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 go yet.

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 still is. But the reason I choose to supply you with this little tidbit of small-town trivia, is to relate the story of my cousin’s husband, D’Oyen.

Carol and D’Oyen moved to our little town straight from Toronto. D’Oyen was born in Jamaica, but since he was a young boy, his main experience of Canada had been the big city. I think that he was a little taken aback at the substantial shift in the pace of life in our town, which would be something akin to shifting from fourth into reverse. It would often take D’Oyen hours to run an errand, because he was baffled by the number of people who would actually stop to talk to him along the way. Anyway, it was after one of these afternoon-long errands that D’Oyen wheeled into our driveway, ran up the stairs, poured a glass of water and gulped it down. I happened to be in the kitchen and said, “So D’Oyen, a little thirsty?” (I was sarcastic even as a teenager). “No, not really,” he said between gulps. I was slightly confused. He finished the glass, held it up approvingly, and said, “Wow, that is good.” I was still confused, “D’Oyen, you’ve been living here for a year. You’ve never tried the water?” He looked a little sheepish, “Well, yeah, but I just noticed that sign on the highway for the first time today, so I had to come in and check,” Which just goes to show you that you don’t know what you’ve got until somebody tells you… or writes it in block letters on a billboard.

Consequently, you really don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. And I’ll tell you, one thing I miss everyday in Karachi is that sparkling, clear St. George water. Even living as I do, in one of the most expensive areas of the city, water comes through the lines Monday and Friday at 4:00, for one hour. At which point, you have to run outside and plug in the pump to try and fill the tank buried under your lawn. Now, to be fair, it is now coming into the hotter months and water is harder to come by, but even in the winter, the water gushes forth only once a day – no matter how many times I strike it with my staff.

The timing of the water flow is a complete mystery to me. I leave it up to my man Paul, who always tries to explain, “Today – no water, tomorrow –half hour of salty water, next day – one hour of dirty water, next day – one hour of ‘Sweet’ water.” Of the three water categories, dirty, salty and sweet, the last one, surprisingly enough, is definitely the one you’re aiming for. Now, how Paul figures all this out, I have no idea. There seems to be some secret network of servants in the neighbourhood that figures out when and what quality of water will be coming. I usually just shake my head and say, “Ok, whatever.” Now, since one hour of water doesn’t do much to fill a 5000 gallon tank, especially if you have a housemate who tends to take 3 to 5 showers a day, your tank will go dry at some point. In my experience, this usually happens on holidays, weekends and during transport strikes. Then you have to call up a tanker service, who will tell you that a truck will be there within the hour. An average of six hours later, a tanker truck will arrive and pump, hopefully, sweet water into your tank. Add to this that all of the tanker trucks are part of a mafia that control the prices and supply of the water, and you’ll start to get an idea of the irritation involved.

I feel a little ashamed of complaining about this, since my troubles are obviously insubstantial compared to the countless thousands that survive with next to no water at all. However, believe it or not, all of this rambling has all been leading up to one single story. You can really tell I haven’t been blogging in a while, since my writing is running on like a trip to the toilet after some spicy street food. All this blah, blah, blah about the drip, drip, drip has been to say that my housemate and I decided to sign up for drinking water delivery. We had tried boiling and filtering the “sweet” water, but it just wasn’t cutting it. And since you never know what micro-bugs are swimming around in there, we decided we would play it safe and call Ava or Culligan’s.

However, we left this to a friend to set up for us, who, for whatever reason, decided to save us 20 Ruppees a bottle and instead of ordering a recognised brand of drinking water, signed us up for “Winsip Drink.” No-Name, President’s Choice water. Winsip (which sounds like a windows application I downloaded recently) seemed extremely pleased to have our business. In fact, we soon received the following letter:

Dear Sir,

It is indeed heartening for us to find your great name among our valuable clientele. While we express our thanks for giving us an opportunity to serve you, we congratulate you for selecting a quality drinking water of course water is a catalyst for making body active and hence the choice of water is of high essence.

We have developed and offered WINSIP with all humbleness to be of service to human kind which been engulfed a whirl of complexities of tough life-style, requires special attention on health issues.

Commercial aspects apart, our focus is the satisfaction of WINSIP users and the effect of WINSIP drinking water on their health. Not at all contended with the efforts put in developing WINSIP, we are quiet eager to gain from your valuable suggestion and views to further improve quality and services to what ever extent possible and feasible. We will feel privilege to get enlightened with your valuable comments that would definitely push us making further improvement in our product.

Signed by CEO.

Now, as soon as we received this letter, I was a became a big fan of WINSIP. Grammatical and syntactical errors aside (and I assure you, I copied it word for word) my favourite part is the last paragraph. I love how they say, “Commercial aspects apart, our focus is your satisfaction and health.” It’s great to see a company with a little honesty. Other than our profits, we care about you the most. Fantastic. And I’m also glad to see that they tacked on that “feasible” just to make sure that they won’t be held to any outlandish suggestions.

Unfortunately for me, I won’t be receiving anymore WINSIP letters, because soon after we started drinking it, my housemate and I both admitted to a feeling of lethargy and apathy. Since this is often a common state of mind for me, I didn’t think much of it, but my housemate was convinced it was the water. I wonder if we would have come to that conclusion if it hadn’t been 20 Rupees cheaper. The mind plays amazing tricks. In any case, we have now switched to the Ava service and things are flowing nicely now. Most importantly, it is pleasantly palatable when mixed with contraband Scotch.

One thing’s for sure, as soon as I get home this summer, I’m going to walk in the door and poor myself a nice tall glass… right from the tap.

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, let me know and I can supply a bank account number for the family.

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 upstairs, plug in a phone line (which I’m doing now) and connect through a scratch card (even at 19.2 kps) I can post just fine. Is the upstream to worldcall that restricted that I can’t even get a blog post through? And is there anything I can do about this?

Someone enlighten me.

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 push one’s luck.

So I stuck around the house until I had assessed the situation, and then mid-afternoon, I braved the streets in order to finish shooting the final scenes of my television show. Believe me, at that point, getting that low-budget monkey off my back was the only thing on my mind. We started this silly show back in October so the prospect of finally finishing was like the light at the end of the tunnel. Even as shooting went long in the afternoon, even as we raced the sun to finish another scene before dark, the single thought, “Almost done” was like a beacon of sanity in the chaos of frustration.

That night, we were shooting at my house, on the roof, the final scenes of the final episode: a barbecue get-together for my character before he heads back to Canada. Things were slow, as usual, as we waited for the crew to set up the rooftop for the ersatz barbecue. Finally, at 11:30, we went upstairs. Someone had decided to shift the setup of the scenes from the front side of the roof, where I had suggested, to the other side of the roof, but at that point I just didn’t care where we shot it, as long as we got it done.

We shot the first scene and stopped to take a break for food. The cast sat around on the carpets, gorging ourselves since, by that time, we were all pretty tired and hungry. Still there was a jovial mood as we persistently reminded ourselves that we were almost done. My friend Adnan remarked how since the bombing that morning, there was a heaviness in the air. We all agreed, and I explained how Paul and I had discussed that very same thing earlier in the day. Soon though, we were all laughing and making jabs at each other. I even cursed at Faris in Urdu to get the crew laughing. All the while, the camera rolled, filming a montage of us eating in case we needed it for the episode.

In the midst of the laughter, I happened to be looking toward Khurram, the cameraman (which is technically a no-no), as he moved back to take in the whole scene. I saw him stumble and try to regain his balance, camera on his shoulder, eye to the lens. A sudden spasm of premonition clamped like a steel band around my chest and I couldn’t breathe or shout. Time stood virtually still as he started to fall backwards… as arms reached out for him and shouts from the crew failed to stop his momentum… as his normally harmless stumble became anything but… as he landed squarely on the single, small skylight… as the glass gave way, his body folded in on itself, and he disappeared.

A strangled cry came from Adnan, as I sat there paralyzed. One of the girls screamed and set Time off again at an outlandish pace. For a moment more, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the shattered place he had just been. My mind refused to acknowledge what had happened. It was too ridiculous. It couldn’t happen. The skylight was too small, no one could possibly fall through it. But in that instant, I also knew something that no one else did. I knew that the purpose of that skylight was to bring natural light to the stairwell, and that it did not just open onto the floor below, but all the way down to the cold marble of the ground floor, two and a half stories below.

Suddenly I sprang into motion. Others had rushed to the hole and were looking down, I headed straight for the stairwell. As I rushed by I heard one of the girls scream as she saw what I had already seen in my mind. I flew down the stairs, grabbing the banisters and propelling myself forward. I heard the strangled cries of others as they realized the extent of this fall.

The rest is a blur of activity, as my mind refused to keep up with what was happening. I remember moving him to Adnan’s car. I remember Faris and me shouting to the crew to be careful, trying to calm their panic as they jolted his body to and fro. I remember stopping, making them decide on the closest hospital before they left. I remember the agonized screams of one of his friends on the crew, holding his head and shouting, “Khurram? Khurram Bhai?”

I ran back upstairs, waking my housemate to get his car keys and leaving him dumbfounded with the words, “He fell! I need the car!” Paul was almost in tears. I heard him saying, “I told them… I told them the glass was cracked… I told them it was dangerous.” I grabbed the director and we raced off to the hospital.

The rest of the night I felt like I was seeing myself through a fog. I was a man asleep. I drove back to the house to make sure the girls were okay. I was grateful that Paul had cleaned up the glass and mopped the floor. I made sure that the girls all had rides and were safely on their way. Then I took Paul and the one remaining crew member up to the roof, where we methodically packed up all the equipment, as if in a dream under the dazzle of the TV lights, and moved it downstairs. Then I took them both back to the hospital.

We waited at the hospital, inside and outside, pacing, talking, analyzing. Paul moved beside me like a shadow, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder as we sat on the front steps. Eventually, I found a small garden by the parking lot, put my hands together and prayed.

And that, my friends, is the reason that the blog has been silent. I am shaken. I have been in a daze as I walk through my house. The house where I had suggested we shoot, because it has a nice roof. I can’t look up at the skylight. I try not to look at the spot that I forced myself to mop twice over with high-powered cleansers because I swore I could still smell blood. I have been far from the mood of ironic witticism necessary to write something for this site.

As of now, Khurram is still in the hospital. His life is no longer in danger, but his status is unknown; he has not yet regained consciousness. There is minor hemorrhaging and swelling of the brain, but not enough to operate. It is a time of infuriating anticipation. All that can be done, is wait.

Please pray.

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 A/C again. This time however, they stopped dancing, but they didn’t take off. They had me figured. Vaguely, I wondered why I somehow attract the most intelligent pigeons in town. I cranked open my window and shouted, “Get outta here!” The pigeons were startled, but unfortunately, so was the servant in the adjacent yard. I waved reassuringly, realised I was naked, and quickly decided to return to bed.

Everyday, at exactly 7:15, the pigeons would return. It got to the point where my alarm would go off at 7:00 and I’d tell myself I could afford to stay in bed a bit longer, or at least until the pigeons came. By this point, no amount of banging and thrashing on my end of the air-conditioner would come close to scaring them off. By craning my neck, I could see that a ledge ran about 8 inches above my A/C, creating the perfect little cranny for the damned doves. And given my experience at Subaru Kazoo’s place, the last thing I wanted was for them to settle down and make a nest. I just couldn’t afford the heartache.

Finally, one weekend morning, I had had enough. My eyes were set in solid determination and my mind sorted through a melee of competing solutions. I marched downstairs and enlisted the help of my intrepid servant Paul. Together we swept the neighbourhood in search of scrap wood and other various odds and ends from the many houses under construction. Paul wasn’t too happy about this, I think mainly because he didn’t like people seeing his boss out rooting through the trash looking for treasures. Living with two Canadians, poor Paul must just roll his eyes some days.

Having found enough material, we collected some tools and returned to my room. We removed the iron bars from my window frame, and then alternatively holding each other’s feet we leaned out over the abyss, inspecting the problem. Like grand-masters at a teenage Tetris tournament during the great game-boy craze of 1991, we shifted blocks of wood, rotated cardboard boxes, and spun pieces of Styrofoam into place. A small crowd of servants began to gather in the neighbouring yards that share our back wall. Most likely, they were attracted by Paul’s continual shouting, “Boss, are you ok!” followed by my embarrassed assurances that I was fine, at least physically. After some trial and error, I fitted the last piece of the pigeon puzzle into place and wiggled back inside. Now I just had to wait.

The next morning, I watched as a Pigeon came swooping in and abruptly pulled up short in front of the perplexing mess of plywood and polyfoam, hovering in mid-air like giant, ungainly hummingbird. Finally, he flew across to the opposite roof, and continued to stare right at me. I stared back, my fingers twitching over a non-existent six-shooter. Ha! I thought, I have won. The superior intellect has once again conquered the annoyances of the birds and beasts.

That is, until this past weekend, when I heard a clatter, and walked to the window just in time to see a pigeon work a piece of wood out of my conglomerate to send it plummeting to the ground below. With what I swear was a smug look back at me, the bird crawled sedately right inside the jumble of wood. They had found the key-stone! The last piece of the puzzle, the all-important chunk of wood that blocked all entrance. I thought about how there was no way I was taking my window apart again, about how I had now created the absolute perfect nest for the birds, and about whether those damn birds had it figured out all along.

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. The other men were alternately trying to hold him back and cheer him on; it was difficult to tell which was which actually. By this time, I had inadvertently slowed my pace and was directly opposite them.

Suddenly, with his fist pulled back for another go, the aggressor turned and stared directly at me. Oh shit. His fist hung in the air, and I really didn’t know what to expect. But then his fist unclenched, and still holding the other man, he snapped a quick salute and yelled to me, “Hullooo Boss!” with a big grin. I was a little taken aback. I stammered out a quick “’Salaam Alaikuum,” and hearing the white man give them “The Peace of God” set the whole group to grinning and giggling. A few of them returned the peace, “Walaiku Asalaam,” and I felt a strange pride that somehow my distinct cultural difference and the strange socio-economic interplay that was happening here had calmed their argument.

That pride was somewhat diminished however, when the man gave me another smiling wave and then promptly returned to beating the snot out of his friend.

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,” I said, “but not quite.”
“Australia?”
“No.”
“Austria?”
“No.”
“Afghanistan?”
At this point, I figured these guys were messing with me. “No, no, no.”
And then, seemingly at random, the answer finally came, “Canada?”
“YES! Canada, you win!”
“What do I win?”
“My gratitude.”
“Oh”
Immediately another hand shot up. “On the TV show, you’re from Canada too.”
I shook my head, “Then why didn’t you guess then?”
“Cause TV’s not real.”
He had me there. “No, no it isn’t… Does anyone have any questions about Canada?”
One hand went up immediately. “Yes?”
“In Canada, when an ambulance drives by, do people pull over?”
“Yes, you have to, that’s the law.”
“Oh good.”
I looked around. No further questions. Apparently, their curiosity for Canadian trivia was limited to Emergency Vehicle procedures.
And that was it.

It was going to be a long class.

“Um, anybody need any help with your English homework?”

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 had done that I had not. I would try to point out that I had only been in the country for a few months, and that I didn’t have a funded film crew following me around, but that too was apparently my own fault.

Over the past year or so since George’s program aired, the idea that I should have my own show occurs to just about everyone at some point (usually an inebriated point). There were a good three months there, when at some point during a party, someone would shout out, “David Ka Pakistan!” because apparently, even if I did have my own TV show, apparently I would be required to give it the exact same name as George’s. Some people were adamant. “You fit in great here! You’d make a great show, go pitch it to Geo.” As if that would make any sense, if you already have a show with a big white guy bumbling around, I seriously doubt you need two.

As the months passed, I started to find it amusing that George and I had never actually met, even though we have many common acquaintances, and everyone presumes we must be best buds. So I decided, for no particular reason but my own penchant for hyperbole, that George would be my nemesis. If anyone even mentioned George, I would raise my fist and utter his name with the vehemence of Seinfeld’s “Newman.” I played up the humour of my being upset that he had arrived here first and trumped me. I thought it was pretty clear that I was only kidding around, but one acquaintance took me aside and told me not to worry, because although George had the masses, I had the elite, and the elite control the masses. Believe me, I had no idea what to think of that. I even did a radio interview a while back, in which I was billed as “The second-most popular white man in Pakistan.” To which I would raise my fist (always effective on radio) and mutter “Damn that George.”

In any case, I decided that if I ever did create my own show, I would make sure that there was one segment where Dave and George met. It would be straight out of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A face off in the middle of a dusty street, eyes squinting, dirt swirling, flies buzzing as garbage blows past our feet… (luckily, there’d be no shortage of locations). Tension would build, there’d be the sound of a heart beating steadily faster in the background… And then, you know, we’d just shake hands or something, and he’d say, “Nice Country eh?” and I’d say, ‘Jolly good.”

So all of this is just a long rambling introduction to the fact that after a year and a half, and many near-misses, I finally met George. I was at a wedding and severely hungry (which is commonplace), so when food was finally served at midnight, I abandoned my friends and hit the buffet. Now, if you’re white, sitting by yourself in any social situation in Pakistan will draw foreigners to you like iron-filings to an electro-magnet. It is a situation I generally try to avoid, since often the white guys you meet abroad tend to put the “cock” in Caucasian, if you know what I mean, and sometimes I feel like the kid in the Sixth-Sense (I see White People!). But on this particular night, I was pleased to see George and his friend Andy heading my way.

I have to admit to being a little nervous. Especially since I had built up this meeting over the past year with absolutely no justification, and now none of my friends were here to see it. Everyone knows George, but now that I had been on the scene for so long, and appear regularly in print, on stage, and in sub-par television productions… had he heard of me? We shook hands and introduced ourselves. “Ahh, the famous George,” I said, with the help of the several rum and cokes dancing in my belly, “we finally meet.” He smiled pleasantly, and said, “Indeed, and you are the famous Daniel!”

There was one of those awkward silences, as I strove for something witty to say about a lion’s den. Finally Andy came to the rescue, saying, “Umm, I think it’s Dave… right?” Yes, I assured him, it was Dave, and obviously not very famous at all. George seemed appalled at his mistake, and I really wanted to make him forget it, but I couldn’t think how. We all chatted for a bit, but small talk faltered and struggled. Finally, George said, “Look, I feel terrible about getting your name wrong.” I attempted to assuage him, telling him not to be silly, think nothing of it, etc. But he seemed much more shy than I expected, and continued to shift awkwardly and blush. Finally, he mumbled something about grabbing some more food and made his escape.

Finally, my meeting with George… and I had blown it. If only I’d had time to prepare! I thought to myself. Once again, as with most things in life, expectations had battled with reality and suffered a shattering defeat. So instead, I had a very interesting chat about teaching English in Pakistan with his pal Andy, which made me feel better about the situation as a whole.

So hopefully, as long as this article doesn’t appear in the paper (editors take note) and scare him off, I can try to patch things up on our next meeting. Inshallah, I will reconcile with Pakistan’s favourite white man, and establish myself securely as number two.

Serve Your Guests Whizz!

Dip and Drink!

I don’t even want to speculate on that last part.