Oatmeal Cookies. You devil.

They’re yummy, they’re healthy (well, kinda), they take as little as 10 minutes to prepare, and the kids love them! And they’re perfect for school snack boxes and they will be ‘allowed’ (don’t ask, my kids can’t take anything remotely resembling junk food)! So why don’t I make them more often?

Crumbly, melt in the mouth, aromatic…

Top 5 reasons why I don’t bake oatmeal cookies more often.

1. Time. Who has the time? Between school runs, homework sessions where I basically pull at my hair, and studies (my own), can I actually find time to do (unnecessary) recreational baking? Yeah, maybe once in a while. But I’d much rather get dinner ready, know what I mean?

2. I end up eating a few… not a great idea! When you have a jar of fresh, warm, home-baked cookies on the premises, it gets just that bit harder to resist.

3. Lazy? When I finally get some time, I don’t want to go in the kitchen. I could read, write or simply play with the girls.

4. I don’t have any more cinnamon powder. Ha! Yeah, this is easily rectifiable, but until I grind some cinnamon (I’m not crazy about the store-bought variety) I have a perfect excuse!

5. I have to study! Currently I am doing the following:

S- Sleeping

T- Talking

U- Unlimited texting

D- Daydreaming

Y- Yawning.

I gotta get the act together. Right after I finish this blog post. Er.

PS: My point and shoot canon with a big lens (Powershot sx30is, the very baby which has taken all pics on this blog) is not great with indoor light. I’d love a Canon EOS DSLR for such days. Someday…

PPS: If you want to bake them, this recipe is nice, but I don’t follow it exactly: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4_X2qwLpqk

Dubai: the lesser known side

I’m sure you’ve heard about the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building, and seen the pics in the Burj Series on my blog.

And you saw the architecture at Souk Madinat Jumeirah as well.

Heck, I even brought you the beaches!

It’s now time to see some greenery! Enjoy!

Yes, some of these are edited and stuff, but a photographer is an artist. It’s a mixture of composition, perspective and feeling. Hope you liked the photos. Do let me know what you think.

-Mehmudah

The girls and I

Mom, do you love me?

“Mommy, I think you don’t love me,” she says, knowing little that she’s tearing me apart. I kneel down and look into her eyes.

“Now why wouldn’t I love such a beautiful little girl like you?” I ask her, with a little smile.

“Because I beat up my sister when she took my hair clips,” she responds glumly.

“Oh, that. Sweetie, I… I don’t like the beating up part. Remember, gentle hands? But I love you. I love you very much. Like so much,” I gesture with my arms wide open. She does not look convinced.

I pull her close. I sit her down in my lap. I tickle her neck. She refuses to laugh. Little girls are not little. They are grown individuals and with them you really have to watch what you say. I know, I should have realized it earlier.

“Right. Now…. Sweetheart? I’m sorry. I was mean. But sometimes mommies have to be a little mean. I’d like to be friends again,” I say earnestly.

She looks at my face, as though weighing the sincerity of my apology. I hold my breath and hope things work out. Getting out of this will not be easy.

“How about the butterfly hair clips? Maybe I could get you new pink ones…” I say, throwing in a fresh, perhaps more acceptable bargain. She appears disinterested.

Suddenly, her eyes light up. “Mom? Do you love me?” she asks.

I think I’m going to cry. “Oh of course. I love you darling. I love you very much,” I say. I try to hug her but she resists. I tell her to think about what I’ve been saying and if she feels like talking to me again, I’d be happy to be friends again.

She walks away and in my mind’s eye. I see myself, a little child standing in front of Mom, asking her if she loves me. Mom tells me I ask her that way too often, but obliges with a big hug. There’s no prizes for guessing where my little one inherited her “Mom, do you love me” sequence!

In a little while I hear someone cry. I walk outside the room to find that she has scraped her knee while trying to ride her toy car, and boy, it’s hurting. I provide the necessary hug, the comfort and suddenly she’s back in my arms without resistance, demanding that I give the bad toy car a full talking to. The heartache forgotten, the tears falling from her eyes are strangely healing.

Soon her little scrape is taken care of and she’s back on her toy car. She stops for a moment, and walks back towards me. She looks into my eyes. “Mom, do you love me?”

“What do you think?” I quip.

“I think you love me SO much,” she says opening her arms out wide. I smile at her. No words necessary.

A new day, a new reason to smile

I flew.

I closed my eyes. I flew. Into another place. Where hatred, jealousy, spite, malice and anger did not exist. Where it was peaceful. Where around me was a thirst for things that mattered; things such as knowledge, honesty and true love.

The cocoon that had opened showed me a new place — where I had turned into a butterfly too! Where people did not smile just because it was politically the right thing to do, and they smiled from within because they wanted to. Where the world wasn’t like a merciless clockwork, and people actually did the things they cared about.

Where people didn’t judge you. Where people were kind, just kind because they were internally nice, and not because they had to be or else.

A place where you could be happy and not worry. You know that nagging feeling when you’re happy and another corner of your brain is worrying? None of that. Happy. Period.

How? Where? Did I get there? Can I stay there?

Can you?

Yes. The answer to all that is yes.

Let go. Of every thing, of every fear, of every negativity. Just wash it off, everything that clouds and dirties your brain. Purity. In the heart and the mind. And you’ll be surprised at how clean the world looks. It’s your eyes isn’t it? They were caked with grime, and everything you saw was far murkier in your vision than it was for real. Let go.

The grime can leave. It can leave as soon as it begins to accumulate again. I’m flying. I’ve taken flight.

Join me?

Note to self.

Hopelessness. A yearning that’s never going to end.

Enough.

 

Playing with fonts…

It’s time to break free,

It’s time to hope again,

It’s time to remember that you will rise again,

It’s time to move on, time to forget,

It’s time to know that life’s not always a scary threat,

It’s time to rekindle friendships, it’s time to stop being cynical,

Your deep mistrust in everyone is almost comical,

Remember, each person is not alive just to tear you apart,

It’s time to perceive life with an open heart,

It would be nice if you stopped wasting time,

Use the days wisely, you are in your prime,

There’s only so much you can mope,

Wherefore is that lovely thing called hope?

Adversity? Why does it scare you so?

That’s how life is, don’t you know?

If you will, with Allah’s will, defeat it!

Don’t let it kill your very spirit,

Come on, my friend, you know it’s time to embrace life once more,

Don’t miss the opportunities knocking at your door!

What’s happened, has happened, and may well scar you forever,

But to let it stop you from everything — now that’s not exactly clever!

So you’re a fool sometimes, and you’ve messed up pretty bad,

Seriously, those are experiences everyone’s had!

So please be happy, and please remember to smile,

Learn to hope again, and not just for a little while!

Why setting goals can sometimes pull you down

Originally written for Gulf News “Off the Cuff”  http://gulfnews.com/opinions/columnists/why-setting-goals-can-sometimes-pull-you-down-1.1128090

(Was published in the paper on Friday the fourth)

 

(image via source for illustrative purposes only)

 

The anticipation has ended, the parties have finished, and the fireworks have fizzled out too. The year 2013 is finally here, and some of my more ambitious friends have talked about their goals and resolutions for the year. As for me, I have spoken little about what my own goals are. That’s because I don’t have any. Perhaps you would like to know why.

The goals one sets out for oneself imply the obvious: The person hasn’t got to where they would like to be in life. Goals exist because they would like to do better, because they would like to achieve something more. Let me give an example for the sake of clarity. Joe works as a manager in a company, and dreams of becoming the CEO one day. In fact, he imagines his life would be perfect if he would only achieve that position. After years of toil, Joe finally becomes CEO — only to realise that he would rather be an entrepreneur. That becomes the new goal. Surely, when he is an entrepreneur, he might hope for something else, or better returns. It goes on, doesn’t it? Suffice it to say that no matter what we do, we’re never satisfied with our lives, our weight, who we are, and how much we make.

That begs the question — is it worthwhile to have a goal at all? I realise that goals are eked out so we can spur ourselves on, so we can keep aiming higher, but an over-reliance on them can sometimes be trying. Our self-image and our thought processes can get too dependent on them. A woman who is above what might be her ‘perfect’ weight constantly frets about it, and starts a diet at the drop of a hat to achieve her goal. She constantly compares herself unfavourably to magazine models and/or her counterparts and ends up feeling miserable. This takes her happiness away; this takes her satisfaction with her persona away. The goal interferes with everything. In the same way, someone who is too psyched about getting ‘the big promotion’ forgets to enjoy his current job.

Sometimes we set goals that are too lofty, and instead of using them to our advantage as mere guidelines, we end up obsessing about them, and belittle our current achievements. We forget to be thankful for what we have, and even as we set our sights on the summit of the mountain, we forget to appreciate the colourful rainbows and the beautiful scenery along the way.

One might ask a valid question: how would you achieve more in life if you don’t have goals? How can you be in a better place tomorrow if you don’t plan today? I am a firm believer that if we enjoy our lives, live them to the fullest, and are glad that we exist, things will begin to look up. If I am in a happy place, and am able to do my best, success will in fact find me. If we live our lives by some simple but important truths as a matter of principle, our goals become reality even before we realise it.

Consider a writer who wants to write a book. Every day she/he slaves away at the computer, producing little valuable output. One day, inspiration suddenly strikes, and within a few weeks or months, before she/he even knows it, a full manuscript exists. That is because the writer was enjoying what she/he were doing, rather than focusing on a goal of writing a certain number of words in a day. They probably wrote far more than the initial goal, and through the night too!

To each his own — setting goals may or may not work for you. Some people (like this writer) tend to get more stressed by them, whilst others find that setting goals unleashes their productive energy. Ironically enough though, as I sign off, I think I might have finally found myself a new year resolution: to be content.

With who I am, with what I do, to wake up every morning satisfied with myself and my life, and to go to bed every night thinking that the day gone by was perfect in its own special, imperfect way. To understand that even though I stumbled and made mistakes, I learnt something new and became a better person for it.

 

PS: Do you believe in setting goals? Please share your opinion in the comments!

Morning madness: traffic, lane jumpers and hugs

Originally written for Gulf News “Off the Cuff”  http://gulfnews.com/opinions/columnists/morning-madness-traffic-lane-jumpers-and-hugs-1.1118397

(Late upload, sorry guys)

If only the roads were this quiet in the morning!

There is something special about a crisp winter morning, when one simply breathes in the fresh, cool air, rests for a moment, and feels truly alive. Alas, I hardly ever get a chance to watch the sun rise on beautiful, foggy mornings because mornings at my place are pure madness.

Let me explain.

It all begins with the persistently annoying ring of my phone that wakes me up, reminding me that there are only so many hours when one can retreat into one’s own quiet world. Then I try to wake up two little girls who have decided their mother is an unreasonable person who always makes the wrong request at the wrong time.

Even more taxing, however, is getting them to eat breakfast. Then the packed lunches I painstakingly prepared the day before go into their snack bags, and then somehow, we get dressed. Amid the morning frenzy, the tea sometimes spills, someone gets the wrong shoes on, the girls forget their water bottles, and we occasionally get late. When I finally find myself on the road, I feel relaxed, because the sea of traffic is oddly reassuring. It’s almost as though it’s telling me, “look you’ve at least left home!”

As I snail along in the traffic to get to work, patiently waiting for my turn to take my exit, out of nowhere, a car zooms to my left and the driver puts the indicator on. This is no polite request to turn; it is actually a rude comment along the lines of, “My time is more precious than yours. There’s no way I’m going to wait in this long queue of cars. You better move it, so I can jump this lane!”

Such drivers get me seething. The better half is an eternally ‘nice guy’ who will ignore these people and advises me to do the same, but I usually honk loudly, and yet I find them quite determined to carry on. The indicator stays, and I glare at them, hoping they realise how exasperating it is, when someone whizzes ahead of you in the morning traffic, when every minute is precious, and the difference between ‘on time’ and ‘late’ is a mere five minutes. I inch close to the next car in the line, to deny the lane-jumper any space to destroy the queue.

Then when I get on to the main road, I hover slightly above the speed limit (fast enough but wouldn’t get me a speeding fine). If I go even a little slower, as I sometimes do, the people behind me come too close to my car, as if to say “Look, if you can’t keep up, just move, okay?” and I glide away into the next lane, and let them pass me by disdainfully with a roar of speed.

As the morning law would have it, I get stuck behind a very slow school bus, or a senior driver who is well and truly out there to enjoy the morning, and tips the ash off his cigarette out the window in a very leisurely way. When I change lanes yet again, I do the disagreeable task of nestling myself between two other hunks of metal, neither of which are welcoming. I raise a hand in thanks to the other drivers. They do not look remotely pleased and probably think to themselves “Whatever!”

Then I pass my good friend Salik, not once, but twice, who these days, seems to have an insatiable appetite and nibbles away perennially on our balance. I get to work in one piece, thankfully, but the adventure begins again when I leave a little after noon, and it’s time to do the afternoon school runs!

As I buckle up, play my favourite tracks, and speed along Sheikh Zayed Road, I look forward to picking up two young ladies whose warm hugs and welcoming smiles make everything seem right, crazy as it sometimes gets.

Some things never change … not even with time

Originally written for Gulf News “Off the Cuff”: http://gulfnews.com/opinions/columnists/some-things-never-change-not-even-with-time-1.1114270

I’ve always loved Dad’s eyes. He has these deep grey eyes, which somehow give an impression of being ringed with violet when light falls upon them. I sit on the floor beside him and put my head on his knee.

It looks as though nothing has changed and little time has elapsed since those chilly winter mornings when I would stand by the front door in my brown uniform, greeting Dad before I left for school. He would walk over to me from his arm chair and his morning paper and would take my little hands in his big warm ones and comment on how cold they were. Then he would cuddle them and give not just my hands, but also my heart some much-needed warmth.

Lately though, Dad has not been keeping well. It is perhaps loneliness or perhaps the troublesome knees that just seem to be a part and parcel of old age. His face is lined, yet calm, and his silver white hair is cropped short. His legs are stretched out on an ottoman and he is leaning into his arm chair. I’m visiting him back home because I’ve been missing him a lot and it seems like ages since the children and I spent any time with him.

Our lives in Dubai have become like mechanical clockworks, where we compulsively follow timetables, meet deadlines and plop thoroughly exhausted in bed to refresh ourselves for the strenuous day that will follow. I hardly get a chance to ask Dad how is doing, to enquire about his day and to let him know how much I miss him. I am grateful for the moments I am getting to sit by his side, enjoying his company.

However, the conversation we are having is nothing like I had planned. Dad is in fact asking me how everything is with me, whether the opportunity I was hoping for worked out and so on. Soon I am talking animatedly and Dad is nodding interestedly and saying a few appropriate words here and there. A profound feeling of deja vu puts me in thought.

I marvel inwardly at that special sense of security and comfort that one can experience exclusively with one’s parents. Here is somebody who genuinely cares about what I am up to — who has all the time in the world to listen to everything I have to share, a person who has nothing in it for himself, but is full of selfless consideration and concern just for me. I do not mean to say that other relationships in our lives are not wonderful or that all our friends are insincere. I am stating the obvious: The tender love and care a mother or a father can give their child — regardless of the age of the child or parent, is simply unparalleled.

I continue to talk and Dad listens, engrossed. The conversation (or should I say monologue) takes a turn and I can’t help but discuss everything that has been troubling me lately. I chide myself silently — Dad is unwell and the last thing I should be doing is give him more stress by dumping my personal issues on him. Yet, the affection and the concern in his eyes spur me on. He gently runs a hand through my hair and offers no explanations and no solutions and most importantly, he refuses to judge me.

“Sweetheart, I’ll pray for you. I’m sure you’ll come out of this phase and look back at it as a bad dream. I promise,” Dad says softly. Suddenly a deep feeling of calm descends upon me. I feel emotionally uplifted, as though empowered with an internal strength to tackle head-on this thing called life — assured in the knowledge that Dad’s blessings form a sort of invisible umbrella of peace over my head. My hands feel cold and clammy with all that flushed talking. Dad takes them into his warm ones and a tear slides quietly down my cheek. I’ll always be his little girl with cold hands.