In May of last year, a month after I wrote a blog vying never to date men again, I went out to lunch with a young, white, teacher named Sam. He was cute but a little idiotic-looking, sported a cane in the way certain men flash fancy car keys, and had a habit of doing… Continue reading Of England, a Year On
Some thoughts, a year on. The primary way I seem to have dealt with things is that I have locked almost all the memories of my mother in a tight strongbox inside my chest – to open it is to release so many thoughts of her, all of which cause me so much pain. It… Continue reading More on Grief
I’ve been packing recently, and in the hoards of stuff I’ve dug out, there were a couple of VHS tapes from my childhood. The most significant is one my mother recorded when I was about a year old. In it, I am a shorn-headed brown-skinned little precocious gabbler, getting quite beaten up by her elder… Continue reading Of Mama, and Baba
I was going to write a post about the new efforts being made in areas of pakistan to get women on wheels, but after yesterday’s attack on Bacha Khan University I find myself too upset to write about anything else. Over twenty people dead and fifty injured in yet another gross attack on our educational… Continue reading Of attacks on educational institutions
Today – December 1st, 2013 – it would have been my parents’ silver anniversary. I say would have been, because my parents divorced after 12 years together, in April of 2001. It was not an amicable divorce. My mother and I (then 11 years old) had not foreseen the separation and we were taken by… Continue reading Of Divorce.
Ever since I found out you could save conversations on MSN messenger, I turned on the feature and started saving messages. Some 10 years, two computers and two laptops later, I still have them sitting in a little folder in my current laptop. They’re also saved on innumerable usb backups tossed in a corner of… Continue reading Confessions of A Digital Packrat
” There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit,… Continue reading of death and responsibility.