How Red Sneakers Changed My Life

How do you get to a point in your life where you don't feel anything anymore? The numbness is no longer intriguing; it's as much a part of you as your emotions used to be, and you can't remember a time before it. You wonder what it was like to FEEL. To feel a hot rush of overwhelming happiness, sweeping away all else. Or the crushing disappointment that made you feel your life was ending and the sky was falling, all at once. Now, however, the days shuffle by quietly, and you can barely recall the undulating waves of emotion that you once rode. If the doctors were to check your ECG, you feel sure it would be nothing but a flat line of emptiness. Nothing bothers you, nothing surprises you, nothing fazes you in the least. And you can't help but wonder if this is peace in the true sense of the word, or something more sinister. 

I walked a minute in your shoes They never would've fit I figured there's nothing to lose I need to get Some perspective on these words Before I write them down, You're an island and my ship has run aground I swam across, I jumped across for you Oh what a thing to do 'cos you were all yellow Your skin, oh yeah, your skin and bones turn into Something beautiful. Do you know, you know My wish for you is that this life becomes all that you want it to Your dreams stay big, your worries stay small You never need to carry more than you can hold And when you're out there getting where you're getting to I hope you know somebody loves you And wants the same things too Because I'm gonna lose you, yeah I'm gonna lose you. If I'm gonna lose you, I'll lose you now for good. There's always something in the way, There's always something getting through It's not me, it's you. It's all I kno

The further I wade into the engineering world, the more firmly I believe in God. The best part about completing a degree is when you're done with it, you have struggled your way through a number of courses, you have touched upon so many subjects...barely skimmed through them as it were. But you begin to see the way it all fits together in the end, how all these parts combine to form a whole, letting our computers and laptops and mobile phones communicate with each other seamlessly. You look around your room and count the number of man-made things in it...each one imagined into existence by a brilliant human mind, shaped and fashioned by human hands or dare I say it, a CONTROL SYSTEM. It all gels together; the electricity that fuels our world, the digital electronics that control our gadgets, the billions and billions of bits that our digital machines decode and follow as if by magic. What makes all this work? A set of mathematical rules and laws, some of them complex, some of them

If I look through my posts, sift through the garbled mess of my half-written stories, I find a pattern emerging. I can identify the aspects of life I care most about, and the things that captivate me the most on this lonely planet...the sun setting over a chaotic Karachi road, a blazing orange disc in the sky, the buildings lit up from beneath with its yellowish warmth basking in the afterglow of yet another sunset, the solidity of the apartment buildings that enclose our rooftop, cutting off the view of the skyline altogether so that all you can see are rows upon rows of bright windows, each one permitting you a narrow view into the room beyond, each one a story separate and distinct from the next, unaware of life on the other side of the wall, the loneliness of the human existence and the futility of the world's many machinations which leads me to God, as everything always does in the end. We come full circle to God, to God, to God. The Beginning and The End.  Why do all my pos

What does it mean to grow up?  I don't think we ever fully realize we're shedding little pieces of our childhood day by day, until the time comes when you're watching a scary movie or you get a random message from someone who you gave up on long ago and you suddenly realize you're able to sleep soundly through the night and aren't afraid of your own shadow for weeks afterward, that you are able to formulate a clear-headed response to a text message that might have evoked hormonal reactions had you received it a couple years earlier.  I am scared of it. I am scared of how easy it is for a human being to forget that they too, cried the first time they fell off a bike, that they once were just as inexperienced and warm and open to love as a child is. I am scared and ashamed of the disdainful look I bestow upon a child asking his mother silly questions on the bus, or the disgust with which I regard the kids running around in the park chasing sunlight.  That was

The hotel room is unsettlingly familiar, as if I've drawn a ghost memory out of the earlier faded pages of my life and breathed it into existence. A blue flowered quilt cover hugs the wide double bed, the assortment of throw pillows and cushions and the creamy folds of the sheet beckoning my tired body. And ah yes, customarily there's a picture hanging over the bed as every respectable hotel room is wont to feature. This one is a framed shot of a stretch of beach, the waves frozen as they rise up to meet the sand. A bedside lamp throws warm yellow light over the bed and the beach. It could almost be cozy, yet…yet, there's something nagging at the back of my memory. I walk over to the window and pull back the matching blue curtains. The Malaysian sky is stormy. A strange blue light seems to emanate from outside the window, and the glass is streaked with angry rain. I look at my reflection and quickly pull away as the faintest hint of recognition crosses my face. Have

In the beginning though, I was completely and utterly miserable. I don't remember exactly when the depression began to settle in, or much about the first few months I spent at NUST which is the university I joined before NED. But I do remember how I felt when my closest friends began to leave Karachi, flying off to Canada, America, the UK, Malaysia, Dubai, one person at a time heading off to a life of adventure and excitement that new lands and foreign universities held out as a shiny promise. To me, their futures were crackling with colour and sparks, the glint of gold, wide blue skies and impossibly beautiful sunsets, and there were fireworks exploding above it all, spelling out SUCCESS and HAPPINESS in neon blue and baby pink lights, their faces lit up with the afterglow. That's when the consequences of the choice I had made fully sunk in. Because I wasn't part of this exclusive group who had success woven in their fate before they'd even hit their 20s. No

What I learnt this summer, aside from frying an egg while keeping the yolk perfectly gooey, the taste of loneliness and how to do my own threading,was the hot and immediate comfort of holding you, pressing a baby cheek to my face, watching you absentmindedly curl your small, moist hand around my finger while you stared out at the cars driving by, thrilling to the way you learnt to trust me one glance, one step at a time, until you had faith enough in me to follow me anywhere, to trust me to pick you up and wipe away your tears when you were sick in your own clothes that one time. Everytime I brushed back your dark hair or watched you fall asleep - what does a baby dream? - I wanted to stop time, turn back the hour hand on the clock, knowing that each moment I spent with you was precious and irreplaceable. You see, I will never get any of them back. Because the next time I see you, even if it is only a couple of months from now, you will never be the same toddler that you are now. Yo

Electronics Department, NED-UET Karachi, Pakistan So I'm sitting here marveling at the end of the NED era, this sudden, abrupt conclusion to yet another phase of my quick, quick life. The truth is, the end had always seemed far enough away when I first started here, and even up till a couple of days ago, I was complacent, knowing that I had another class to attend, yet another test to take so much so that now that it really IS over, I can't begin to fathom what's just happened. I simply don't KNOW what to do with myself now. And I find myself returning again and again to those first few months in NED and the circumstances that swept me there, how the only thing I now know as true is that man is hasty and impatient, and it is in our nature to only appreciate something with the power of hindsight. When we are in the moment, very rarely do we think about it. We spend most of our lives either mooning over the past or feeling anxious about the future. But momen

There is so much to say. I have travelled halfway across the world and back, tramped my way over mountains and walked along an ocean and a sea. But no matter where I go, whether its in an Emirates airplane or in our Suzuki, it changes nothing on the inside. I take my frame of my mind, and my well-worn memories along with me. And so, I might as well have stepped into the next room instead. Everything I see, the dog peeking out at me from the window of the parked car, the seals being gently buffeted by the waves of the Pacific, the couple checking out clothes in Junaid Jamshed, I see with these tired eyes, with my memories and thoughts ranged in neat rows behind them, nodding at the way it all fits together, nodding at my fate to always be on the outside looking in. I come back home, and there is nothing to say. I look at the sky and how it changes colour as the seasons roll by. The white wispy clouds that gently smudge the man in the moon, carrying their load across the co

Today is May 11th. It's finally election day! And even though I'm finally old enough to exercise my right to vote, I probably won't have an ink-stained thumb later tonight. As much as I appreciate the ECP's efforts at ensuring that the majority of Pakistan's population was registered for the elections this time round, things haven't gone smoothly at all obviously. Turns out all of my family's polling stations are scattered across the city. I'm registered at some school in Malir, my grandparents are supposed to cast their vote in North Nazimabad, my mom is the only one fortunate enough to have her polling station in our area, and my dad isn't a registered voter at all. Keeping the security situation in view and the Taliban's hours-old announcement of planning nation-wide attacks on election offices tomorrow, it's probably better to stay locked indoors. But isn't that what we've been doing for the past decade or so? Where is our faith?

I have always loved Gone With the Wind. I fell in love with it the minute I started reading it, and I could feel deep in my bones that I would carry the story with me forever. It's been about three years since I first finished it and during that time, the afterglow of that exhilerating story did dim somewhat. Until I picked it up again. And now I'm absolutely obsessed. I think human beings love tragedy. Tragic endings leave a much greater impression on our foolish, sentimental hearts than a happy ending riding away into the sunset ever could.  But that's not the only reason I'm a diehard fan of GWTW. The story SPOKE to me on so many levels. I could relate to almost all of the characters. Annoyingly, I could relate most to Ashley Wilkes. And he's supposed to be the weakest character in the novel. It's not that I would've done what he did with Scarlett and Melanie. But everything he said, oh man, EVERYTHING he felt about the passing away of the old Sout

I wrote this months ago but I wasn't sure if I wanted to share it. I'd like to think this is the end of my There and Back Again story - if it can be called one...  I have imagined you coming back to me in so many ways.  Blue sky in Toronto and the sunlight scatters off your white doctor’s coat, as you throw your arms wide for an embrace. But I keep my distance as I’ve always had, and now more than ever with this wall of years between us. Well, you insist we drive somewhere, maybe Niagra Falls or the CN Tower, and catch up on the way. Yes, you drive now. And as the kilometers roll by, and the sun shifts its position, lighting up your face, your skin, throwing your features into relief, I begin to remember the way I used to feel. I remember you leaning over a school window, the memory of you frozen in laughter. I remember all our songs, and I have to shake my head to clear it, I have to redraw the line between the then and the now. Even though I catch you looking at

I've had a moody kind of day. Actually, no, I should make use of my newfound GRE vocab and say I've been CANTANKEROUS all day. Whatever. There's always an alarming amount of unfinished work and deadlines swarming around me, and seriously, all I ever manage to do is read Gone With The Wind. I'd like to think I'm not the only one and that procrastination and laziness are necessary characteristics of any college student but then I should learn from my ingenious classmates who seem to have time to revise lectures and finish assignments and study for tests and lab tests and complete their lab manuals on time and still have energy left over to attempt bonus mark questions. Impressive. And to top it all, I got such an exciting text message this evening. There's a distraught soul out there who wants to be my 'frnd', he says he knows who I am even though I don't know him. How comforting to know that there is someone out there who cares! I shall warm my poor,

THE BACK SEAT OF MY MOTHER'S CAR - Julia Copus When I inititally came across this poem, and read through the first half, I wasn't very impressed. It wasn't until I finished it when the full impact of what I had just read hit me. The poem is written in a form called specular, in which the second half of the poem mirrors the first. The second half is really just the first half of the poem read the other way around. I love the idea of it. I think it's an excellent way of portraying two different perspectives of the same situation. Julia Copus developed the technique herself. WOW. We left before I had time to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in, cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping the dusty August air. I pressed my

Saudi Village Yamama Painting - Saudi Village Yamama Fine Art Print -  Yvonne Ayoub With a wide, vague , almost sensual turn of his arm he describes a circle in the air - a circle which encompasses everything that belongs to this life: the poor, dusky room, the wind and its eternal roar, the relentless advance of the sands; longing for happiness, and resignation to what cannot be changed; the platter full of dates; the struggling orchards behind their shield of tamarisks; the fire on the hearth; a young woman's laughter somewhere in the courtyard beyond: and in all these things and in the gesture that has brought them out and together I seem to hear the song of a strong spirit which knows no barriers of circumstance and is at peace with itself. Excerpt from The Road to Mecca by Muhammad Asad

How else then should we worship God? Did He not create both, soul and body, together? And this being so, should man not pray with his body as well as with his soul? Listen, I will Tell you why we Muslims pray as we pray. We turn toward the Kaaba, God's holy temple in Mecca, knowing that the faces of all Muslims, wherever they may be, are turned to it in prayer, and that we are like one body, with Him as the centre of our thoughts. First we stand upright and recite from the Holy Quran, remembering that it is His Word, given to man that he may be upright and steadfast in life. Then we say, "God is the Greatest," reminding ourselves that no one deserves to be worshipped but Him; and bow down deep because we honour Him above all, and praise His power and glory. Thereafter we prostrate ourselves on our foreheads because we feel that we are but dust and nothingness before Him, and that He is our Creator and Sustainer on high. Then we lift our faces from the ground and rema