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.