Homebody Writes a Guest Blog

I feel so honored at writing a guest blog for a friend of mine! She's a tarot reader, meditater, reiki practitioner and singing bowl therapist. In short, she's one lean, mean spiritual machine.
Do check it out! Click on blog.

The January Mindfulness Writing Challenge

Pay more attention and fall in love with the world. Join our mindful writing challenge, 'a river of stones', in January '12. FREE to join. Here's how:
1. Notice something properly every day during January.
2. Write it down.

The new year started for me with a fight with my mum. When facebook reminded me I’d joined this challenge, I decided to ignore it. Mindfulness was not going to work for me, I wanted to sulk, watch Thor, sulk some more at false promos of bad movies.

But there are many, many different things that happened that day also, which deserve attention because where thought flows, energy grows and that becomes your reality.

Here’s what was beautiful about January 1^st, 2012

Birds. Not colorful little magpies or sparrows or parrots. Big, cawing crows and yellow beaked maina birds – one for happiness, two for joy. I had four on my window sill – the new year started with them pecking at the glass, asking to be let in. The brilliant thing is they didn’t fly away when I drew the curtains. They just cocked their heads and said, “Oh hello? You live here do you? Let us in. Peck. Peck. Peck.”

I had various reactions to this. Death was at my window. Then perhaps it was luck. Was it an ill omen? What did it mean? Then I realized that the grill outside my window was the perfect perch. The birds were actually pecking their reflection in the window. And they felt safe enough to stay perched even when I appeared. Maybe I am the sort of person who makes animals comfortable. They gravitate towards safety. I make birds feel safe. Even though they were big, dark, a little ugly and annoyingly inquisitive, their presence made me fall a little more in love with them.  


January 2nd
An evening walk with an old friend;
Discussing hopes and dreams, 
Stepping on gravelly fears,
Dislodging them from our heels,
So that we could fly into the night sky
And tread upon the stars.


January 3rd
The sun rays through my window
Are not gold nor gleaming.
They waft in like buttercups in the breeze.
Through black bars
The world awaits.


January 4th
The trees are green.
And the flowers are yellow.
God couldn't have come up with a more beautiful cliche.


January 5th
The sun peeps through the wet clouds,
and the leaves of the sycamore glow
with an ethereal halo


January 6th
No poems today. A person who was prone to depression told me that my blog made them feel better. And their telling me this made me jump over the moon! Yes, like the metaphorical cow.


January 7th

Walking along the beach, looking at the patterns left behind by the water. They looked like heartbeats of the ocean; or trees in autumn, etched white on the brown sand. 


January 8th
Homebody went bowling. This in itself is achievement. Don't ask for my score. If I tell you I'd have to kill you. 


January 9th
Today I am successful: I managed to relinquish control.
Something happened and I wanted something very very badly. So badly that I had a stomach and chest ache. I craved something with all my being. But I also knew that whenever I've wanted something this badly, I've lived to get and regret it. So I meditated and gave this wish, visualized in all it's specific and detailed glory, to God. He can do what he wants with it, give it to me if it's good for me; or take it away from me. The miracle is that i was able to do this. I didn't have any wistful dreams and no longer do I dwell on what is not in my control. This has never happened before. Hallelujah.


January 10th


An early morning email from a new friend - who's equally delighted with your existence. Sigh.


January 11th
Succulent turkey bathed in honey-thick, salty gravy. Buttered peas and red cabbage. Beef with moist mushrooms glistening in candle light. A sister's welcoming smile, telling you to feast away. Sigh. Burp.


January 12th
So I'm a judgy little thing and thought all rappers talked about rape (yes, because the two words look alike) and guns and sex and violence. But then a friend introduced me to Tupac and I heard a song which touched me to the core. The lyrics, coming from this angry looking man, went like this:


"And since we all came from a woman
Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman
I wonder why we take from our women
Why we rape our women, do we hate our women?"


All questions I have asked myself.


And then the touching tribute to his mother where he says that though he can't make up for all the difficult times he gave her, he can still give her appreciation. That moved me - I can complain about my mother and hurt her but I need to tell her more often that I love her. The songs and the realization, are the stepping stones of today.


January 13th
O MY GOD I GOT TO TEACH MY FIRST LITERATURE CLASS! I am almost -A level Literature Teacher. Good ol' Emily Dickinson, picked up for an eternal, orgasmic tryst by death. YIPEEEEEEEEEEE!!


January 14th
Went to an engagement party, where I saw a couple in love. They smiled and joked and laughed and I, after the longest time, was able to rejoice in their happiness. May they be eternally blessed - the ceremony warmed my heart. 


January 15th
A movie in bed, nieces next to me, giggles and hoots. 


January 16th
This might be perverse, but is it okay to celebrate NOT having dinner at night? I feel so thin and proud of me!


January 17th
Had LOVELY Thai food. Papaya salad was divine. And I had rice with CHOPSTICKS! Achievement in life!


January 18th
Oh the anticipation, the excitement of waiting for a loved one to arrive. Chalo chalo, Jinnah airport chalo!


January 19th
Today I found out that I had two ovaries. That all women had two ovaries. I was laughed at and told that I need to be aware of my body so that I could take care of it. But my argument is: my ovaries were fine without me knowing there were two of them, right? And HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW? They didn't teach this stuff unless you chose biology for your O levels, which I didn't. SO, stepping stone of today - I'm a little more educated today.


January 20th
The realization that I am to my mum what Christmas is to a child. To be loved like that by anyone is the deepest of blessings. 


January 21st
The beating of the heart, the excitement of daydreams, the wistful smile when an image pops up in your mind. Blush, smile, laugh and then shake it off. Repeat process. 


January 22nd
The smoothness of skin after a warm, luxurious bath, as you slip into a red, fuzzy robe and feel the languor of sleep slowly seduce you.


January 23rd
A smile on a face after the longest time. Welcome back, spirit and courage.


January 24th
Once in a while you read something and it makes you smile. This is what made me smile today: 
"That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong."


January 25th
HURRAH FOR 49! When my eldest sister, in her early forties, was diagnosed with breast and brain cancer, I didn't think she'd be around to see her 49th birthday. But she IS! And she's whole and healthy and a walking, talking miracle. This isn't a stone. It's a boulder. Praise the Lord!


January 26th
I wore a smart black jacket today and felt totally sexy, despite expanding waist-line. Fat homebody is contented today.


January 27th
A blessing to have sisters. Even annoying ones who poke you when you're almost asleep. 


January 28th
Managed to meditate today. It feels so good, I wonder why I don't do it more regularly. There's some kind of block that needs to removed from my psyche ... I miss the gentle rush of energy too much to go without it for so long. 


January 29th
The fire spoke to me. It hissed and crackled and ruby flames danced and smoldering wood offered comfort. I think it was trying to seduce me. It was almost successful. 

January 30th
Good friends. Nothing more precious than this stepping stone for today. 


January 31st
There's something to be said for turning thirty - which I will in a few months. My body has been distressing me by changing, my mum tells me this is God's way of telling me that I should have children. I told mum that God should have arranged for a husband first. I'm growing rounder all over, voluptuousness is no longer a virtue. 
But, in the middle of this, I went to school today with a headache and the new school nurse asked me if I was a student or a teacher. SHE COULDN'T TELL IF I WAS 17 OR 29! I feel young, I feel fresh and I feel like strutting me-self all over the place.
And what a way to end January with a bang - time has passed but if there are still people who think you're twenty years younger than your age, then it doesn't matter. Not a very profound stepping stone to end the month with. BUT then, homebody believes in celebrating the smaller pleasures of life!

How Homebody Spent New Year's Eve

Homebody goes to watch Bol

As part of my new resolve to get-a-life, I decided to do take baby steps in order to expand my means of entertainment. For a homebody who considers a journey from bed to bathroom an arduous adventure, filled with turmoil and menace (my bathroom mat, for some reason, is OUTSIDE the door and hence I slip constantly and land face-down in my bathroom), a trip to the movies is like a trip to another universe. And so I went to the movies like a woman-of-the-world.

 With my mother.

I am ashamed to admit that the impetus for this excursion was my tenacious parent who had been telling me, for the past three months, what a bad daughter I was because I wasn’t taking her to the movies. It’s interesting how I was being henpecked like my had been father two years ago. To him, my mother used to say:

“Kitnay Kharab hain, Wasi! You don’t take me to watch the movies!”

And just a week ago she said to me:

“Kitni kharab ho, Shazaf! You don’t take me to watch movies!”

Abu’s strategy was to smile sheepishly and go play golf. Being a homebody, I don’t have that luxury. So I relented and said I’d take her (which means I’d accompany her) to the cinema. When I found out it was Bol, I regretted my decision and feigned all sorts of headaches, stomach cramps, dizziness, nausea so that my mother would give my ticket to a friend and leave me at home to watch Perfect Strangers. But I resigned myself to my fate while I was dragged down the steps with my hair and shoved into the car.

Onward ho!

Once I was in the cinema, I sat with an open mind. After all, it was a movie that everyone had loved and went to watch a second time. Khuda ke Liye, by the same director, hadn’t been that bad. And look! I was surrounded by people who hadn’t given birth to me! I was out and about. A veritable socialite! Good good! I even considered going home and finding other movies playing so that I could procrastinate about watching them at home. But this was progress. I was sure of it!

And then the movie started with a woman about to be hanged. The woman had a terrible father. The terrible father's wife had given birth to a transvestite – a sweet boy who wasn’t a boy. Boy got raped by truck drivers. Father killed son.

Now at this point you’d probably think that this plot line is enough for a very long movie. But at this point a SECOND story starts.

Father needs money to bribe policeman. He goes to heera mandi and impregnates a prostitute for money – becoming a prostitute himself. His second daughter wants to marry a Shia (notice yet another plot line out-of-the-blue). He wants her to marry a Sunni, even if the candidate is 40 years older. Prostitute gives birth to girl. Another daughter elopes with Shia boyfriend. Father gets angry and hits whatever woman he can get hands on. Prostitute gives girl to man to prevent daughter from a life of exploitation. But father tries to kill girl with pimp & co. try to take their ‘property’ back. Eldest daughter kills father. Goes to jail. Is hanged.

And then suddenly, lalalalalalaaa we have a happy ending. With father and daughter gone, mother who has been sniveling spineless sot staring helplessly in all directions suddenly becomes bold entrepreneur who starts a restaurant named after hanged daughter and President is kind enough to take note of hanged daughter’s plea after death. End with lots of women laughing, singing and celebrating in style, just two minutes after we’ve seen their sister hanged.

Throw into this equation an impromptu concert in which one daughter sings like a professional rock star before retreating into a burqa and daughters dancing to rap music in their free time; the entire thing becomes a bit absurd. The story line was depressing and the execution, although MUCH MUCH better than normal Pakistani films with buxom Pakistani women jumping in fields in front of angry looking fat men and throwing themselves chest-first into every fray, was actually rather bad. This was two movies condensed into one. Atif Aslam should NOT have been a part of this movie – and his music which didn’t fit with the theme or the mood of anything. The ending jarred and appeared a tad bit insensitive.

The experience was not made any more pleasant by the fact that I choked on French fries in the middle and my mother thwacked me and lectured me loudly on the importance of chewing my food while people in the front row turned around and told me to shush; not recognizing that the blue on my face was due to a lack of oxygen and NOT a radical new skin foundation.

So I came back home, suicidally depressed because my heart went out for Zainab, the one who died – yes, the movie was a tear-jerker in some places. My heart bled for Saifi, a transvestite who was hated and killed by his own father. I felt angry at the world and thought that being a home-body was not such a bad idea after all. In such a despicable world, it’s better to grow old in bed with a book in the hand or a headphone in the ear (once you’re blind).

So attempt at social life # one = GIANT FAIL! Perfect Strangers, here I come!

Homebody Goes Whooppaaa!!

I started writing this blog when I felt stuck. No, I’m not talking about weight any more. I’m talking about one of those times when it feels like the universe has placed a giant corkscrew to bottle everything in. Nothing seemed to happen back then; nothing was working. My inhibitions loomed like a giant brick wall hemming me in. I wrote my fears and frustrations and found a new passion in blogging.

Now, as the New Year approaches, the bottle has been unplugged and celebration is in order. Good things are happening and the universe seems to be saying: ‘here: take a break!’ And the best thing about the universe: its breaks, unlike Kit-Kats', are calorie free! I feel like doing a Greek dance and joining hands in celebration and generally going ‘Whoopaa!’ So here goes.

My friend Afia won the Best Diarist Award for her blog at the Pakistan Blog Awards. She nominated herself when she was stuck and then felt the magic happen and it culminated in victory last night. Whoopaa!

Another friend who’d been stuck in the city for fifteen months because the visa stamp on his passport had expired, just got his renewed visa yesterday. He took it as positively as one could and now he’s free to go. He gets to join his wife and start a life of marital bliss. Whoopaa!

I’ve started exercising; my back is no longer in pain. And the zipper on my jeans doesn’t roll down any more. Whoopaa!

I’ve started meditating again – feeling more unstuck. Om Shanti Om. (Whooppaa doesn’t quite seem appropriate here)

I’ve started reading again. I read half of Gerald Durell’s ‘Three Singles in Guiana’ which talks about petulant paccas, frothing ant-eaters, hysterical Amerindian with wives like Lady Godiva, Caymans, owls and other creatures. With the result that my mother checked on me in the middle of the night because I was letting out undignified hoots of laughter at fifteen minute intervals in the dead silence of the night; she thought I’d finally lost my mind. Whoopaa!

And finally, I gots the visa! I’s cans travel to the U.S of A! Whoopaaa!

If there is one common denominator in all these developments, it’s mobility. And mobility is the source of all empowerment. One person no longer has restrictions to travel to a country where his life is. Another has moved on to greater popularity, readership with a chance to do something really magical with her writings. I’ve started moving physically and the rusted cogs in my mind and soul are slowly beginning to turn. They’re creaking and protesting but they’re definitely in motion. The flow of life is definitely back.

So here’s to mobility and the New Year: May you ALL dance into a new, glorious chapter of your lives, singing, celebrating and going WHOOPAAA!

The Reluctant Homebody

If you haven’t already read between the lines, let me say it clear and loud. I don’t really want to be a homebody. Every time I complain about being forced to go out, it’s a farce. I’m actually glad to go out, even though the process of going out and being-with-other-human-beings-who-are-not-on-television is a point of considerable stress for me. I imagine I’m too fat, that I’m uninteresting, that I’m uninformed and that people are inviting me out of pity. Naturally, this points to my own natural sense of low self esteem. Therefore, I’m a BAD homebody. The kind who should be sent to stand in a corner and face the wall.

Which begs the point: are there good homebodies? Absolutely. I am inspired by a friend who took a sabbatical for a year to re-group her priorities, values and spirit. She spent this year mostly exploring the inner recesses of her mind – i.e. meditating, doing yoga, gardening, reading, writing and literally just contemplating the truths of the universe. I’m sure she ventured out and met with a select few people through this course of twelve months. But she lived in herself, with herself. And now she’s coming out of it with a fresh outlook on society, behavior and morality and sharing her brilliant insights with the world on her own blog. She’s the real deal. She comes up with these sayings that I think are from the internet but are actually her own. Such as: "Righteousness is often deep envy in disguise."Doesn't that make you shudder?

Case in point: she opted to be homebody and benefitted by relinquishing, voluntarily, the rigmarole of life and then reaching a point of centered-ness. She made a change, inside-out.

So what’s the difference between a good homebody and a bad homebody, you ask? I answer you: state of mind. My friend opted to be a homebody. I became a homebody automatically, primarily because it’s in my family’s script to be homebound. I woke up and suddenly realized I had become me, primarily because I was hedged in by fears, insecurity and also many, many bad hair days.

The problem with my lifestyle is that it doesn’t reflect the true me. I belong on the dance floor. I belong on the stage. My soul is a grinning woman wearing red lipstick and black leather pants riding a Harley Davidson across the desert, with the sun in my face and the wind in my hair. It’s me snorkeling along the Great Barrier Reef. It’s me belly dancing in Rio, meditating on the hilltops of Sri Lanka. I’m a traveler, explorer, talker, discoverer, uninhibited inside. But on the outside, I’m homebody.

So where does that leave me now? Well, right now it leaves me here, in front of my laptop, writing to you.

But it leaves me in a position to change all this. I will start by taking small baby steps. And hopefully, you’ll be there to read my journey and cheer me on when I crawl back into bed, discouraged.

Fasten your seat belts! It’s going to be a bumpy ride! Well, at least I hope so, anyway.

The Fat Homebody’s Conversation of Comfort

Three things have happened to drive me to despair today.

I had 8 sets of papers, 310 essays of bad hand writing and grammar to correct. I consumed 10 Kit Kats and three boxes of Ferrero Rochers in the process of doing so.

I tried to resume my video Pilates routine and pulled a muscle in my back, thereby rendering physical movement impossible. I was stuck with my increasing weight for some while.

The zipper in my jeans slid down every time I leaned forward and I fought a futile battle with it, pulling it back up and sucking my breath in every time I sat down, but to no avail. It went down, slowly, inevitable, inexorably. Every-damn-time.

I was fat, wedged in and in pain.

The universe conspired against me and transferred my back pain to my neck, so that the only movement I could make was to look up and down – which meant that apart from feeding myself and correcting papers, I couldn’t do much else. It was purgatory. And I could feel myself expanding. Gravity was pulling me downward so that I sagged and drooped most unpleasantly.

The ultimate blow came when my cleaning woman came and gently said: ‘Shazaf thori moti ho gai hai.’ It’s bad enough that she called me fat, but she spoke about me in third person while she was doing it. That made me seem even bigger – as if wasn’t small enough in size to warrant a single person narrative.

So I went through the usual route of dealing with my angst. I blamed my mother for giving me slow metabolism. When that didn’t help, I updated my facebook status, at which a very physically fit and thin friend of mine wrote an ‘Ha ha! Told you not to eat those Kit-Kats’ response which made me want to gouge his eyes out. Having received no sympathy from my facebook friends, I did the next best thing and chatted with my best friend and it made me feel better. I shall record the conversation so that if ever YOU feel fat, you can recall this and feel better like I did afterwards. Or not. Your choice.

The conversation went something like this:

HB: F, I’m fat. I’m a fat, bulging piece of despair. I’m hideous. I sit down and my stomach folds into a capital, curvy m. Things are very, very bad. What do I do?

F: Are you sure you’re not over-reacting?

HB: I’m sure. I’m a sad, fat bulge of adiposity.

F: Do you want me to be your Diet Nazi?

HB: Um. No. Should I take some kind of medicine?

F: You’ll grow a beard.

HB: So there’s no hope? *Weeps*

F: Stop being pathetic.

HB: Okay. Make me feel better. Say something nice.

F: You have a nice smile.

HB: OH GOD! THAT MEANS YOU THINK I’M FAT! Now I feel nasty.

F: Listen, I saw you yesterday. You’re not fat.

HB: I’M NOT THIN EITHER!

F: What we need to do is re-define the stages of physical development.

HB: Yes! Let’s see. What are the stages?

F: Well, there’s anorexic which you don’t want to be.

HB: True, but then I’d be able to eat all those Kit-Kats and that would be a good thing.

F: Shut up, please. Then there’s normal. Then there’s blimpesque.

HB: Blimpesque?

F: My new word *looks proud*

HB: Am I blimpesque?

F: In my opinion you have not gained blimp proportions just yet.

HB: This is already making me feel better, strangely enough.

F: Good. Then after there are Fat Momma Jokes. After that, you can’t fit through your door way. These are the stages of being fat. You are not even close to these stages.

HB: Yes, yes. Actually, we can break down the stages of from thin to fat, can’t we. First: anorexic, then thin, then normal. Then blimpesque. Then blimpesquer. Then Nigella Lawson. And then the fat momma jokes.

F: Nigella is totally hot. If I were a man, I’d lust after her.

HB: I’m not a man and I still lust after her.

F: Hmm. Perhaps you can sexily lick butter?

HB: Actually, I’m going Pamela Anderson in one direction and J-Lo in the other.

F: Hmm. Well, that’s not such a bad thing. Guys will want to make fraandship with you. In fact, I may just be persuaded to send some suggestive texts to you myself.

HB: I am not responding to that. What I need is to reduce my behind.

F: Did you know your behind is your gluteus maximus. J-Lo has a nice maximus.

HB: Yes. But mine is wobblier. I know. I need to make mine a Beauteous Maximus.

F: That sounds like a plan.

HB: Okay. Thanks. I feel better.

F: You’re welcome.