A poem for my ex.

(Note: I wrote this poem after my ex and I got together — but only for a day. Make sure you read it right till the end.)

 

A poem for my ex

You and I got back together,

But only for a day,

Before each one of us went our own separate way,

We had spent each waking moment in each other’s company,

I never slept without you by my side, some said it was funny,

Touching you with my hands I relived those moments,

Those golden days when I felt content even with your silence,

I liked your dark handsome looks,

You were nothing like those two-timing crooks,

You did everything you could and yet I had to let you go,

I’m sorry for the pain it caused – you didn’t even show,

You seemed to understand when I didn’t pick you,

Yet I know you were hurt when there was someone new,

You stood on the sidelines watching as someone took your place,

You handled those moments with unmatchable grace,

And yesterday when I needed you, you were happy to be with me again,

But I was frustrated even then – I cannot feign.

You’re just not that sexy, and neither are you as cool,

You’re not the kind that would make a girl drool,

Yes you can be counted upon and no doubt you are smart,

But the iPhone is smart too – and a perfect piece of art!

You my dear Nokia E71,

My time with you is over and done,

We shared some precious moments together,

And you may call me a friend of only fair-weather,

But the iPhone has a sublime touch-screen,

And the apps are some of the best I have ever seen,

So I bid you farewell until I need you again,

Having you around  for emergencies is a boon not a bane!

Ha ha – thumbs up if you thought I was talking about a guy in the beginning. Apologies to call a phone an ex but really we spend more time with our smartphones than we do with our significant others – don’t you agree?

Image via Wikipedia

Image via geek.com

5 points on why ice-skating = mortification!

I am NEVER ice-skating again. Okay maybe I am. It was fun (despite my jelly legs) and I have a big ugly bruise on my knee to show for my efforts.

Image via source

Five things that happened, that you should know about.

1. DH (who skates fairly well) says bend your knee and give yourself a push. I bend my knee and push myself (and go WHAM on the ice on said knee). Cannot get up because the ice is too slippery. DH says get up already. I say I am applying ice to the knee. (I know, genius comment right?) Finally get up to concerned stares from random skaters.

2. My older one was also on the ice-rink for the first time and did FAR better than your’s truly. Younger one and me were neck and neck on who did worse.

3. If you didn’t excel at something as a kid chances are you will be pathetic at it when older. I was never good at any type of skating as a kid. (Roller-blading, skateboards, they were all beyond me when I was a kid).

4. I know how it feels to lie down straight on the ice. Yes, the next time I fell, I just lay down as though I was in bed. Then sat then got up gingerly and almost fell again.

5. It is possible to sweat profusely out of embarrassment and haplessness even if you are on a floor made exclusively of ice.

But I still think I’d give it another go if I had the chance. I would give it another shot after watching many YouTube videos and reading articles on ice-skating. And I would spin circles around DH with my perfect flair and balance. Mental images of myself gliding along the ice, looking at him patronizingly put a smile on my face.

(Wakes up from pleasant daydream).

Can you skate well? Are first ice-skating experiences always this bad? Please share your experiences in the comments!

Forgettable swimming lessons

Originally published in Gulf News ‘Off the Cuff’ on April the 23rd. Late upload on WordPress. My bad. 

http://gulfnews.com/opinions/columnists/forgettable-swimming-lessons-1.1012075

 

Image for illustrative purposes only. Via: http://www.bourneoutdoorswimmingpool.org/

 

If I weren’t human, I would have liked to be a bird, because the idea of flying attracts me immensely. If the avian species would have refused to accept me in their ranks, I would have gladly been a fish. That’s because I love to swim. As a child, swimming was one of the few things I excelled at and so, when she seemed to ready to learn, I decided to teach my six-year-old daughter how to swim. (I know, I know, we all make mistakes).

I imagined we would have a lovely time in the water together, and I would be able to give my girls (ages six and three) some quality time and undivided attention, and most importantly be able to have some fun with them. It’s pretty ironic how things never turn out as we presume they will. When I mentioned I was going to give our daughter swimming lessons, the better half suggested we get a professional to teach her, since children sometimes learn better with people other than their parents. I rubbished the idea dismissively.

“Oh no! There’s no way I’m going to pay for those lessons when I can teach her myself!” I said. He shrugged as though to suggest he wasn’t quite convinced.

As we walked to the pool dressed in our costumes, with the older one wearing her shiny new goggles and swim-cap, and the younger one with the floats securely fastened, I felt like an accomplished and impressive parent.

Alas, the feeling lasted all of five minutes. After about 30 exasperating minutes of trying to get her to hold her breath, all three of us were hardly in the best of spirits. I decided to give it a break, swam some laps and watched the girls play in the water in the shallow side of the pool. Later in the day I heard her telling her father, “Baba, Mum told me stop breathing! Can you imagine that!” He bit back a chortle as I said, “It was just the first lesson!”

Sadly we fared worse in the second lesson as I, being the short-tempered person I am, lost my patience a little. “Mum, I’m not talking to you,” she said, as she gladly splashed in the water with her sister on the shallow side, and I swam a few laps by myself. During the third (and final) lesson, I decided to be all patience and kindness, and promised myself that I would not let anything get to me. I was glad to see we were finally making a little bit of progress!

Swallowing water

She agreed to put her head in the water and managed to count to ten, but drew a line when I suggested she kick her feet as well. I thought to myself “Well, at least we’re getting somewhere!” but she soon came to the surface sputtering and flaying her arms, and said, “I swallowed water!” I decided not to teach anymore and as though to add to my troubles, the younger one looked at me, beamed as though she had achieved something special and said, “Mummy, I peed in the pool!”

The lessons hadn’t at all gone as I had imagined and he had, for the umpteenth time, been right. As we paid up the next day to get her some swimming lessons, he laughed a laugh that sounded vaguely like “I told you so.”

A day later I watched (somewhat bewildered) as my daughter obliged willingly to every instruction the teacher gave and later the instructor gushed to me, “What a cooperative little girl you have. Such a delight to teach!”

I tried not to roll my eyes and smiled affably. I suppose there are other ways of giving the children ‘quality time’!

 

Salon calling

I have a bit of a history with beauty salons. I have super-sensitive skin which makes treatments such as waxing and threading pure torture. When I initially started frequenting salons, I wrote this:

 

This article here:

http://archives.dawn.com/dawnftp/72.249.57.55/dawnftp/weekly/review/archive/080410/review3.htm

So anyway, as I was saying, I have tried out many different salons for hope of finding one that doesn’t hurt as much — the search continues. Meanwhile here is an account of the trip I made today (not the same salon as the article above obv.!)

Me: Hi, remember me?

Salon lady: Er? Umm.. I think so…

Me: Remember, I’m the one with the sensitive skin? The one who screams when you do upper lip or wax?

Beautician: Oh! Yes, yes I know now. How are you Madame? (She’s already giggling).

Me: Yeah thanks, good.

Beautician: Shall we get started?

Me: Uh, okay. *Nervous*

Treatment begins. She puts hot wax on my arm. I let out  a (well-behaved) yelp. She giggles.

Me: I’m sure there are very few clients like me? I mean no-one screams right?

She: Oh, some people find waxing quite difficult. We have a few like you.

Me: *breathing easier* Oh. Of course. I’m sure there are many who find it as hard as I do.

She: Two actually. You and this other woman.

Me: Oooowwww. That hurt!

She: *Giggle* It will soon be done Madame.

OH WHY why why do I put myself through torture treatments every few weeks? I tipped them well in the end though, I had to. It takes a lot to not get exasperated when someone jerks violently when you thread a single hair on their upper lip…

Super Mom (err.. not exactly)

(Image credit: Google Images)

 

“Hello?” I snap into the phone, finally putting an end to its persistent ringing, as I simultaneously answer the door. A groggy two year old wails at the top of her voice, and in her agitated state, manages to knock the glass of milk on the carpet. I open the door wearily to find the internet guy I had been calling for ages. “Ma’am, I’m from Etisalat. I’m here to sort out your internet.”

 

I hear a faint voice from earpiece of the phone (over the crying). I lift the baby into my arms, tell the person on the line to please wait a second, and usher the internet guy inside. Next I divert my attention to the phone and find that the doctor’s office has finally called back and wants me to take down a number. “Please take down this number. The dentist will be available between 4pm and 8pm. An appointment – yes sure, Ma’am. Please wait a moment.” There is music at the other end of the line and I take the few precious seconds to smile at the baby and play with her, in the hope that her mood will improve (remember I’m still holding her). I pick the pen which is miraculously still in the pen-holder (the kids forget to replace it even after repeated reminders) but I can’t seem to find the yellow post-its and I scribble the number on my palm. Then I finally hear what I’ve been waiting for: “Ma’am, your appointment is fixed. Have a nice day and thank you for choosing our wonderful hospital.” Click.

 

The internet guy is working conscientiously at making my connection operational again and I hope he’ll get it working soon because there is some research I need to do. I put a rag over the milk and try not to get mad – that carpet had been spotless until the split milk. I make a half-hearted effort to wipe it off, because there is a strange smell emanating from the kitchen. Great.

 

I scrape the little one’s burnt breakfast (oatmeal porridge) gingerly from the saucepan, but soon realize that there is no point in doing so – it’s been scorched quite badly and I’ll have to prepare the porridge anew. As I pour the milk in a new pan (and realize I will have to go for groceries because we’re almost out of milk) I rub my eyes drowsily. I’ve been up since ages for sending the older one to school, this after I stayed up late last night working on the above-mentioned research. Welcome to a typical day in my life.

 

Obviously, I’m not quite so caught up every day, but there are days when I want to storm and rage at everyone. Days when getting out of bed my body feels like lead but I do it anyway. Days when nothing goes right – the food I make tastes insipid (or umm.. burns), the colours run on his favourite shirt in the washing machine, or the house looks like an earthquake affected zone, but I love being a part of the madness, and wouldn’t want to change it for anything.

 

There is something incredibly refreshing about the smell of a baby – and any mom will tell you that that has nothing to do with baby care products, but is in fact a special fragrance that you associate with your child. There is something mind-blowingly wonderful about the smile of a child who’s just woken up, a smile meant only, especially for you. There is something profoundly touching about the hug that you get from a bounding kid getting back from school, trying to condense the day’s events into one sentence, tripping over her words and her feet. The satisfaction that you feel when the milk is drunk and gooey khichri devoured (however unwillingly) makes you want to go on. I know no other way a woman can feel so wanted, so cherished and most importantly – loved. I’ll sign off now – I need to make a school run in a bit – but before that, a diaper needs changing – and oh, did I tell you I’m preparing fish for dinner?

 

Note: This was written a few months back, only just remembered it and decided to publish it.

 

Will you marry me?

He gazed at her face longingly, enamoured, infatuated. She looked ravishing in her pale pink ensemble that flowed into soft folds near her petite feet. Gracefully and with poise, she walked towards the stage, and the guests seemed bathed in the sparkle of her resplendence as they looked on, as though awe-struck.

He rued the time he had wasted in telling her how much he loved her. Tonight she was getting married, to that shady character who always seemed to hang around her house. But the marriage contract hadn’t been signed yet, he thought to himself, and took a deep breath. This was his last chance, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t tell her he loved her.

He looked warily at the huge throng of people around her. Surely, she would be alone for a moment? He rehearsed the words in his mind — not that he needed to. He had envisioned that conversation a hundred times, and he waited, anxiously, for her to finally distance herself from all those people.

He realised his lips were suddenly parched, his throat completely dry. He had made his way to the stage, and finally — this was his moment, away from all those interfering, offending relatives. “Hello,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. She seemed glad to see him, and that encouraged him. He knelt down close to where she sat, close enough to get a whiff of her heavenly, enchanting perfume. He sniffed deeply. She always smelled wonderful.

He didn’t have a ring, but those details could be worked out later, he thought to himself. It was important to pop the question to her — after all, that strange fellow had gotten this far because he wasn’t afraid to tell her. She looked at him enquiringly — why on earth was he suddenly kneeling in front of her? He glanced behind him — the meddlesome relatives would be back on stage any minute. She was the bride after all. He cleared his throat. “I have to say something to you. It’s very important,” he deadpanned. She leant towards him.

He had to say it. He just had to. He couldn’t back out, not after he had gotten this far. She waited patiently for him to speak, her smile a little waned now. “Will you marry me?” he blurted out. Relief washed over him — he had revealed his feelings at last.

In slow motion

She smiled widely, and his heart skipped a beat. “You know what, I’m flattered. It’s not everyday that such a handsome young man proposes to you!” He breathed easier. So she was happy! Life suddenly seemed to go into slow motion. He watched the approaching crowd, fantasising that it would soon be him sitting beside her. Suddenly, her words brought him back to reality with a harsh, unpleasant bump. “But no sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I can’t,” she said simply. That moment was unfortunate for two reasons — the first was her answer and the second was that at that precise second, the music, which had so far been playing without a hitch, suddenly stopped. “But why? What’s wrong with me?” he said indignantly, stamping his foot on the ground. The people (who had now reached the stage) all heard him because of the silence created by the break in the music and began to laugh hysterically.

“Darling, age difference is definitely a factor,” she said stifling a laugh, as she picked him up and put him in her lap. Seven-year-old Farhan was mortified. “We can still be friends, right?” he said at last.

“Always, darling. You’re gorgeous.” And with that she kissed him, and he didn’t remove the lipstick mark from his cheek practically forever.

Note: The above is a true account and the people in the story are my cousins. The seven-year-old boy is now a teenager, who hasn’t proposed to anyone since.

 

First published here: http://gulfnews.com/opinions/columnists/will-you-marry-me-1.888793

 

Whatever makes you tick

First published in Gulf News “Off the Cuff”

Marriage is not just the union of two souls; it is also the somewhat cumbersome merger of the habits, idiosyncrasies and tastes of two individuals. Of course the presence of that wonderful thing called love transforms everything into a seamless acceptance but along the way, invariably, there are speed bumps. Some are as large and insurmountable as a daunting mountain, whilst some jolt you just a little bit, like the one below.

Our marriage was in its infancy and one of the things that irked me about my new bedroom was that it didn’t have a wall clock. Every time I needed to know the time I would have to check my cellphone and the empty wall where the clock should have been annoyed me. The husband, however, didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, he seemed quite happy. Fed up at last, I went and bought an elegant wall clock. It matched the contemporary look of the room perfectly. Excited with the purchase, I stood on a piece of furniture and hung it on the wall. I smiled every time I saw the time, and I was sure he would love it too. “It’s quite nice,” he said appreciatively when he saw it later that day. Strangely though, the very next morning, when I looked up to see the time, all I saw was a blank white wall staring mockingly at me.

What on earth had happened? I found the abandoned artefact lying in the lounge and, mystified, I put it back in its rightful place. Imagine my surprise when the same thing happened the next morning, and the one after it. This called for some serious confrontation.

“You didn’t take that lovely clock off the wall last night, did you?”

“Oh that. I did. I meant to tell you. It has a problem — it ticks.”

Disturbance at night

Certainly the man did not mean to say that a clock should not tick? A heated conversation ensued during which I learnt that the tick-tock sound the clock made disturbed him when all was quiet and he found it difficult to nod off. Every morning I would determinedly put the clock back on and every night without fail he would remove it. Suffice it to say that this arrangement was far from amicable and something had to be done.

It sounds silly, but the only way I remembered noiseless clocks was when I saw some on display inside a mall. There was a slight problem though. The stylish silent clock that I liked was rather costly, in fact it cost more than double the discarded specimen back home. “Surely, your cellphone shows the time? Must we buy this notoriously over-priced clock?” he reasoned.

I looked around for something more reasonably priced, and the shop assistant showed us some beautiful clocks with one major flaw: they made that ticking sound. We discussed the clock issue, a little too loudly for comfort and, finally, for the love of dignity, we bought the new clock and made ourselves scarce. He handed me the carrier bag containing the noiseless wonder and I muttered a sheepish thanks.

“Whatever makes you tick,” he replied with a grin. The pun made me smile.

 

A tribute to a friend

It’s been a while since we first met and I still remember the first time I saw you. There and then I knew you’d be mine, I knew we’d get along. We did, and how! There were times when it was only you I could confide in, only you who hung around and only you who was witness to my joys and sorrows. Some nights I would sit with you and wouldn’t notice how the clock moved to the wee hours of morning, with neither of us in any mood to sleep.

People said you were plain looking, and they said your complexion was too dark. I refused to think any lesser of you, for I cared about what you were inside. We were together for a number of years weren’t we? I was used to you, used to the way you stuttered before we got started on our numerous expeditions, used to how you responsive you were and always answered when I asked you anything – be it a recipe, a way to get rid of zits or simply a joke to brighten up my day. Sometimes though, you had your bad days too, when you refused to cooperate. I’m sorry for all the times I swore at you and told others you were useless. But do you know it was all good always because you opened up the world of words to me, and let me read and write till my eyes ached.

I hate to break it to you, but for me and you, the time has now come to part ways. Perhaps it’s just the fact that my heart has now been occupied by another or perhaps the fact that you’ve become too set in your ways and we both need a change. I hope you find someone soon and hope you two share the same ‘electrifying’ chemistry that we shared. Hope you have a great life – and I promise you, I always cared about what was inside. Intel Inside of course, and I’m afraid a better laptop with a better processor has to replace you. Love you ThinkPad!

 

PS: My overly used IBM Lenovo R61 was often mistaken for a jumping board by my girls. All those ads about IBM Lenovo being sturdy are true, so true. If I had to review it, I’d give it an 8.5 on 10! Oh by the way, people who looked at it when I was selling it screwed up their noses and said “This has been used very roughly” and politely refused to buy it. But gladly, it has found a new home. Let’s hope it doesn’t have and hangovers about leaving me. Err.. I mean hang-ups!

Dinner dilemmas

Image cred: google images

Phone: Rrring!

Me: H’lo?

Him: What’s for dinner?

Me: Daal Chaawal! (Enthusiastically)

Him: Again?

Me: Helloooo?!  When was the last time we had it?

Him: I’m a lion. I need some real food.

Me: Lion? Then I suggest you hunt. Or eat with us lesser beings, O King!

Him: Yeah whatever.

Me: Okay, tomorrow, I’ll make fish. Happy?

Him: Okay, whatever.

I go inside the kitchen and look at the daal critically. The yellow goop looks pretty uninviting and I realize that the ‘lion’ will be less than impressed. Rice looks okay though. The lentils definitely need a new soul (and I need a magic wand), I think to myself.

I take the cumin seeds and red chillies among other things from the kitchen closet. I decide to give the daal a tarka and I know one thing: for all the garlic and cumin I add, this thing will not become delicious. I used to make okay daal – I don’t know why this one looks so unappetizing.

I heat oil in a pan and add cumin and garlic and the chillies, then I improvise. I take the better part of a chicken cube and sizzle it in — and wait, laugh all you want, I stir in some yogurt, and some chaat masala. I’m serious – the frying pan concoction smells kind of nice. (I know, I wouldn’t believe it either). I pour the mixture into my daal and stir it in a very chef(esque) manner and hope for the best.

It changes colour from something the doctor advised for someone with serious gastro problems to something a normal Pakistani might consider eating. I force the little one to have some – and she doesn’t disappoint me. She doesn’t exactly lap it up but she doesn’t turn her face away either (as she does to some of my really awful concoctions). Yes, the little one eats ONLY yummy food and none of the nasty kiddie mixtures have ever passed her lips except to come out of the mouth with full force upon self.

He asks me which daal it is, because somehow it tastes different (I think he means edible) and something in my unusual recipe has obviously worked! Whew! Now if only I could get tomorrow’s fish done right… ahh.. I’m soo looking forward to this!

Disappointments, and living with them

I meet the word ‘Disappointment’ with a wry smile and a slight shake of the head. Is there anyone you know of, free of setbacks and mishaps in their lives? I for one, do not. After all, it is failure that actually gives birth to success. Probably the worst thing I can do is to dwell on my downfalls and feel bad about them. I daresay, my life, albeit short, has seen its share of embarrassments and discouraging episodes.

 

The pain felt at loss of love is perhaps the most brutal of all. Although, to go red in the face when you promptly forget a speech when on stage and stutter unbelievably in a worthless attempt to make things right is pretty bad too. Until some time back, the hair on the back of my neck rose in embarrassment as I thought of this particular episode. I was giving a speech so perfectly prepared I knew it would fetch me the first prize, and halfway through it, my mind went blank and I stood on the stage, in front of at least 500 people, dumbfounded. When I pulled out the transcript from my pocket moments later, I realized the point I had stopped wasn’t easy to find and I began to stutter. Once I did locate my mess-up point, the speech had lost all coherence and after a few mortifying moments, it ended. That was disappointment, sure, but it was nothing compared to the pain of love. That is real torment. A few years down the line, you forget about such incidents like the aforementioned, and in fact, you grow as a person because of them. But if you can deal with heartache, you can handle pretty much anything.

 

Then there are generally nonplussing occurrences in our day-to-day lives. I once emailed someone, addressing her as Dear Sir, every time I sent a mail. Her name had led me to believe it was a man that I was corresponding with. Few days later, the woman called me and said my article had been picked for publication but I had been addressing her as a man all the while! Imagine my discomfort when I heard that… Or the time when someones toddler screamed the parents’ secret nicknames of each other at a party, on the top of his lungs. Lets just say, they (the pet names) weren’t exactly… noble. Or maybe when your infant hollers for milk in public, and as everyone presumably understands with the weird gestures she makes, that no, its not the bottle she’s talking about! There are umpteen such instances that I could relate (but won’t!), that have occurred with me or with the people around me. But I feel my message can be delivered easily enough with the ones I have told. That its okay to be embarrassed. As time goes on, we laugh at ourselves, on the very same events that made us cringe with chagrin before.

 

Similarly, the best healer for heartache is time. Or perhaps secretly shed tears which help to absolve the heart of misery, bit by bit. We all have had our fateful junctures of grief, and it is easy to get bitter, and lose interest in life, in general. What takes real courage is to face our disappointments, look them in the eye, and abolish their very roots. Life goes on, in its monotony, caring little if we are torn apart or hurting inside. And do not worry, I wouldn’t dream of delving into the gory details of my heartbreaks. With some luck, I shall soon be smiling my characteristic sardonic grin and swearing under my breath in cynicism on the very latest one.

 

Excuse me, if this has been a waste of perfectly good time… but the whole purpose behind it was to heal, myself, and others who, like me, have a knack of getting into sticky situations. And of course, to expand and contract simultaneously, fourteen muscles of your face, thereby forming a rare, upward curve of the lips. This complex reaction of the human face is otherwise known as a ‘smile’! And I call it rare, because nowadays, a genuine smile, from within, is indeed, unique.

 

So, until the next time you come across my confused meanderings of the pen, keep smiling!