This year will be about me. This is the year of introspection, of truth and goodness and eating what comes from farms and kitchens rather than factories and packets. This year I will reclaim my body and lose those 40 pounds, I started off lasted a week, got de-railed but I will get back. This year food will be for comfort and joy and celebration as opposed to eradication of boredom. This year I’ll wear my hair long and color them or maybe dramatically chop them off. This year I’ll step out of my comfort zone and do things that get me nervous. This year I’ll love deeply and intensely and push pragmatism aside. This year I’ll take more photographs and see more gardens and zoos and parks with Yanoo, I’ll take him to the dolphin show and help him learn to overcome his shyness. This year I’ll only watch what’s worthy of my time (scratch that as I already do that), and listen to less hip-hop that is basically all about debauchery and women’s anatomy (men and their music). I will squeeze in a concert or a qawwali if my heart sees to it. This year I’ll cook with love and not disdain, for the man who loves his food with a blind devotion. This year I will buy and wear clothes that make me feel happy and look pretty instead of borrowing anything from my mum and claiming ownership. This year I’ll let go of my demons and fears. This year is going to be for me.

It’s been that long since you’re gone. I don’t know how I feel, A and I haven’t had a conversation about this. I’ve told him not to. We are living our lives, taking the kid to the doctor, baking cookies, buying books, choosing feta cheese or goat cheese, acts that demonstrate life in motion.We have celebrated the lil’ one’s first birthday almost a month after you left us. You would have been happy, to see him cut the cake, I would have extorted you for more money Eidi, birthday money for me and the kid. You always gave me more, willingly. More time, attention and patience towards my ideas. I dream about you. I cried when I passed by that Jalebi shopping saddar, only this Ramzan you got jalebi for iftari when my in-laws were invited. You were so happy. I remember in your comatose state you held our hands, Bim’s, mine and Ob’s, it was a lucid moment for you and a hopeful one for us. We miss you, in our own way. People still talk about you, there are people who knew you or had been touched by your kindness at odd places. They tell me about you, regale tales of your glory.
There are fleeting moments when I want to discuss something with you and you’re not there. You are alive in our hearts, your memories filled with love and warmth. What a wonderful man you were Dada, hope you’re happy up there.

Or can anyone else feel winter yet?
For the longest time I dreaded winter months. Layering was uncool in my childhood. Lots has changed, I have grown up, settled down, fallen in love with winters and candy crush. The usual adult kinda thing.
Winters for me symbolise chai and bakery walay zeera biscuits. Gajar ka halwa. Sitting on the swing with a blanket and a book and masala chai. Butler’s cafe’ hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream and my man. Lounging on the Pompeii veranda waiting for our garlic butter to melt, while breaking sour dough bread from our hands and picking chunks of feta cheese off each other’s pizza slices. It means wearing almost always torn Sunday bazaar socks that are too pretty to pass up. Winters are memories from back in a levels when Padu (my BFF) and I stirred our coffees on school rooftop and talked, only stopping to catch our breaths. Winters were red sweaters from my school. Horrendous time, only lovely in retrospect with Mush (BFF) who is a keeper. Back in college with H and our 1 1/2 inch ki masjid, who made college bearable.
Winters are made of people. Like summers. Or rain. I’m lucky to have these in my life.

You turned seven months old and I forgot to record it. This month has been about so many different smiles. So many faces you pull and each of these makes me want to draw you closer for a hug, waiting, wishing for time to stand still. I hear this often “he’s adorable, he’s so gora and he must be like his dad, except for the eyes” I feel flattered when they tell me that he’s the cutest, but what’s with the gora complex? I married a man taller and fairer than me. I don’t think it should be a problem. I never judged anyone on the complexion of their skin, I’ll judge you if you have body odor but I will never judge you if your skin reminds me of espresso shots.

Back to my son, I’ve seen couples and men and women and children stop dead in their tracks to wave, hug or even kiss Yanoo and I never say no. It’s mean to deny people from loving my kid, they just have fleeting moments, me? I have a lifetime.
Baby, you remind me that God exists and loves and sustains, He’s poured an ocean of mercy in my heart. I wonder what His own heart would look like?
P.s. Mr. Adorable, you started sitting up at 5-6 months and jumping at 3 months. Around 6-7 month you can sit unsupported happily.

I’d like to believe that I am an optimist, for my baby’s sake. I don’t want to pour dark cynicism in my offspring, in fact I’d want my child(ren) to savor a warm, crusty slice of pizza, fish for rainbows and rejoice when they see it, play hopscotch when the power is out and just be happy.

There is abundant gloom in Karachi that wrenches all goodness from within you, the city is tearing from the seams and it needs a generation who will grow up and fix things. Yanoo you’re my miracle, my happy pill, I’ve invested hope in you and others like you. So be a Mr. Fix-It.   

  – It’s okay to dance in the rain as long as you head straight for a warm shower and a set of dry clothes afterwards. My mother always bathed in the rain with us, singing songs. After making rainy day treats for the elders, we swam in our make-believe balcony pool.

– Taking kids out to lunch post school especially on the day of their result is surely going to cheer them up. We had a high roof, there were just so many kids in it, my siblings and two of my aunts’ kids. We had a laugh, we sang songs, shared stories, fought fiercely, as cousins often do. Report card day is not a great day for every kid, naturally keeping that in mind, my mum took us out for burgers and all was well with the world again, never mind the darned C.

– It’s good to let your kids pick their own toys and give them a budget to stick to. Every time  we went to the grocery store, we bought one candy and one toy (coloring book/crayons/markers/book/anything small basically) and it made us feel so independent. Like our opinion mattered.

– Every once in a while it’s okay to give precedence to fun and not schedule. Once or twice a week we were allowed to skip afternoon nap and play with our cousins, to watch movies (always pg rated), skip, hop, run, cycle, build grand flying swing castles and make falsa squishy juice. We had skinned knees, chipped tooth, a swollen lip from falling face down but it taught us to stand up, dust our clothes and jump right on the slide again. It also taught us how to keep secrets and form strong alliance with the gang.

– Get down and play. My mother played so many games with us, she would build legos, read to us, sing songs instead of lullabys and watch disney movies with us. For that while she set her chores aside and made time for us. Her games weren’t always conventional and we grew up listening to ghazals thus forming a penchant for Faiz and Ghalib. 

– Hugs and kisses set so many broken hearts straight. Sometimes even bones too. I remember going up to her every time I felt my heart was damaged beyond repair, she always knew how to come up with the magic words to make me feel better. 

– Be easy on yourself. It’s your first time, with each child because each one is different. So don’t beat yourself up. You’re doing a fine job.