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You know, just when I was starting to think that I was getting a handle on this teaching thing… just when I thought that maybe, just maybe, these apathetic adolescents were starting to listen… just when I started to hope that maybe I was getting through to them…….
Last night, I was marking some homework, and in the space allotted for the teacher’s name, one student had written, “Sir David Fork.”
Now, I found it strange enough to begin with, that by taking on this teaching job, I had suddenly been knighted (although sometimes I feel I’ll have deserved it in the end). It’s disconcerting to be referred to as “Sir David,” and makes me feel that I should somehow be out battling mythical beasts and competing in upcoming jousting tournaments. But now, to discover that one of my students has, after two full months, thought my family was named after an eating utensil, really gets my tines in a twist, if you will.
Sir David Fork, knight of the round dinner table, proponent of culinary Etiquette, arch enemy of the uncouth, hand-eating, Earl of Sandwich. Oh what manner of adventures [...]
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. [...]
A recent conversation en route to what eventually became a night of drunken dumb charades:
Journey: Hey you know those massage guys with the oil that stand on the side of the road?
Me: Yeah
Journey: I just found out recently that they’ll do anything… anything… if you ask them.
Me: I just took that for granted. Why, are you interested?
Journey: Ha, no, but I look at them differently now, I think, you know, who would want that from one of those slimey guys?
RJ: Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean, they’ll do anything?
Journey: You know… anything… male or female.
RJ: Sexually?!
Journey: Of course, what did you think I meant?
RJ: Oh, I thought you meant like, “Go get me a sandwich.”
Journey: Oh… well, probably [...]
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,” [...]
A while back, someone asked me what I do in Karachi, which as you all know, is always a difficult question. So, I began to spell out the teaching, and the NGO, and the television work, but when I got to “Stand-Up comedy,” he stopped me and said, “Hey, yeah! You look like a stand-up comedian.”
I was a little confused, so I said, “You mean… I look like a particular comedian?” He shook his head, “No-no, you just have a stand-up comedian look about you.” I thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, thanks… I guess.”
It wasn’t until much later that I realised that really, this was all just a fancy way of calling [...]
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 [...]
Last week, the gardener came upstairs and woke me from a nap. First of all, yes, I have a gardener, and secondly, no, he doesn’t usually wake me from my naps (unless I’m snoring, in which case he nudges me gently to roll over). I came groggily to the door, and he said, “Oh! Sahib sleeping?” Such an observant gardener we have. “Yes, yes, Sahib sleeping,” I replied somewhat testily. He gave his judgment, “Sahib sleeps too much, I think.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes, “Gardener talks too much,” I said. He laughed. I tend to have strange relationships with servants, as I’ve explained before. Generally though, as my command of the language increases slightly, I’ve become more comfortable with them. They seem to like me, which I think is derived from my unique tendency to treat them like human beings rather than the dirt under my feet that happens to unquestioningly clean up after me. My more skeptical friends tell me that I’m setting myself to be taken advantage of, but oh well, I like trusting people, it makes me feel nice.
Anyway, the gardener was now saying something about how I had to go with him because he was done in the house. I couldn’t really figure out what he was doing in the house anyway, since surprisingly enough, the gardens are all outside. “Done in the house?” I asked to clarify. Big nods, “Yes, yes, done in the [...]
Yes, that’s right. Dave is on TV. The boob is on the tube. The first episode of my show aired last week on national television. Now, I have to admit that before I left, when people asked me what the hell I was planning to do in Pakistan, I certainly did not foresee acting in shoddy television productions. Wasn’t exactly on the radar, as they say. Still, I’m never adverse to the ways the winds blow me (or anyone else for that matter), so I’m just going with the flow.
But you know, it is a rush seeing yourself on television, no matter what it is. And honestly, the show wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty terrible, but happily, it was not the complete catastrophic destruction of all things good and natural in this world that I thought it might be. I also happen to have the inside scoop that the episodes do get better… marginally. I took over writing around the fifth episode, so I guess I have to get behind the show at some point there. In the meantime, I was pretty confident that not many people would have caught the episode. But sure enough, within days, I had aunties and co-workers stopping and saying, “I saw you on TV!” Usually, I responded with a simple, “I’m sorry.” But even though I’m living proof that you only have to be [...]
Well, sadly, and surprisingly, there was no white Christmas in Karachi for me this year. I waited up until midnight, gazing wistfully from the balcony, hoping for that light dusting of snow that makes Christmas so much sweeter. But alas, it was not to be. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt outside at midnight should have tipped me off, but as I mentioned, I was full of wist, and, as it happens, a bottle or two of wine. In fact, at that point in time, I would have been well and truly satisfied with a light dusting of ashes on the Karachi streets. I was half-tempted to go to the vacant lot next door and light a pile of garbage on fire, but the prospect of catching the flakes on my tongue seemed less than appetizing, and even in my inebriated state, I knew it would lose a little in translation. But then, with a flash of insight, I walked down to the kitchen, smashed up some ice and tossed it around like confetti, singing, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” in my best Bing Crosby voice (which is surprisingly similar to my own voice). It was nice for a few moments, but sadly, my “Christmas in the kitchen” idea was short lived, as I almost immediately slipped on the now saturated floor and hit my head on the counter. That more or less destroyed the effect, but at least I [...]
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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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