Engineering Marathon '12

As the title goes, it was a marathon to remember!

Perhaps you're getting the image of engineers hard at work on a task, time running short, frenzy over completion? The part with frenzy would be true, but the rest, na-an!

The Engineering Marathon organized by ASME -> UET Taxila Chapter was basically about answering assigned questions but in no ordinary way. It went something like this: each team of 4 is given a question with 4 options. Each of the options in turn corresponds to a specific location on campus. You have to run to the option you think is right and check from a person standing there to confirm your answer. In case of a wrong answer, you then have to run to the next possible option and so on till you finally hit it right.

Time was of the essence and each team was 'clocked' upon reaching the right answer.

The liaison desk was set up in front of the MED and that's where we got our first question: When was baseball invented?

And so it began, the marathon.

We sprinted like Flash from MARVEL Comics, jumped over the fence since the place was crowded and began our 'marathon' with hair running loose and the wind whipping our clothes.

The guideline of the event was sort of vague and my team had a totally different perception to what was actually the format of the competition! Looking at the name we assumed we would have to search the locations for physical 'clues' and use to them to get to the next one.

After we got the first Q, we split into two's. Me and a friend Sara ran to the EED since that was a prime option for the correct answer. We searched the flower pots, looked into classrooms to check the noticeboards, even checked around the dustbins for clues. Nothing gained.

Just as we were leaving the department out of breath from all the running around, I spotted an old faded, B&W photo of a girl, stuck on the SIEP Workshop page. *wow*, a clue!

We beamed at each other and got set taking it down, all sure that we’d just hit the pot.

But it wouldn’t come off. Strong glue? I lifted a corner and saw chewing gum beneath. *ewwww*

But no time, gotta rush! So through the disgusted-ness we set hacking away at the picture. Just then Sir Gulistan Raja was coming out of his office and we met his gaze. We 'salam'ed of course, but he seemed quite taken aback by what we were doing. We just smiled BIG smiles and pretended we didn't know anything about old photos on posters and chewing gums and clues; everything normal, Sir! But in all probability he thought we were STICKING the picture on!

Embarrassing, but time's running short, so hurry!

We finally managed to pull the thing off. At the back was written a registration number, 89-CE-18.

Immediately we felt like it was our Eureka! moment. I mean, the clue was staring us in the face, right? 19th century [roll#] was the answer, and the next step lay at the Civil Dept.

All smug, we left the EE dept and rang up our remaining team.

And that's when we found out we were wrong. Not in the answer, but in the game format! Gosh!

So back we rushed and followed the 'real' format now. Got the right answer at TED, and got our next question: Which island is the largest?

Greenland seemed like a fair deal so we rushed to the Cafeteria since that's where the clue pointed. Nope, wrong, the guy shook his head. So next we ran to the Admin Block, then the CED, and finally the DISPENSARY since all our answers had been nodded off! Panting but at last sure we were at the right place, we spelled our answer. The guy there shook his head.

WHAT? We just ran the SPAN of campus and went to all 4options, and you say WRONG, Mr Dispensary? For crying out loud!

He insisted we go back to the TED since the question we'd been given was wrong. WHAT?

But there was no time to stand and argue so we ran all the way back to the TED. Referred further to the MED. Huh?

Our legs were beginning to feel alien to ourselves but there was determination, there was spirit, so alien was alien and we didn’t care, go take care of yourself!

We heard the mob before we saw it.

Apparently, some guy along the route had handed out  a wrong question and disturbed the whole path. No wonder all 4options were coming out wrong, since the route was broken!

Oho! We looked at each other with a mixture of perspiration, red-facedness, panting, disappointment and excitement. Sorry for the inconvenience, rescheduled to the next day.

But of course sparing the next day for the same event was out of the question, busy schedule. No problem, maybe next time?

But it was a great experience despite event cancellation.

It was great to be the only girl-team in the event. And the TOPS juice for refreshment at the end could have done better, but ;)!

Cities: In View of Lahore

Cities. All too familiar. We live in them, but so what?

We live in these entities and take them for granted. It may be Dubai, New York, Delhi or Islamabad, or any others besides - they all share distinct features.

Cities are living, breathing organisms in a sense. There has even been an experiment to measure the so-called 'breathing rate' of a city! [courtesy: Discovery Channel]

I went to Lahore with my university class this weekend on an industrial tour. I've been to Lahore twice before, the most recent being in Gr8 though that seems like long ago.

I realized there how similar different cities in the same country were! There were places and parts of Lahore we visited that reminded me of Rawalpindi, and others of Islamabad. It stands to reason that Lahore has a night-life whereas Islamabad and Rawalpindi are European only in that they shut down early (something I had a hard time adjusting to since Dubai is a nocturnal-city). There were the same billboards up along the roads to sell soap and cloth as in Rawalpindi, the same dusty look all too characteristic of Taxila with it's granite-cutting machines. There was the same divisioning into the posh and urban areas with the noisy city centre. There were the same run-down workshops with electricity poles dangling dangerously at the entrance. There were the same side-walls splashed hues of orange-ish red with spit 'paan'. There were the same hawkers pulling carts loaded with goods of every imaginable kind; shouting after potential customers, lowering prices to insane levels just to get a purchase.

There were the same traffic jams where Punjabi folk music blared from the colorfully painted trucks and buses; the drivers shouted obscenities to show their dominance  while the conductors couldn't resist the temptation to swing with the outer pole and poke their heads outside to get a look(as if that would make the traffic clear, lol!)

There were the same corner shops we prefer to call 'tuck shops' selling your average biscuits and Lays^®. There were the same smokey roadside inns selling curry steeped in unnecessarily extra cooking oil for a 'tarri'.

But some things stood out too. One of the most prominent and probably the most disgusting too, was the smell of sewage in just SO many areas of Lahore! Even the posh areas weren't safe and you couldn't be far from the stench wherever you went. Another feature I thought had already become obsolete was DONKEY CARTS. Yes, donkey carts. I mean, are they still in use? :|

I saw a LOT of them along the sidewalks and they reminded me so strongly of something, which I'd better not mention for fear of being discovered!

Lahore is world-famous for its food - both the cooked delicacies and the gazillion eateries of all standards and stature dotted about the city. 'Vegetarian' is a forbidden word around and it's just meat galore there!  And while in Lahore, we clearly felt the capacity of our appetites expanding too; in short, we felt ourselves turning distinctly 'Lahori'.

The experience on Food Street was amazing. The 'kulcha' especially was mouth watering and the Kulfi beat the best I've tasted so far! But there I start again, showing off my primal partiality for things food.

Lahore was as near to Taxila and Rawalpindi as it was far away.

Though there are just so many intersecting points in the Venn diagram of Pakistani cities, Lahore is, simply, Lahore.

For that is the reason a proverb goes: He who hasn't seen Lahore has yet to be born! [Adapted from Punjabi]

Watch out, I'm a Punjabi!

Do not be surprised, for this event is from the PMO bus too.

It was yesterday when I was getting back from university. Anyone who has had any experience with a semi-military facility will know the hard-core entrance procedure. The requirement is thus: if you're a non-resident, you're supposed to make a call at the main gate to inform your host about your arrival, and then deposit your ID card till departure.

A lot of guests do not make that call, and boy! does it delay the bus every day!

Yesterday was no exception.

There was a Punjabi 'jat' [ جٹ ]-type lady at the back. The guard asked her to show her card and she stood up, completely blocking the aisle. She had a large gold nose-pin of the style preferred by rural women, her 'dupatta' thrown over carelessly and giving the picture of the real 'desi' woman. Milk and it's associated products are loved by villagers in Pakistan. Especially 'desi ghee'. And they feel proud to mention the amount they consume a day!

Even though the trend across the world has changed toward slimness, not in the 'gaaon/pind' [ گاؤں / پنڈ]!

Getting back to the lady. After she had stood up, she placed both hands on hips.
The guard was one burly fellow too with moustaches so long they seemed to get into his mouth every time he spoke. Dressed in the green soldier’s uniform he crossed his arms across the chest and braced for a fight. One Punabi pitted against the other.

And so began their diatribe. I'll write it in Punjabi first for those who can understand, and then in English [though sadly, the translation will remove some of the funny essence from the dialogue]

:خالہ 

 !اوے

!مینڈا پرآ اتھے  ڈریور  اے  اور الله ناں شکر اے  کھاندے پیندے کار تو اے

 ! ہینرڑ مینڈے نال پنج بچے ,ماں بس توں توں نہیں لا  سکنا 

:گارڈ 

! خالہ ، تساں  اترنا  ای  پیسی ، اے ہی اصول  اے

:خالہ 

چنگے او  تسی لوگ وی ، عورتاں  ناں کوئی لحاظ  ای  نہیں ! مینڈ ے  کول  فون  اے ، میں  ہونڑے  ملانی  آں  کال ! پتہ  لگ  ویسی  آ

:گارڈ 

.نہیں  خالہ ، ایجوں  کم  نہیں  بنڑنا ، اترنا  تی پیسی . بچی  آں  ہی  پیج  چھوڑو

:خالہ 

!ایڈا  توں ******! چلو  بچو ، اترو  تھلے ! دسںے  آں  انناں ہونڑ 

Lady: 'Oi, you cannot get me off the bus! My brother is the driver here and is from a well-to-do family by the grace of God. And I've *emphasis* 5 children, who are you to ask me to confirm?'

Guard: 'But Miss, you have to. It's standard procedure!'

Lady: 'Right, then I have a phone with me. I'll call him and he'll tell you. No shame at all, asking women to get down!'

Guard: 'Miss, I'm sorry, but I can't. According to procedure you HAVE to get down and call from the booth.'

Lady: 'You *beep*, have you NO shame? Fine, *beep*. (calling all her children) Get up, and come down now! We'll show them what they asked for!'

She almost hit the guard in the chest and got down with her brood she was so proud of. One would have thought they were something like her too, but they were timid as hell. They just looked at their feet, shuffled nervously and began to get down.

Lady: 'Oi you, *beeps* get down FAST! Stop acting like cowards and be like MEN!'

! چودھری لے  بھی  پوؤ ، مڑد  بنڑ  کے  دسسو ، اسی  وی  چودھری  آں 

I could hear her shouting even once inside the booth.

Watch out, I'm a Punjabi, she seemed to say.

The scene was hilarious, really! 

Interviewing, haha!

Today was my first 'proper' experience interviewing students. It was for the SIEP, our department's native technical society.

I was a little apprehensive at first but soon transitioned into an interviewer proper. I had only a vague idea of what to ask. I was sceptical about the level of the questions I would ask since my technical knowledge as yet is quite lagging in phase to the senior students'.

Still, I braced. It was completely impromptu and I surprised myself with smoothly getting into the flow of talk! I asked Q's I thought were relevant. All of us in the panel of five were slightly apprehensive at the start, and each of us somehow asked only from a particular domain in the beginning. But after a few candidates were done with, the atmosphere changed visibly. We became more comfortable and began to pick up each other's points. For instance, one would start asking about the function of the stabilizer, and the others would begin the process of cross-questioning and somewhere in between, a new topic would pop up.

There were some funny incidents too. There was a guy who jay-walked in, literally; hands in pockets, shabby jeans, jiggle in the walk. Yeah, I'm an engineer. Right.

We asked him about the methods used for circuit analysis and he receded somewhere deep within as if on a spiritual quest. 'Umm, there's Thevenin, we just did Norton, I guess? Oh yeah, and there's mesh analysis too!’ Amid his talking we spotted the chewing gum in his mouth. It became visible at an odd angle and God!did we have a long laugh afterward!

Then there was another guy who didn't even know what the society stood for proper, and was like, 'Yeah, choose me. I'll see later what I can do'. 'Hmm, so can you pin-point a talent for which you should be preferred?' 'I don't know, is this the kind of stuff you ask?' I mean, :|

He was acting like he was doing someone a favour just showing up!

Today I learnt that keeping some things spontaneous without prior preparation has a charm all its own. And I cannot emphasize enough the unique beauty of the experience of a group-talk. And a little sheepishly, of confusing the person in front with rapid questioning!

Perhaps we haven't yet outgrown our ancestors' affinity for story-telling after all.

Kaleidoscope of Life

Life - sometimes so beautiful in its bitterness.

There are times of extreme mental clarity; then there are times you feel your senses clouded. Some days are good, but some are at the opposite end of the scale. There are times when you feel elated, feel like you're the world and it is you, one with each other. You feel at perfect harmony with everything around, at one with 'life'. You could jump just for the sake of joy, and laugh at the top of your voice, a free spirit on the horizon. Then there are times nothing can be darker than your own consciousness. It becomes a burden, and what wouldn't you give up to silence it for some time, drug it, numb it, whatever it takes to get a 'blackout' in the head. The very act of staying alive, making it to another day, seems like a pain.

But the element common to all these experiences is 'variety'. Life is spontaneous, and not just from Darwin's perspective. Happiness exists only till there is relativism and contrast. Absolute happiness is nothing.

I spotted an orange wasp on the windowsill in the bus today while coming back home. My first response was of course one of fear and caution since those wasps are known to have a highly painful sting!

 I kept a close eye on it. It would fly up a little toward the top of the window but the next jolt by the bus would bring it back down. I wished constantly for it to just go away so I could relax in my seat and enjoy the view of the Margalla Hills outside, which I love gazing at despite passing by every day! Amidst this, I suddenly became imbued with the wasp. I began to notice details of its anatomy; how it moved its tiny but muscular legs in their 'small' way, how it scratched what I can only assume was some equivalent of a nose with its, again, assumed foot; how it had black eyes that were on the oval side, and throughout it all, it's determination to get to the window's head. There was immense beauty in its every move and God truly has created works of art for us to see. Even in the most prosaic of beings.

In this strange mode, I noticed beauty while fear and disgust were parallel with the emotions. It's strange how something so troublesome can have such a different side to it too.

Then there are feelings which pull us in opposite directions and make it seem like they will tear us apart, shatter our very consciousness. And the trigger doesn't have to be anything more than a single word, a glance, a fleeting thought. It is at times like these that we feel the extremes of all emotions at once, and the ensuing result is nothing but total confusion. There's beauty, feeling, thought, parallel with hatred, sadness, confusion, wish, hope, darkness.

Such is the kaleidoscope of life.

Messenger

Colours were morphing into hues of orange and yellow.

Leaves were crunchy beneath your feet. The slightest tread and you could hear the crackle of the withered leaves, the outlines turning in on themselves.

Trees were laid bare and what was once thriving, was giving way to the dead. In the hope of a new future. But to pay the price, dormancy would ensue for a time before spring blossomed once more.

The sky was exceptionally clear.

Sweaters and hoods could be seen around, though some cotton too.

It was the time when everyone was exhausted from the day's bustle. Friends were sitting chatting, talking about all that had happened during the day.

And so was she sitting, with a group of students. They were discussing the assignment to be submitted the next day but she felt cut-off, far away. She couldn't point out the source of her disharmony when she should be paying attention to the assignment.

Someone at the back suddenly shouted, 'Look, look, a butterfly!' and sure enough, a small yellow-and-black butterfly was fluttering among the tall grass. The sight was strange since Fall was the last time you could expect to see the creature around. After the excitement had died down and she had turned back toward watching the sky, she felt a slight rustle on her pyjama. The butterfly had flown in and lodged itself gently on her knee.

Looking at the little creature, she realised what was troubling her. What it was that was keeping her from concentrating on anything. And she knew, he was somewhere around. How, why, she didn't care.

The butterfly had conveyed its message, and after a shudder of the wings, it flew away into the hedge.

She looked up without intent.

And sure enough, there he was. Coming out of the building with a friend. Laughing, somewhat boisterous.

He didn't appear to realize it, but she had seen him, sure as the sun was out. It was only after he disappeared down the lane that she realized she'd been following him with her gaze all along. In that single minute, she wanted to jump, shout with happiness, cry out the wild cry of joy.

She was smiling insanely into thin air.

The girls out back were questioning her on the sudden spacing out. But she didn't care. She had found what she was looking for.

She had no doubt in her mind:  the butterfly had been a messenger from God.

Oh, samosa!

What do you think when you see a samosa?

'Delicious!'

'Get me some yoghurt and chutni, can't wait to delve in!'

'It's just a trillion-carlorie-packed- triangle! Never!'

'The WHAT...?!'

Put quite simply, I love samosas! They may be reeking oil, fresh out of the 'karahi'. They may be the AlBaker small triangles that come in the cheese/meat/vegetable variety, or the terribly unhygienic kind made in Pakistani corner shops. They should technically be rejected by the sensible mind. After all, fat makes us lethargic, blocks up arteries, makes us look ugly and what not!

But the simple truth s that they're just *wow*!

But just as with anything tasty [I admit, it's most always junk food!], there's a catch.

Not that it'll make me a size-jumbo person [of course it will1], but something else…uh, how do I say it? It's something related to the gut. Then there's gastric juices as well. Oh, and that foul-smelling place near the Sharjah Cricket Stadium. Get the picture?

There's a new café that's started up in my university. It's nothing fancy. In fact, the term 'café' is quite misleading! It brings the image of something like Starbucks/Costa Café/Gloria Jeans, but it's a 'government cafeteria' and you can expect only as much.

There was a lot of excitement around when it opened.
Here’s an analogy:  A LUMS student visits it. His jaw drops. Why? Two possibilities exist:
1. It’s beautiful
2. It’s better than LUMS’s [haha]
 3. 'Do places like this even EXIST on Earth?!' :O? Yeh. Sad.

And of course, no.3’s the winner!

A rainy day and we went there for a samosa. There was a burly guy frying them beneath a steel shelter in a large 'karahi' flooded with angry bubbles of hot oil. I had a bad feeling just looking at the platter of as-yet unfried samosas beside him, and then up at HIM with sleeves folded up, sweat dripping down. I usually take my own lunch since that prepared in university is hardly something a decent stomach can tolerate. But that day, I gave in to insistence against my better judgement.

We sat at a table, got talking.

A couple of minutes later, 6 plates with a samosa each arrive. We start eating without wasting time, talking all the while. And it was that talk that made me forget I'd to be careful with the triangle. That it always did what it does *ummmmm*.

No problem. We finished them up and started toward the buses as it was home time.

Unremarkable. Everything normal. Feeling different? Nah, on top of the world!

A soon as I reached home, the trouble started. Quick reaction. A minute later and I felt as if the world was spinning. It felt like cramps, pinches, hammer-blows, stuck-in-a-washing-machine feel, all at once! I doubled over with the sheer intensity of it all.

And? Made a dash for the...

           

Oh, samosa!

Saviour

It was in the bus, yesterday.

We were waiting at the PMO gate to get our entrance passes checked while the 'guests', those non-PMO, had to go to the army post to sign in with their NADRA ID cards.

The weather seemed to be taking a turn toward winter last week, but were we wrong! And so it was, stuck in a sweltering atmosphere with a revving 'zrrrrooommm'-ing engine like the ones we used to have in my first school, AUS.

A group of quite-obese ladies were sitting in the front seat, filling up the space with their loud Punjabi gossip; the maids, with quick succession to wickedness of daughter-in-laws, to what happened in last week's so-and-so sitcom on HumTV. Did they spare any field of gossip? Oh boy, not them!  You'd think they were some kind of Obese Encyclopedia of Punjabi Nonsense, audio version. No need for a hearing aid even if you happen to experience auditory trouble, guaranteed!

10 minutes of waiting and I was beginning to grow sick of it all. The guards gazing suspiciously, the ladies chattering incessantly, a silly child throwing tantrums at the back, and the as-yet long queue of waiting guests at the window. All of it!

Unremarkably, in stepped a girl of about 10yrs of age.

She seemed a Pathan-i by look, and the pink net frock she was wearing even in such heat seemed to put a stamp on her Pashtoon-ness (no offence intended!). She had a small white handkerchief folded into a triangle and tied around her hair. It was difficult to grasp the outlook of her footwear among all the tangled feet in the crowded bus, but I spotted a colourful 'khussa' as she stepped over bags blocking the aisle to get to her mother. She instantly reminded me of the picture of Mariam on the book cover of 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', walking along the steppes of Afghan soil.

As soon as she'd snuggled right next to her mama, she began to ask her how did the entry go? What did the guards ask? Hopefully, no trouble at the post? Her girlish voice came chiming back. No mama, it was alright. The guard was very nice to me. I signed on the slip myself, and the guard patted me on the head.

She'd spoken in Urdu - albeit accented - so I was able to understand her words despite the buzz of talk all around.

And then, her mother put her arm around the girl's shoulders and kissed her on the head. Bravo, my daughter! I'm really proud of you. That was the first time I was able to see the mother: white 'chador', missing front teeth, deeply freckled skin, and a perpetual worried look dimmed only momentarily by her daughter's feat of the day. Her eyes lined with tears of gratitude were shut in a gesture of love as she kissed her daughter, and then stroked the girl's head, making her handkerchief come loose.

The girl was smiling. All of a sudden, she turned her face back.

And in that fleeting moment, I caught her eye flat on. She smiled a smile that seemed to say: yes, I've done it. And I will do it again. And someday, I'll free my mother of all the worries that shackle her and others alike. Someday, I'll break the taboos of our region. I'm a warrior, and I know it.

Her 10-yr old face looked triumphant as she turned away.

She was truly the saviour of the day.

Twilight

Oh no, don't be deceived, dear reader! This is not about Stephenie Meyer's 'Twilight' saga. Rather, it's about the subtle reflections of a silly girl from your backyard. 

  

Back home, dawn would usually be spent away snoring like the world depended on it. Like there was night, and then the sunlit morning without transition; like as if a curtain had simply been lifted. And even if one were to be awake then, the sodium-lamp flooded streets and roads would mask the beauty of the morning hour, leaving behind only a dark background highlighted by an orange glow. 

  

As I recently had the chance to experience, morning time is simply - breathtaking! 

Oh yeah, I'm sure you've heard of the 'effect' of sunrise and sunset on people, and many occult practices use the transformational power of nature at these times. But experiencing them first hand, especially by yourself, is an experience all it's own kind; no substitutes there! 

  

Sunset for me is a melancholy time. The time when light gives way to darkness. The orange halos situated a few metres apart along the road come to the rescue, to make us feel safe and cozy in our homes. But if you've had the experience of watching the sun set, especially on the beach, I'm sure most of you will agree about the droopy feeling . 

  

But twilight? It's different. 

There's positivity there; stars of beauty; galaxies of hope; and to complement it all, the deep, dark backdrop to stage it all. 

It was last week. I'd woken up pre-dawn as I'm wont to during university days nowadays. I usually just stay in the dining room aka 'my living room' and go about previous day's work (and yeah, coffee-drinking!). Outdoors is SO not where I can be found. 

But last week, something was different. It had rained the previous night and I had a sudden impulse to go check out how everything looked outside. Everyone was still asleep, so I opened the kitchen door ever so lightly (I tried to, at least!) and stepped on to the terrace. Ducking beneath the clothesline I made it to the gate, opened it, and sat on the steps; for, the sight was beautiful! Rain drops could be seen suspended on the leaves of shrubs in the faint orange of dimmed street lamps, some ready to drop by at the passage of the gentlest breeze. The mountains in the backdrop covered the setting moon and threw an ethereal white glow over the horizon. Crickets chirped incessantly and a line of ants marched past the last step.   

  

Everything was just so peaceful! I had the sudden urge to break into song, laughter, a fit of weeping; all at the same time. It began to feel like the aura of the place was tugging at me in different directions simultaneously, pulling me apart. The peace of the place was a total contrast to the turmoil within me. I had the urge to reach out, to speak to the twinkling stars, to write out my unspeakable and incoherent thoughts on the deep, dark, sky. I wanted to jump into the air and just float on the clouds moving over the distant mountains. I wanted to open up to the heavens, to throw myself onto my knees and scream my thoughts out and weep my sorrows away and confess confess confess. I wanted the moment to stretch on and on till time infinite. I wanted nothing but to stand there and talk to the sky, the stars, the galaxies, the aliens (if) far, far away. To become intertwined with the beauty of the cosmos. 

  

And then, I smiled. 

I couldn't own the moment; when you love something, you should be prepared to let it fly. I smiled not because I was rid of my 'head' buzzing with thoughts and memories and ideas and anger and love, but because I had finally found a companion, a silent listener, a vast yet lone world of advice and insight. I smiled and sat a little while longer on the steps, listening to the stars and watching their flickering, trying to absorb it all in. The 'azan' started and I felt a wave of peace wash over me. I felt comforted. I knew, somehow, however it may be, that everything will be alright. That someday, I will learn to be able to let fly all that I love; for love is not ownership, but experience and acceptance. That someday I will know the true meaning of feelings, and why some things happened that should never have. Why I slipped where I should have stayed firm. 

I let the muazzin and the stars fill up my extended bowl of belief. And that filled me with energy for the rest of the day. 

I let the stars talk and the deep, dark sky envelope me. 

I let the place be me, and me be it; symbiosis. 

  

I go to the porch pre-dawn every day now. 

I'm a worshipper. 

Sir Shabbir

It's been 2yrs since I've been taught in proper English by a teacher. The predominant medium of instruction in my university is Urdu, not to mention the frequent specks of Punjabi strewn about for humorous touch.  Language shouldn't be a barrier to learning, especially when one is taught in one's mother tongue. But as I've realized to great disappointment, that's not always true.

Being taught in Urdu while the textbooks followed and the notes to be written are in English is preposterous! The constant process of translation in the mind usually ends up in some fundamental part of the teacher's spoken sentence being skipped. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, something or the other of essence always goes missing and somehow it doesn't feel like I've actually understood much from the teacher's words. We speak in Urdu amongst family members and colleagues in university so it seems like anyone saying anything in Urdu has got to be talking informally. Since baba too speaks in English with us whenever describing anything of literary value, exposure to studies and all things related in Urdu has been zero.

But today for the subject ECD( Electronic Circuit Design ), we found that Sir Shabbir is going to teach us. We'd heard all sorts of comments about him: he was strict; tolerated no nonsense; taught in a way as to scare students away from Electronics; spoke in a way that was difficult to grasp…something of a learned tyrant.

All that turned out to be mere prejudice.

Just after our first class with him, I knew ECD had GOT to be one of my favourite courses! Sir taught in amazing English, and for the first time since A'levels I followed every word of a teacher. And not just that; he's one of the most proper and spontaneous teachers I've studied with. He kept the class in a highly interactive mood and was superb with the basics of the subject (though its true most of the class was just b-l-a-n-k to his questions which dug at square one of Electronics!) 

The first encounter whirled a jigsaw of memories from school in my mind and for a couple of minutes I was back in a different period of life. It thankfully didn't take long to recover from the memory-charm as Sir had started explaining some fundamental everyday Electronics jargon.

Though it's just the first week of semester, I know I'm going to have a great time with ECD. It's been some time since I felt so great with a subject and I'm hoping I won't be disappointed in my perception.

The Jealousy Factor

I'm not someone used to being jealous of people. I do of course become influenced or impressed, but jealousy is just not my response.

Or so I thought, until yesterday.

The credit for my dress designing and stitching goes completely to my maternal grandmother [ نانو ]. Mama doesn't usually bear the torture of sitting with a sewing machine, but something made her make me a dress this time, yesterday.

It was a pink-and-white printed cotton dress, and large scraps of the cloth as well as some of the adorning lace were left over by the end. Mama wrapped them up into a ball and placed them in a shopper in case she might need them later on. She then began clearing up the place ready to prepare dinner. After testing the dress for fitting, I logged onto Facebook to check out the social network updates. I expected mama to be in the kitchen, and so the gentle whirr of the sewing machine came as a surprise. I put it down to her mending something as an afterthought. No worries.

Absorbed in the World Wide Web I realized only after 20minutes that the whirring was still continuing!

I got up to check up on mama. And what did I see? Mama holding up a white frock with pleated neck; the same pink-and-white cotton highlighting the shoulder joints; the white embroidered lace encircling the hem. A pretty girl-ish frock. That might not have been much in itself had I not seen the huge loving smile on her face. I was shell-shocked. I mean, who was that little dress for? We don't have a little girl that age for miles in our extended family, so why the dress?

Before I could speak a word, mama asked me how did the frock look? I said hmm, good, but who WAS it for? So she told me; it was for the daughter of a classmate from Quran class. Wasn't it pretty? How should she join the bow? Like the traditional two-tier thing, or the simple kind? She kept asking me these questions in quick succession but they were entirely lost on me. Yes, I was furious in my mind. Jealous. Of the little girl.

And on top of the cloth-ey business, she also mentioned that the little girl was one pretty thing and was a 'girl' true to the bone. That she usually wore the pinks and purples meant for little girls; had straight hair she usually wore in two ponytails; had a sweet voice one just wanted to hear over and over again. I'm sure mama didn't mean to point out my own un-girl-iness, but I felt the contrast hard.

Really hard.

Why was I jealous? Maybe because it was MY mother making a dress for ANOTHER little 'girl'. Because it's ME who's going to a different country in a week's time. Because it's ME who wants MY own mother's FULL attention. Maybe this. Maybe that.

 

I know it's hardly the response to expect from a university student. I mean, نانو makes the girls in her area dresses all the time as gifts, and I haven't once felt like this.

But, this time…?

I'm ashamed. But… but…*another bout of uncontrollable jealousy*

Fruit Symbiosis?

I hate household work. I dislike cooking.

But this Ramadan, preparing the fruit salad [ فروٹ چاٹ  : ‘fruit cha-at’ in Urdu speak ] for Iftar has fallen to me.

Quiet grumbling, mild protestations on being assigned this task on a daily basis for a month…not a day or two, not a week, but a whole MONTH…it was outrageous! I'd rather be sitting and doing most ANYthing else than washing fruit, carefully drawing up the imaginary lines of fruit-latitude-and-longitude, then choosing the right knives for each step of the cutting process!

Preparing فروٹ چاٹ is just NOT what I do! And yet I landed up with the job. I'm trying to be a slightly <emphasis> 'good' girl these vacations around, trying my best to act as mama's telling me, with some variation of my own of course! [I can't tell you how difficult it is for me to follow anybody's instructions :/], so I zipped up my mouth trying to shut all the words of protest just bursting to be heard.

So on the first day of Ramadan, I took up the challenge; got the fruit, washed, dried, got cutting. The pile I'd made was off-putting from the outset but once the knife was in my hand, I told myself: no turning back now!

First came the pineapple [thankfully that was already peeled and sliced!] under my torture, followed by 3pears, 2apples and 2bananas. Mama intentionally kept popping into the kitchen to see if I needed help; and did I ask for it? Of course not! I was just being adamant in not letting on the fact that I was dreading the inspection that would come later, the verdict mama would give if she'd passed the  فروٹ چاٹ   or not; that I was clueless if the way I'd sliced up the pineapple, chopped the pear + apple, quartered the bananas was right or not. And of course I just couldn't let my ineptitude show…no way!

But I kept going; chopping; slicing; squeezing lemon and pouring the juice to keep the fruit from blackening. The rhythm of my own motion eventually made me forget about the previously insistent hunger pangs. It took me 45minutes to get the bowl filled. After making layer upon layer of fruit, I got the spatula, shut my eyes, placed my left hand on the bowl's edge and started mixing.

All through the process I would just dump the cut fruit into the bowl without looking at it, so I saw the end result only after everything was done. I'd been expecting it to look nothing short of a mess and had full plans to drop the knife, wash my hands, and disappear from the kitchen till Iftar immediately after completing the preparation.

But I didn't. Because, because, because…the  فروٹ چا  looked amazing! It's just vanity, I'm sure, but I stood for a full minute just looking at what I'd made. The poking red faces of the unpeeled apple, mixed in with the tropical feel of pineapple dotted about with the pleasant scented pear was just *awestruck!*.

I felt strangely proud of my work. I picked up the bowl with caution and placed it ever so carefully on the mat to ensure the beauties didn't fall out. And was I glad when it passed the look-test! The fruits somehow felt my own, like I could identify with them in a certain way. I munched and savoured the crunch like I'd never before, all the while thinking, 'Look! It's me who made this!'

It's been 18days now that I've been making the فروٹ چاٹ  every day. I now look out for fruit promotions in supermarket catalogues and keep the fruit supply for the next day in check. I mix-and-match the fruit combinations according to which ones are in greater quantity; rotate the pineapples everyday to maintain their freshness, check the bananas for softness to make sure they haven't become too mushy and place them on a soft sheet so they don't blacken.

All this from someone who doesn't like cooking. Not to say I've changed my outlook on cooking, or that I'm going to start with other dishes now...not at all! 

But the fruit salad? It's mine now. We're in symbiosis - for the rest of the month, at least.