Fit for an Arsenal

Here I was, walking through the bazaar district of l'autre K-city, minding my own business, when an overwhelming feeling of feminine strength washed over me.  I crossed roads bravely, making bearded "thob" clad men in Ferraris wait, instead of the other way around.  I subconsciously held my chin up and arched an eyebrow, unaware that this strange empowering feeling was, in fact, the supernatural pull of what was waiting around the corner for me.  I suddenly felt the urge to drag my mother in to a shoe store with me, and inadvertently made a bee-line for the most shocking shoe I've ever seen.  Well, as shocking as it gets in this supposedly conservative country.

It's a whole new generation of self-defense: killer shoes.  Literally.  Adorned with razor sharp spikes that would put Maleficent to shame, these barbaric accessories would definitely draw blood.   I'm not sure who came up with these, or why, but they're fascinating in a macabre sort of way!  Spikes have been around in the fashion industry for a while, but this was my first brush with what I can only describe as a cross between a porcupine and Louboutin.  Anything out of context doesn't make the sense it's supposed to, so I'm sure worn with the right outfit and attitude, these would metaphorically kill too.  Perhaps this spawn of a cactus would make a great statement as a bridal shoe - the statement being don't mess with the goddess.  For now, I'm happy with the lovely images they've inspired.  We all have that one person (or more) we'd very much like to kick in the rear, or elsewhere, and what better to kick them with my dear?  Got the image now?  Good.  You're welcome.

I apologize for the lack of better photography- it's not exactly the social norm to go around the marketplace here with a huge camera taking pictures of whatever catches your fancy.  This was too irresistible, though, so I asked the shopkeeper for permission and did a thirty-second camera phone photo shoot in a corner.  The only thing worth more trouble would be chronicling these hazardous heels on actual feet.  I did consider putting them on, but I just couldn't imagine doing justice to them under an abaya!  Makes you wonder about the women draped in black who do buy these, doesn't it?


Hah. 

Oh, and for those of you who got the pun... it wasn't unintentional :P

 

Star-crossed Lovers

There is much glory in being part of an ill-fated love story.  Literature and art have enunciated the lives of unfortunate pairs of lovers so much, you'd think mankind would take heed and avoid landing in such situations.  Alas, to be immortalized in a saga of pain and longing is so much more exciting than the average "happily ever after".



If you're hoping for juicy gossip in this post, please do not read any further.  The love I speak of (type of?) today has the same unlucky timing of circumstance that Romeo and Juliet's did.  It has the same sad end that Heer and Ranjha met with. The story has all your usual suspects... the lover and the beloved, the antagonists, the excruciatingly frustrating circumstances, the separation, and then the promise of reunion in the hereafter.  This story, however, isn't about two beings.  It's about me. It's about my love. It's about how its impending separation is looming over me like a guillotine, ready to sever my imagination, my artistic balance, from the rest of my body.



I'm in love with my little bake shop.  Okay, it's not really a bake shop......yet.  It's an idea, a dream for the near future. When I started up Little Miss Muffin, my very humble, home-based cupcake business, I had no idea what I was getting myself in to.  I had no idea who I was up against, or how much effort would go into setting up something like this.  Everyone around me thought it was a bad idea.  "You're a dentist, not a bawarchi!" was the popular turn of phrase.  I kept pushing forward, though, convinced that this was what I needed to feel happy.




Boy, was I right.  Thanks to my parents, sister, friends, and family, Little Miss Muffin was off to a great start, and I was as happy as ever!  It became the ultimate cathartic element in my life, and with every order, every experiment, every cupcake, I felt more and more elated.  Little Miss Muffin evolved into something more than just a hobby, and I savored every single second of it.  Good thing I did too, because nothing lasts forever. 




Zaalim samaj.  The harsh reality of life.  Darn you, cruel circumstances! 



Sadly, due to the crazy amount of traveling I had to, and will have to, do I decided to give LMM a break - a hiatus, if you may.  I packed up my equipment with a heart of lead.  What I didn't know was that I would be back to baking sooner than I had expected!  One short trip back to the "city of lights" and I couldn't resist churning out an order, or two.   This time, as I prepare for travel yet again, my heart is lighter (and fluffier!)  I know Little Miss Muffin will always be here whenever I come back.  I know you will be here, all of you, who've had a hand/finger/nail in the success of LMM.

Yes, folks.  Don't you doubt it.  Little Miss Muffin is here to stay.  Maybe one day it will transform into a proper bakeshop, or perhaps a popular chain worldwide, who knows!  That's the promise of infinite reunion I leave you with, Karachi.  That's the dream I leave you with. 

Wit

Yums: Nana godi* godi!

My Dad: Yes, beta, of course! Nana's godi is for you!

Yums jumps into my dad's lap and smugly nods her head.

My Mom: Oho! Who is Nana's godi for?

Yumna thinks about this for a couple seconds.  Then a sly smile spreads across her face.

Yums: Nani.


*godi = lap

Passing of the Storm

I know it's going to be a tough week when Yums goes to bed crying, surpasses the deranged neighborhood rooster's efficiency in awakening everyone on the street in the middle of the night, wakes up in the morning bawling her eyes out, and spends the rest of the day throwing one nonsensical tantrum or another. 

I've tried every method in the book to try and steer the menacing week ahead in a more calm direction, but on most days the storm clouds just don't clear out.  Sometimes, I feel like throwing in the towel and hiding behind my laptop screen.  In fact, that's exactly what I do, making sure to peek up over the top edge occasionally in case the bonsai grinch is hurtling towards me with her toy hammer.

Recently, my patience is at an all-time low, compunded by the two F's - flu and fasting.  I've unleashed the cracken this week more times than I can count on one hand, and I'm certain everyone on the street knows it.  Of course, I feel sick to the stomach afterwards. First comes the guilt, and in that moment the irony of it all hits me with painful clarity - I've just reinforced the exact opposite of what I want my toddler to do if she isn't getting her way.  Then comes a nauseating dread as I mentally list the pros and cons of what action I should take next.  Should I run to her, hug her, apologize, and offer a feeble excuse for my behavior (Mama's hungry, Mama's sick, Mama's just tired)?  Should I offer a Kit-Kat bribe as atonement and then pretend nothing happened?  Or should I just let us breathe in the charged and leaden atmosphere for a few minutes before I read the guilty her charges? 

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.....

Everything changes when Yums takes charge of the situation.  This doesn't happen always, but when it does, it moves me to tears.  As I sit there, high-strung and remorse-stricken, I barely hear the soft patter of footsteps approaching me.  My daughter's kiss wipes the slate clean for both of us.  In her guarded, innocent act she single-handedly offers mutual redemption.  Needless to say I crumble like shortbread and shamelessly grab the opportunity.  Okay, not shamelessly, but with a renewed determination to set things right.  I amalgamate the lists I've been making in my head, and apologize to my baby girl.  I tell her there is no excuse for my behavior, and we snuggle close, her favorite book in my hand, and a bar of Kit-Kat in hers.

Tomorrow's going to be better, I usually say out loud.  I'm not sure if it's meant for her or for me, but it's reassuring nevertheless, because three minutes into the book, she's asleep, the half-eaten chocolate wafer balanced between her lips. 

Motherhood is by far the most challenging thing I've had to do, but it's just as easy to forget that childhood's a frustrating phase too.  Yes, tomorrow will definitely be better, because this epiphany will linger long after the dust has settled.

Alive and (finger-)Licking!

Well, well.  What a surprise it is to find myself sitting at my laptop with this page open, typing my first post in months!  Honestly, I didn't think I could do it, not after this long.  Yet, as I wearily clicked open my blog it greeted me with the welcoming warmth that one can expect from a bowl of hot, creamy, soup and a thick slice of hearty bread.  It was like coming home after a stint in a wordless, unimaginative, and uncreative bubble.  I'll refrain from going into drab details about where I was and why -  I think I owe my blog that.  Let's just say I didn't have the time, inspiration, or brain cells, to form sentences that made sense to a person older than my 3 year old.

It's my favorite time of year again - Ramadan, and for me, it's just as much about the food as it is about the worship.  Although the latter is the more important of the two, especially during this month, I believe one's religious endeavors are personal and hardly perfect, so I'll refrain from discussing that too, today.  This post will be completely cibarious, and will hopefully inspire an adventure or two in a kitchen across the world from mine.  My, what ambitions I have for my blog.  *shakes head*  Anyway... on with the literature!

Even though we sit together as a family for most of our meals during the rest of the year, the "aftari" table has an uncanny gravity to it.  We keep our food simple now, though once upon a time it was very extravagant.  I remember standing at the kitchen door as a child, watching my mom, the incarnate spirit of a japanese origami specialist, folding samosas and spring rolls with amazing fluidity.  Everything we had was made from scratch, including elaborate mini fruit tartlets and even the "chaat" masala.

The carnal allure of the aftari table has long been transformed into a spiritual one but that doesn't mean I don't get excited about eating come sunset.  Sure, the food's gotten severely rusticated now, but I still get the occasional motivation to make something special for us to open our fasts with.  My  most recent venture - pakoras - has opened up a whole new world of tastebuds!  It's been such a fantastic journey, I could not bear to keep it to myself!  Before I delve deeper into this topic, I want to clarify something.  I'm a baker.  Pakoras are fried.  My point is that I'm not a "pakora expert", and I will certainly never proclaim to be one in the future.  I prefer the term "pakora enthusiast", because boy do they make me enthusiastic!

A couple years ago my tastebuds had an incident that turned my world upside down.  Well, it's really nothing as dramatic as I make it sound, but for me, it was colossal.  I always believed anything with a significant water content would elicit the dreaded splattering and spurting of oil when fried, and so I never expected to find any such ingredients in a pakora.  We always did the basic pakora - gram flour, seasoning, onions, green coriander, and green chillies.  I was taken aback when I found little red squares of tomato in a pakora I had at a friend's place one day.  Now, even though I enjoyed those pakoras, I wasn't sure I wanted to experiment just yet.  Also, I think having a baby stuck to your hip automatically gives you a free pass when it comes to frying duty.  I had been putting off the tomato experiment for so long that I had almost forgotten about it - until now.

Feeling equal parts cautious and brash, I went one step further and not only added tomatoes, but I stole some julienned green peppers from my mother (who was chopping away unknowingly) and threw those into the basic mix.  What joy!  Not only did the pakoras behave themselves in my wok, they fried to a golden crisp, with slightly softened tomato bits waiting inside like landmines of flavor!  Et alors, that was that.  Since then, I've added something new every day to my pakoras, and I'm never going back to the basics, my friends.  In our home, pakoras have transformed into a colorful punch of veggies - eggplant, tomatoes, carrots, green peppers, and tomorrow, possibly shredded cabbage!  The best part was that I finally got my daughter to eat just ONE of these chunky, soft, crispy, juicy, paradoxical little things and my work for the day was done. 

So I urge anyone reading this to be a little adventurous today, and set aside all your inhibitions about veggies being the antithesis of good-tasting food.  You might be just as pleasantly surprised as I was, and perhaps even a veggie pakora convert!  The possibilities of ingredients you can add are endless... unless your imagination spans about as far as the screen in front of you, in which case, good luck with life pal.

Oh, and for the person who thought I shouldn't "try to play God and revive the dead [blog]", I'm no Hubris, but I am in the business of medicine and faith, and miracles do happen :P

Cliché

I really don't want my blog to be categorized with the ones that have long verses of random poetry on them.  Yet, here I am, typing up a cliché post... with a poem in it.  Actually, I was going through our massive literary collection just now, and I happened to come across one of the books from my time at EWS.

As I pulled it out a flood of memories came rushing to me.  The book belonged to an ex-hallmate of mine from my senior year, when I had been proctor on the hall.  She had been a sophomore and I remember always spending an extra ten minutes chatting with her when I did my daily routine check in with the girls on the hall.  The book had been part of the reading list from her English class, but she gave it to me before I graduated because I had really liked one of the poems in it.

The author, Naomi Shihab Nye, had visited our campus and read a few of her works out loud, and this one was by far my favorite.  Who knew I would one day mother a child who would be exactly like the narrator of this poem?  When I read this poem I felt a renewed attachment to it, and immediately wanted to share it.

Thank you AK, for this book!

ONE BOY TOLD ME
By Naomi Shihab Nye (FUEL)

Music lives inside my legs.
It's coming out when I talk.

I'm going to send my valentines
to people you don't even know.

Oatmeal cookies make my throat gallop.

Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground
when they swing.  I hate that.

Look at those 2 o's with a smash in the middle -
that spells good-bye.

Don't ever say "purpose" again,
let's throw the word out.

Don't talk big to me.
I'm carrying my box of faces.
If I want to change faces I will.

Yesterday faded
but tomorrow's in BOLDFACE.

When I grow up my old names
will live in the house
where we live now.
I'll come and visit them.

Only one of my eyes is tired.
The other eye and my body aren't.

Is it true all metal was liquid first?
Does that mean if we bought our car earlier
they could have served it
in a cup?

There's a stopper in my arm
that's not going to let me grow any bigger.
I'll be like this always, small.

And I will be deep water too.
Wait. Just wait.  How deep is the river?
Would it cover the tallest man with his hands in the air?

Your head is a souvenir.

When you were in New York I could see you
in real life walking in my mind.

I'll invite a bee to live in your shoe.
What if you found your shoe
full of honey?

What if the clock said 6:92
instead of 6:30? Would you be scared?

My tongue is the car wash
for the spoon.

Can noodles swim?

My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?

From now on I'll only drink white milk
on January 26. 

What does minus mean?
I never want to minus you.

Just think - no one has ever seen
inside this peanut before!

It is hard being a person.

I do and don't love you -
isn't that happiness?