The Return of the Homebody

Okay, okay. You said I'd come back, and you were right.
So a lot has happened - I've published a novel  and it's done quite well. I've sort of transfered this blog onto wordpress here and I do hope all you who read this come back, even if it's just to say, 'I told you so!!'

Homebody Discovers a Lost Blog Post

Was just deleting some old files when I came across this. I hope you enjoy. No, there aren’t any more unpublished posts. Hope all of you are doing well!

I’m growing old. This bothered me five minutes ago. But now it doesn’t. Here’s why.

So this year I turn thirty. I am told that thirty is the new twenty. This is a sweet little lie because even homebody is not that bad at math. Not anymore. Thirty is the new thirty. (Ms. Soares will be so proud of me; she once banged my head against my desk and then hers against the wall when I once wrote 2=3 as the answer to an algebraic formula and delightedly demonstrated my conclusion to her at the end of the period.) Fact is if I was living a hundred years ago I would be ‘on the shelf’. I’d be dead in a decade; while today I have about forty more years to go, if all goes well. So I’ve lived almost half my life – unless I live to be eighty or ninety. In any case, there’s no point speculating. The fact is: homebody is ageing.

Age, for me, has manifested itself on my body. I used to be flat. Blissfully sexless, which was so comfortable because I didn’t have to wear a dupatta everywhere. But now, I’m bootilicious, which is not a dream come true because I want to hold on to that pre-teen anorexic look that represented the old days for me. It made me feel comfortable, that I was still that little girl whose father was still alive, who watched Captain Planet and ran mad over the house, not worrying about thunder thighs and support bras and other items of clothing to make sure not everything flung itself all over the place with every step I took. Now, I have to make sure I’m more, shall we say, contained.

And the thing about weight gain that most gets you down is that you don’t fit into all those pretty clothes that hang in your closet, waiting patiently to be worn. You could wear them six months ago, but hormones kicked in, metabolism kicked the bucket and gravity started its magic. You begin to spread and spread until one day, your clothes suddenly go taut on you; despite the fact that you’re holding your breath and sucking your tummy in until you burst a kidney. And there’s that ominous ripping sound when you sit down.

So, five minutes ago, I cleaned my closet and took out the outfits that I hadn’t worn for a year, because I was waiting to be thin enough to wear them. I thought there would be three, maybe four.

There were TEN outfits. Beautiful ones. With the most exquisite hand and needlework. And I’d only worn them once and then kept them aside for ‘special occasions’. Royal blues, reds, greens and maroons. And oh. That one beige, glittering masterpiece of chiffon and silk.

I lay them on the bed and examined them. I would probably be able to fit into them if I exercised diligently for a month. But I had been telling myself this for over a year. My body was changing, the pre-teen look wasn’t coming back. Ever.

But as I stared at these outfits, something clicked. I took them off their hangers and folded them, lovingly. And I put them in a bag and gave them to my cook, whose son is getting married next month. He took them stoically, he doesn’t like being in a position where he needs help. So I kind of sidled up and put them next to him and told him he should take the ones he could use. He took them all.  

And five minutes ago, I checked my closet, which is emptier than it has ever been. There are no longer countless clothes; each kameez hangs solitary and proud. And suddenly, I feel deliciously free – empty but full of possibility. I have aged and this is my new body and those clothes were for an old me. There’s more of me, physically yes, but also in terms of the experiences and tidbits of wisdom that I like to think I’ve gained. The old me had a lot of hopes and dreams which were no more. The new me has new hopes and new dreams which need some more breathing space.

My ten year old self was precocious, my twenty year old self was uncertain. But at thirty, I’d like to think that I’ve settled into who I am. Which means that I can truly BEGIN to live life on my terms: terms where I have space, where I am independent and where I can breathe freely and deeply,  just like the clothes in my closet. . After all, homebody just created space for who she is about to become. Which is terribly, terribly exciting, don’t you think?

Homebody Writes Her Last Blogpost

This is my swan song. The last entry. The proverbial cherry on the cake which has been sufficiently baked and to overcook it would be a shame.

You  see, most bloggers start out enthusiastically and then months later fizzle out slowly and inexorably; so that a year later you realize that you haven’t read anything from them recently; and you click on their link and you see a notice to the effect of ‘last updated three years ago’. And that notice fills me with sadness, it’s like seeing a dead cat on the side of the road, or like tea that’s left too cold in the cup on an ignored side table and you’re forced to drain it down the sink. I love this blog far too much to do that to it. I hope you have drunk your fill; enjoyed what you have tasted; but this is a gentle notice that there will be no more refills. I think the start of a project is auspicious – why shouldn’t the end of it be also?

I write this post with great sadness. Not because I’ll miss blogging – which I probably will, but because my decision to end comes concurrently with the news of someone’s diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. One day this person was fine, the next day this person was operated upon and the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread its tentacles to surrounding organs. And I thought to myself, if that ever happened to me, what would my reaction be? I couldn’t rejoice in my safety and temporary immunity from bad news – thirty years on the planet have taught me it’s no consolation to know you’re okay when someone else is suffering. Even if that someone else isn’t terribly close to you. I just sat and thought about what I would feel if I would die a year from now and I realized that I would be filled with regret that I hadn’t written more stories.

I have a very strong suspicion that I’m a writer. I think there are many stories within me that I need to tap. But just as pressure builds before a volcano erupts, just as silence precedes the storm, these stories will unveil themselves to me only when I give them the creative space to become. Right now, my creative climate is very dependable – regular showers that wash the pavement, soon to be forgotten. My blog posts are precious but also trivial – they don’t allow me to feel the longing and anticipation that will allow for a more significant piece of writing. A friend, mentor and writer told me that I must feel the ‘silence within the soul’ before the stories come. These blog posts interrupt that silence and I don’t want that to happen anymore. So I must pave the way.

So what has blogging taught me? It’s taught me that you write when you are fundamentally discontented with what is; it’s a way of figuring out who you are and why are things the way they are and also a way of coming to terms with the contrast therein. It’s taught me that it can bring you a lot of joy. It’s taught me that there are a lot of wonderful writers around me, whose blogs I’ve read and enjoyed and will continue to do so. It’s introduced me to a wonderful online community, who I met at a dinner party in a beautiful house that reminded me of the Von Trapp household in The Sound of Music. It also taught me that the instant gratification of readership and comments is the ultimate confidence building machine – writing is a lonely process and to embark on it, you need to have a supportive group that reaffirms your inner suspicion that you are, in fact, a writer, even if you aren’t published yet. And when you have been in this group, you can start venturing out alone, on your own. You have the emotional strength to go on a journey that’s frustrating and quite arduous.

So I end by thanking my readers. Some of you I can thank personally, others I thank in this post. You have given me confidence, praise and a lot of happiness and I hope your dreams come true.

And therefore, ladies and gentlemen, homebody takes her last bow. It’s been a pleasure.

Where Homebodies Dare…

Another thing about homebodies – they like to travel. It sounds paradoxical, doesn’t it? Not really.

Living carefully, prudently, hedging in your desires means that once a year, or once in a while, you yearn to break loose from all boundaries and inhibitions and do something that is completely different. And with a biker-chick soul, I want to occasionally do something that is outrageous along with it.

Last year, I went to Turkey. I had made plans to be completely imprudent: I’d dance on table tops and kiss Turkish men and go dancing at night, all night. I would be repressed-but-now-out-of-control-Pakistani-woman-of-the-world-without-mum. I would be a force to be reckoned with. I’d drink alcohol and eat EVERYTHING. I would ‘live’ to the fullest, like I hadn’t ever before.

But reality was a little different. You see, homebodies lack spontaneity and their sudden yearnings for freedom aren’t necessarily coordinated with my own. This meant that none of my homebody friends were ready to come with me. So I booked an escorted tour on which the average age was 55. And my dreams of indiscriminate hedonism went down the drain.

There was no one to sleep with, although Frank, a sixty-something darling said to me, in front of his face-palming wife that he’d flirt with me if he’d just brought his Viagra with him. I was adopted by a lovely Indian couple and Yogi, as we called him, wouldn’t let me splurge on ridiculous trinkets because he said that as surrogate parent (he was baby-sitting me throughout the trip; quite successfully in fact) he found he couldn’t allow me to waste my hard-earned money. And then when I wanted to take a sip of alcohol, a seventy-something kindred spirit named told me about his son’s experience and said, ‘Now, do you really want a glass of wine?’ Another beautiful friend from Britain encouraged me to take a sip and told me she’d take care of me, but remembering the warnings, I desisted. Besides, a sip and then being taken care of is hardly hedonism, right?

And yet, and yet. Turkey is permanently lodged in my soul. Not just because it’s a beautiful country - a hot air balloon ride above the rugged ridges and exotic rock formations of Cappadocia, with the sun on one side and rain on the other, is quite possibly the highest point of my life, literally and metaphorically. But that’s not why Turkey was amazing for this homebody.

Turkey was my first stint at independence. Despite warnings that I’d be bored, or get lost, or get raped, I still traveled alone. It was planned, financed and executed by me. I went thinking I’d see interesting new things, which I did. But what made the trip for me was the people.

I met some of the most beautiful people who have ever existed – a man who designed gems and grew flowers and who loved his wife, another woman who wrote her soul and giggled and learned to cat-whistle in Taksim square; and another who designed the most amazing costume jewelry for craft fairs. I met a woman who was discovering her rock-star soul at sixty, after having left an abusive husband. I met two gay ladies who were passionately in love even after twenty years. I met a man who mourned his dead wife still; so much that he was trying to walk his grief out along the ruins of Istanbul.

I remember thinking one night, in an Italian restaurant at Taksim which served the most amazing Spaghetti Bolognese, that all these people had once been homebodies like me, they were probably still homebodies. But they still had a sense of adventure, a zest for life that showed in warm smiles and shining faces. And there you go, epiphany hits: being a homebody is a really cool thing; much cooler than dancing topless on table tops. The freedom of the soul is much more important than anything else, and these men and women taught me that. I felt blessed to be among this wise, funny, inspiring group of people: they were spiritual rock stars and biker chicks and infinitely cool people.

And now, like Vianne Rocher from Chocolat, the wind changes for me too. I feel the same tug to dare to travel to another land. Last night, I dreamt of Andalusia. I think it’s time for homebody to venture forth again.  

Homebody and the Face of Pakistan

I was ecstatic when Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy won the Oscar. Then I became slightly depressed that she won an Oscar at 33 when at 29, my biggest achievement has been to eat 10 Kit-Kats in a row, really, really fast. But I’m the only one comparing, so whatever.

So in the wake of the congratulations and twitter dedications and facebook updates (in which I too came up with a little ditty: Don’t just congratulate – donate! To http://acidsurvivorspakistan.org/you-can-help )I came across a lot of articles about the ‘face’ of Pakistan – not just a terrorist face but a smiling woman in a sleeveless Bunto Kazmi graciously dedicating her success to the unsung heroes and women for Pakistan. And suddenly, I remembered another face that I had encountered back at the University of Karachi. I don’t know why I think about this person often – but I decided to write a blog post talking about why HE represents the curious, contradictory and surprising face of Pakistan to me.

I don’t know his name; about which I’m very ashamed because he sat with me in philosophy for six months. He had kohl-rimmed eyes, unshaven cheeks and a permanent frown on his face. His skin was pock-marked – he’d had a bad case of small pox when he was young, it seemed. He wore a loose shirt and extremely tight trousers. And he glared at me whenever I giggled too loud. Through the course of the six months, his views were clear – he was an MQM following Muslim who believed that the sound of a girl’s voice asserting a contradictory opinion was an anomaly of nature and a blight upon society. I used to avoid talking to him, labeled him as a Mutahida Fundo and had nothing to do with him. I never tried to engage him in debate or discussion and am ashamed to say that I snickered whenever he spoke to make him feel uncomfortable and unvalidated.

So it happened that my philosophy course ended and I went my way. A year later, as I walked down the Arts Lobby, I was stopped by a man calling me: ‘Madam! Madam!’ I turned around to see his scowling person marching my way. I took a few steps back, wondering if my anti-Altaf rantings in class had inflamed him to take action. My defensive side perked up and with a raise of an eyebrow and a haughty ‘Jee?’ I asked him what he wanted.

He reached into his back pocket and took out a photograph of me.

I was stunned.

‘You dropped this when you were taking documents out of your file to pay your fees. I picked it up and took it before it could go into the wrong hands, koi ziadti nahi ho jai. And then philosophy ended and then I didn’t see you around – I don’t usually come to the Art’s lobby. So, here you go and in future be careful with your photographs!’

I think he would have been satisfied to see my jaw drop and remain dropped as he walked away. This long-haired hooligan who I had dismissed for a pseudo-gangster and dismissed had actually done something remarkable chivalrous, even though he didn’t like me. From me he had received cattiness, dismissive comments and even sarcasm and yet he had kept my photograph (a singularly unattractive one) for a whole year because he didn’t want it to be misused.

And this long haired gangster/gentleman represents to me the face of Pakistan. A face I don’t quite understand, a face that was easy to label but a face that leaves room for contradictions. And Pakistan, like other societies, is a mix of the most radical contradictions – of chivalry and chauvinism, of hate and love, of ignorance and wisdom. It’s a rugged face with kind eyes and a bright soul. It’s a face to be studied, painted, sketched, mulled over, redrawn and re-understood. It’s a face that cannot be put into a category.

So whenever I read an article about the ‘real’ face of Pakistan, I smile, because how can a society ever have just one face? But if it were to have one, it would be that of my philosophy student, never to be categorized, always elusive, always surprising but ultimately, worth the interaction in the end.

Homebody’s Ode to Z

Z is my niece. She’s precocious, stubborn and has a toddler’s tummy, just like I do. Doesn’t matter that she might lose hers once she’s grown up, while I’ve held on to and lovingly cultivated mine.  An affinity to eating, an overdeveloped vocabulary and a mean streak are just a few of the things that homebody and her niece have in common.

Since Z is my niece and exactly like me, I love her to pieces but am secretly deadly afraid of her. She’s the only three-year old who effectively stopped me from kissing her by sticking out a rather pink tongue in the general direction of my lips as they traveled towards her cheek. Every day she does something or the other to best me. This has never happened before and therefore I honor her with an ode to her wiliness.

Disclaimer: There is NO exaggeration in the following vignettes. Homebody has told the whole truth, the vicious truth and nothing but the truth.

***

Z’s a keen judge of character. She’s the only one who saw my ex for what he was. And she was only three years old at the time.

Me: Z, this is M. Is he nice or bad?

Z: (looks critically at M’s humorless person) He’s a bat. Did you know that in Urdu a bad is called a chimgadar? I think you’re a chimgadar, a black chimgadar.

M never wanted Z’s name to be mentioned in his house again.

****

Today, two years later, Z has reminded me of her naturally evil side. She torments A, her younger brother in a manner that is close to ingenious. It reminds me why I don’t mess with her. She’d chew me alive.

Z: (holding up a glass of juice) Look A! I’ve got juice.

A: (mimicking older sister) So do I!

Z: Let’s have a competition, A. Let’s see who can drink the juice first.

A: (gulping it down and gasping for air) I WIN I WIN!

Z: No, I win because I still have juice left to drink while you don’t. Nananananananaaaaaa!!!

A: (looks crestfallen)

***

Me: Z, Happy Valentine’s Day! I got a rose for you!

Z: Thank you. I’m going to make a Valentine’s card.

Me: Really? That’s so amazing.

Z: How do you spell it?

Me: V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E

Z: Now I’m going to color it.

Me: How delightful!

Z: It’s done!

Me: (reaching forward)

Z: Not for you. For A. Happy Valentine’s Day, A.

Me: (looks crestfallen)

***

Z: Shazoo, I’ve made a picture for you

Me: Wow! It’s a beautiful golden lion!

Z: So that it can eat you. HAHAHAHAHA.

***

Me: A! Come to my godi!

A: Why?

Me: Because you’re my gol-matol bacha! Now come na!

A: OKAY!

Z: A, she’s making fun of you.

Me: NO I’M NOT A!

A: STOP MAKING FUN OF ME!

Me: But… I’m not.

A: I’m going to sit with Z!

Z: (grins diabolically)

***

Another similarity – Z and I are both writers. I write on my laptop, while Z practices spelling and spins the magic of words on a toy soft board with a blue dollar marker. This is the first poem she wrote:

Some tmies its not easy being pink all the time.
but when i do be all the colours
i am glad to be my self!

When asked to comment upon life, she wrote:

When you read Quran
God will be happy for you all the time.

When I asked Zaina to write a poem about me, she didn’t even have to think. Here is photographic evidence of her abuse:

***

Z: I’ve made a worksheet for you. Match the animals to their clothes.

Me: But there are only numbers here!

Z: (who by now has started playing teacher- teacher without informing me) Why are you asking stupid questions?

Me: Sorry.

Z: What are you waiting for? Draw lines!

Me: (Drawing – looking up hopefully at scowling toddler)

Z: Let me see. No. You got it all wrong. (Takes red marker and crosses everything out)

Me: Can I go now?

Z: It’s not chutti time yet. Now, write a sentence and draw a picture.

Me: (writing) I love Z

Z: Not that nonsense.

Me: Okay. I live in a house.

Z: THAT’S NOT A SENTENCE!

Me: Okay… The cat ate a mouse who ate the cheese.

Z: Good. Now draw a picture.

Me: (drawing a picture of a broken heart, a house and a mouse and a cat and cheese)

Z: THE HEART IS WRONG! (crosses out with a red marker)

Me: (hopefully) But you like the other drawings?

Z: Yes. (Takes paper away from me, writes her mum’s name on sheet of paper with a little heart and goes to mum) Ammi, look, I made Shazoo do your work.

Me: What do you mean?

Z: This was Ammi’s  worksheet.

Me: What? Why’d you make me do all that work.

Z: (evil Cheshire cat grin) Because I was playing a trick on you!

Me: (stares jaw dropped at retreating form of matkoing toddler)

***

Z and A are playing a game. A is shooting people and killing them and Z is helping them come back to life.

A: (going to my mum) Bang! I killed you!

Z: (following) Tring! You’re alive again.

A: (to me) Bang! I’ve killed you!

Z: (to A) let her remain dead.

***

Why Homebody is Morbid

Positive people are surrounded by positivity. I am morbid because I am surrounded by morbidity. I can't shake the feeling that I am living to the backdrop of impending tragedy that will chew my to pieces and swallow me whole. This is because I hear conversations like the one recorded below. ALL.THE.TIME.

Following is a typical interchange between my mother and our neighbor as we drive to a majlis. You may imagine me sitting in front, trying not to listen but soon the dark cloud inside our corolla has oppressed me as well. In the end, I slump and begin to think that there will be no more rainbows, ever.

R: Thank you for picking me up.

A: Arey, what thank you? It’s my duty as your neighbor.

R: You’re very kind. I still drive, but at night, after my husband’s death, my children tell me it’s not safe.

A: (who’s an expert on IT’S.NOT.SAFE conversations) Of course it’s not safe. Imagine what can happen to a woman driving alone at night: tire puncture, abduction, theft at gunpoint.

R: Haan, bilkul. Bhai those things can happen during the day time as well.

A: That’s why one should keep a driver.

R: But drivers these days – did you know – my late husband’s cousin was murdered by her driver. He stabbed her and then drove over her. She had tire marks over her face.

A: Toba, Toba. REEEALLY?

R: Haan.

Silence; each widow savoring another gory story that has potential to be used for social conversation. Or to tell her daughters why it’s best they stay home all the time.

A: How’s your mother?

R: Fell in the bathroom.

A: Oh NO!

R: Yes. Poor thing, she’s ninety and she fell on her face. She looks like she’s wearing goggles.

A: Oh No!

R: Yes. Do you remember last month I fell after returning from T’s majlis.

A: I do remember! How are you now?

R: Bas, a few aches and pains. I remember saying to God, as I was in the process of falling, I remember, I said, ‘Allah spare my bones.’

A: Haan bhai. One’s health and mobility is so important. I just visited my late husband’s superior officer’s funeral. His wife, third wife, by the way, is in such bad shape. Uff, I tau shudder when I think of it.

R: Really? Third wife?

A: Haan, first one was uneducated. Don’t know much about the second one. But the third wife is not old at all. But she has Parkinson. Toba, I had heard of fingers shaking but this poor woman was shaking and twitching everywhere. Tongue also. And she wasn’t being able to say anything. She was on a wheel chair. And she’s childless. Who is going to take care of her now?

At this point, Homebody interrupts and asks them if they can talk about something less depressing.

R: Haan, bhai, we should talk about good things. At least we have our health and can walk, Allah is kind.

A: Allah is very kind indeed.

Silence. Scanning for good-things-to-talk-about. 0 search results revealed.

A: Aur batao, how is your daughter?

R: Oh she’s very good. She has been looking after me well after my husband passed away.

A: Such a good man he was. I remember he and Wasi used to be such good friends.

R: I remember. But that’s how the world runs, I suppose. The men die early and we women are left to mourn them.

A: Haan. Sometimes I miss him terribly. It’s not a good experience being alone.

R: Bhai there are so many women living alone these days. My cousin died and his wife was a dentist in the USA. Then she got severe osteoporosis. Couldn’t bend down. Had to come back here. Lives with her sister. And now she’s gone blind.

A: I think I remember you telling me. Does she have an abnormal child?

R: Not abnormal. Badtameez.

A: Acha.

Destination reached. Conversation interrupted – the rest of the gory details to be discussed on the way back home. And that is why homebody has bouts of morbidity. Not that you asked. But I decided to tell. Just because.