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Well folks, I’m extremely happy to report that Khurram is on the road to recovery. I decided to wait for a while before posting, because I wanted a report on his recuperation from a reliable source. And since my lingual abilities are still lacking, it was tough to get close to the source. However, today I found out that he is definitely on the mend. He is at home with his family, and is now able to go out in a wheelchair. He is speaking and responsive, and slowly regaining function and mobility. Of course, Khurram still has a long way to go, with many broken bones and other injuries that will take a lot of time to heal. Still, he has certainly come a long way from the last time I saw him. Considering the fall he took, I think we can safely rate this fairly high in the amazing recovery book. Let’s hope he makes it back to his feet soon.
Thanks to everyone for their support, prayers and donations. Please keep him and his family in your thoughts, as they still have a long way to [...]
You know, one thing we all take for granted in Canada is the ole, life-sustaining double-Hydrogen-single-Oxygen cocktail. Our massive, snowbound country has 60% of the world’s fresh water, although our determined efforts are certainly straining the definition of “fresh” these days. I can almost guarantee that anyone who pours a glass of water straight from the tap, and gulps it down on a hot, sunny day (yes, we have those in Canada) never thinks twice about it. Nor do we really consider the wealth of fresh water circling the drain while we brush our teeth or scrape our whiskers off. And have you ever plugged the tub and seen just how much water you use during a long relaxing shower? (I tend to do this quite often given my affinity for long, lustrous locks, and my adversity to cleaning out the drain). Yes, I think it’s safe to say that all of us take water for granted.
In fact, in my beautiful little town in New Brunswick (which I like to say, puts the “ain’t” in “quaint”) the signboard on the highway for years stated: “Welcome to St. George, Home of the Best Drinking Water in Canada.” Now, after decades, that sign has since been changed, partially, I think, for the sake of new tourism priorities, but also because I think the claim was fairly dubious to begin with. Regardless, since there is no such thing as “irregardless,” the water was very tasty. In fact, to my knowledge, it [...]
First of all, thanks to all of you who sent messages of support and prayer over the last few weeks. It’s been trying, but as usual, time marches on and I suppose it’s time to pick things up again.
In a way, I suppose I was hoping that I could come back to the blog with a triumphant message of good news about Khurram Bhai’s condition. Unfortunately, not much has changed. Physically, he has continued to stabilize, but he remains in a coma and in this case, no news is definitely not good news. Miracles have been known to happen, but with every passing day, my hope dwindles.
Once again, I find myself battling with the fact that anything I have earnestly prayed for has never come to pass. I guess I’m supposed to tell myself that it is therefore God’s will. But the cynic within me wonders what the point of praying is in the first place if such pessimistic predertimination rules the day. If it’s all part of God’s plan, then I’m glad it’s beyond my understanding, because, frankly, I don’t want to know.
Sorry about the theological ruminations, I go through more phases than the Karachi Electric Supply Company. I have recently contributed some money to Khurram’s family, and hope to give more soon, as they are in dire need of funds. To make matters worse, I understand that his wife is expecting. Joy cloaked in sorrow. If anyone feels moved to contribute, [...]
Another hindrance to my blogging last week was my inability to access my own blog. I thought it was my own connection, but then friends started reporting the same problem. I later went on to discover that Blogspot.com had been blocked by Pakistani ISPs. Word on the street is that the Supreme Court decided that any site publishing the blasphemous cartoons (you know, the Danish ones? You may have heard of them) should be blocked. As various bloggers in the blogspot world had published them on their sites, someone had the bright idea to block the whole of blogspot.com. Brilliant.
It took me some research to figure this all out, and then, lo and behold, the next day there is a story on the BBC which would have saved me a lot of trouble.
Now, if all this is true, then can one of you techies out there please tell me why I can access blogspot sites at night? Last night I came downstairs because I couldn’t sleep and I opened a number of blogspots… this morning… nothing.
Also, while I’m at it. Why is it that with a WorldCall supposedly broadband connection I can only rarely post to the blog? The connection times out over and over and then, as added fun and games, it sometimes says it times out but actually publishes the post, thus resulting in nine posts in a row, which you guys love to make fun of me for. If I walk [...]
And so, the day started with a bang. Thursday morning, some fanatical maniac slammed his carload of explosives into a U.S. diplomat’s vehicle, setting off a chain of explosions as the natural gas cylinders in surrounding cars exploded as well. Thus, he effectively elevated the route in front of the American Consulate back to its position as one of the most dangerous roadways in the world. I have commented in the past on the ineffective security surrounding the place, and once again I am confounded as to why the Americans have refused to shift their premises to a location that isn’t directly in the middle of thousands of commuter’s routes to work, and sitting squarely between two five star hotels. It is currently a huge, red bull’s-eye of American arrogance that places local citizens in danger.
Even so, it was not the explosions that woke me that morning, even though the glassware shook throughout the house. I had been editing the TV show until four that morning, and was effectively passed-out. It was my intrepid servant Paul who knocked on my door, poked in his head, and said, “Boss, you stay inside the house. It is a bad day.” More than anyone else, Paul has been extremely worried in recent weeks that I will be mistakenly identified as a Danish caricaturist. The situation isn’t anywhere near as bad as you have heard on the news, but I am inclined to agree with Paul that there is no need to [...]
A few months back, soon after shifting into my latest domicile, I installed a window A/C in the wall opposite my bed. Which, I suppose, makes it less a window A/C than it is a wall A/C, but for the sake of clarity, my intention was to indicate that it is the type of air-conditioner that you fit into a window, even though it is in a wall… because yeah, now it’s perfectly clear. Anyway, this boxy, old unit serves a dual purpose: it gloriously cools my room, and conveniently enough, adequately plugs that air-conditioner sized hole in my wall.
Unfortunately, complete enjoyment of my coolerator was not destined to last. One lazy Saturday morning I was suddenly startled awake at exactly 7:15. From atop my air-conditioner there arose such a clatter; I sprang from my bead to see what was the matter. I ran to the window, and what should I see? But two strutting pigeons staring right back at me. Quickly I banged on the air-conditioner and they took off in a flurry of beating wings. Yeah, so there, take that! I went back to bed.
Half an hour later they were back. A low guttural growl escaped from my throat. Just ignore them, I thought to myself. But then they started one of their pigeon dances, clicking and clacking and cooing with all the fervour of an avian hoe-down. “Damnit!” I ejaculated (verbally) and jumped up to bang on the [...]
Yesterday, I was doing the rickshaw walk home from school. By this, I mean that it isn’t that far, but it was 12:30 and stinkin’ hot, and thus, my forward momentum was hampered by my constant, backward neck-craning any time I heard the rattling, staccato snarl of a motor-rickshaw. Now, this is slightly dangerous, in that my chances of walking directly into an open man-hole rise dramatically, but after a morning of wrestling with apathetic adolescents and William Golding, I’m usually willing to toss down the 20 Rupees (dunno 40 cents?) for a quick, albeit bumpy, ride home.
Unfortunately for the state of my dress clothes, no available ricks were apparent, so I started down my shortcut behind a park to avoid the traffic and crowds in front of my local Mazaar. As I turned a corner, and worked on breathing through my mouth as I passed an open garbage dump, I saw a group of men arguing noisily on the other side of the road. One guy, with a little toddler of a girl straddling the gas tank of his motorcycle, suddenly drew back and punched another fellow right in the face.
Whoa, I thought, that was unexpected. My stride faltered a bit, as part of me felt like I should say something, and the other part of me insisted, “Head-down, keep walking you damn fool, you don’t belong here.” The man jumped off his bike, grabbed his victim by the Kurta and gave him three quick jabs to the jaw. [...]
Know what I love about kids? They’re so funny. You just never know what outrageous statement is coming next. Kind of like Fox News, except, you know, truthful.
At school the other day, I was asked to stand in for a teacher who was absent. It was a Grade 5 Urdu class, so I knew I wouldn’t have much to contribute to their education that day. After I affirmed, that yes, I’m in a TV show, and that yes, my name is David, but my name on the show is Mike, and that yes, I was wearing a red shirt in one episode, and yes, I do like the colour red, but it is not my favourite, I decided I might as well go with the ole standby: The time-trusted Q&A session about Canada.
“Does anyone know where I’m from?” I asked. They all nodded yes. “Where then?” I prodded.
“Spain!”
I was a little taken aback. “Uh, no, not Spain.”
“France!”
I surreptitiously checked my underarm odour, “Nope, but I do speak French.” I hinted.
“The UK,” shouted out one little guy.
“That’s not even a country.”
“Africa.”
“That’s a whole continent! There’s over fifty countries in Africa.”
“Egypt.”
“No, no,” I tried to clarify, “I’m not from Africa.”
“But Africa’s a continent.”
“Right, so I’m not from any country in Africa.”
“Egypt?” asked the same student again.
I sighed, “No, not Egypt… That’s in Africa, you can rule out that entire continent. But I am from a really big country.”
“Russia!”
“No, not quite that big.”
“America.”
Finally we were getting somewhere, “That’s close,” [...]
Almost from the time I first planted my dusty, Canadian boots on the still dustier soil of the subcontinent, I have been confronted by the cultural phenomenon that is “George.” A tall (the guy has got to be 6’5″ if he’s an inch… which he is) sandy-haired, Briton he definitely wins all awards for standing out in a crowd even more than I do. Now, the way I’ve heard the story told, is that George came to the Islamic Republic with the BBC, fell in love (both with the country, and a wonderful girl) and decided to stay. In this way, he embodies nearly all of my mother’s worst nightmares.
With his television experience and connections, George put together a program detailing his attempts to become Pakistani, entitled “George Ka Pakistan,” which began airing a few months after my arrival. It was very popular, and although I only caught a few episodes, it seemed like a quality production.
Now, I guess because we’re both paler than most, people started comparing me to George at every step. Some people actually mistook me for him, which is about as plausible as my being mistaken for Bob Marley. My friend’s mother just wouldn’t let it go. While the show was airing, she would say: “Have you taken a train in Pakistan?” … “No, Auntie, I haven’t”… “Have you ever wrestled a Lahori?”… “No Auntie, I haven’t”… “Oh-ho, George has!” She seemed to get great amusement from pointing out everything that George [...]
An old faded advert, on the side of a building…
Serve Your Guests Whizz!
Dip and Drink!
I don’t even want to speculate on that [...]
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We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
-T.S. Eliot
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