January 13th blog about joining the dark side. I would like to have asked her about that job that was offered (on condition that I not wear a scarf) and whether it had been filled. I would also have liked to have asked her about what the heck she had against my scarf, but Alas, there was no time. The extent of our brief conversation ran like this:

Me: Ms. X, how are you. I haven’t seen you since that last National Day Party.

Ms. X: Oh fine, thanks. I-

Ms. Other: Oh Ms. X, come over here and…

There Ms. X is pulled away by a friend of hers and the conversation is cut short. The End. On asking around I found out that the job actually has been filled, and I have to say I’m disappointed. I was kind of hoping they’d ask me again so that I could have a second chance at that good old-fashioned show-down I’d been wanting with Ms. X. But since it hasn’t happened in real life, I’ve decided that it should at least happen in blogistan. So here, dear blogistanis, is the beginning of a classic spaghetti-western group blog. And remember, it MUST be read with a Western drawl.

A light breeze blew, stirring up the dust in front of the saloon and carrying it down to the stable where my horse stood. Good old Bullet, my trusty steed had carried me this far in my journey, through dry canyons, across roasting deserts, through Desi traffic, and now into Hell’s Teeth. Hell’s Teeth was one of the nicer names of this one-horse town, this out-of-the way den of crime and corruption they called Isloo. And they don’t even have a ice-skating rink.

I sat rocking on the porch of Ma’s General Store, cooling my heels and waiting. Ms.X could stomp all over the Mesa looking for me, but I was gonna be here waiting for her when she came back, and then. Well, then there would be some talking and maybe some fighting and maybe some shooting too, but one of us was going to lose. *queue rousing battle-score type music*

Two-fingers Mac came out of the saloon with his broom in his hand and started sweeping. He looked up at me mid-sweep and froze. He knew what was coming, so he took his broom and hurried back inside. Everyone knew, what with the way Ms. X had been a-talking up her outfit and riding roughshod over the locals, challenging them. And she had a-challenged me, but not afore trying to make me join her crew.

“Sensei,” she said with a chaw of tobacco in her cheek, “I reckon there’s room for a fast gun in my outfit. So long as you cut your allegiance to that other outfit, and stop wearing that there rag on your head. We pay better than ole Iz-laam any day now, don’t we boys.”

I rejected her outright. Told her where her outfit could go and what she could do with her pay. It weren’t pretty. But I wasn’t there to talk pretty, I was there to talk straight and shoot fast.

As I sat on the porch waiting, the bat-wing doors on the saloon opened and the sheriff stepped out. The sheriff, whose name was…