Working The Room

From the moment she entered, all I could think was: Baby, you know how to work a room. Well-dressed, maybe not by the norms of the current fashion, she was sported a closely cropped hairstyle, capri pants and a peplum style mint green top. All eyes were on her and that was the way she loved it.

She was loud, brash even, yet somehow still nonchalant. Her captivating attitude drew everyone towards her. She had a way of interacting with everyone in the room, making each feel special, individually. I’m almost envious of this gravitational force she seems to have around her. When she, tossing back her head carelessly, would laugh unreserved, those around her couldn’t help but smile too.

One moment, during the evening, she was sipping from a glass of water. Something must have irked her, for with a swift movement of her hand and a shriek, she knocked the glass off the table. We stared, shocked, and she, suddenly conscious of the attention, broke out into a nervous laugh. Order was restored. Everybody merely laughed it off. I honestly don’t think my social skills could match hers. Her smile was reserved for few, but her good humour impressed all.

When her uncle took a picture of her with his phone from across the room, she turned to see where the flash came from. Confused at first, her face soon brightened. She rushed over, chuckling, snatching the phone from his hand, to see the picture. After a mere glance at it, she traced an indecipherable pattern on the touch screen and put it to her ear. Whatever it was she heard she didn’t like, because she removed it from her ear and proceeded…

…to put it in her mouth.

I still couldn’t take my eyes off her; stream of drool dribbling down her face glistened. I thought: Damn, it must be amazing to be one year old. Everybody thinks you’re adorable. The main occupation of your time is playing, eating, sleeping and soiling your nappy. No worries about the future. Not yet, anyway. The good life.

Her mother carried her out, she wailing at the top of her lungs, as she had absent-mindedly smacked herself in the face with the phone. I was still in awe.


At Face Value.


I take things too seriously, even when I shouldn’t. Initially, at least. It’s a flaw, I know. I look for depth in everything, though it may not necessarily be there. Frustratingly this most likely classes me as a “touchy” person, among my acquaintances.

It’s not the receiving part, but my reciprocation that concerns me. “Dil pe na lou” or ” Don’t take it to heart” are phrases I hear all too often. Though I may be able to control my words, my composure (or lack, thereof) and facial expression tend to betray me.

To borrow a few words;

“It is a terrible thing to be so open; it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world. “

And honestly, that’s what it feels like. It adds an element of vulnerability to one’s character. A brief bout of irrational anger can lead to a lifetime of regret. A pang of embarrassment could mean defeat in front of a tormenting foe. Momentary pain is given away as weakness. I lack a poker face.

It has one silver lining too, I suppose. I am forever compelled to tell the truth, which I find to be a great release. I can’t help that I feel, or maybe that I feel too much, but I’ve no hesitation in expressing it. I doubt this is something that’ll change.

One Of Those Days.


I’m having one of those days. But the thing is, I’ve been having these days for a while now.

Life is a constant ebb and flow, I know. But this ebb seems to be lasting longer than usual. Or the ebb and flow are alternating more irregular than usual. I’m not even sure myself. (This metaphor sucks.) Whatever negativity there is seems to be building up and not finding an adequate release. Multiple possible causes present themselves; study-related stress, not eating properly, lethargy caused by the weather etc.

I’m not an irrational person, but today I snapped. I felt properly angry for the first time in a long while. Throwing-stuff-at-walls-and-yelling-swearwords kind of angry. And then I felt like crying. Sobbing-till-I’ve-emptied-out-my-insides kind of crying. I did those things.

I’m tired of these days.

Where everyday life begins to tire and disinterest you.
Where you can’t hold a conversation for long, because you just don’t feel like it.
Where if you do perchance have a conversation you end up annoying the other person, or more likely, yourself annoyed.
Where the slightest things irk you.
Whete nothing feels worth looking forward to.
Where instead of just ignoring the things you don’t like, you find yourself gritting your teeth and clenching your fists.
Where the prospect of not knowing the future is a bit more daunting than usual. Where snatches of good mood in the day become scarcer.

Where your heart feels heavy for no apparent reason.
Where anything that goes wrong feels like your fault.
Where old regrets seem to rush in and manifest you.

Where you just want to lie down and stare at the fan endlessly, not thinking about anything. In silence.

I know I sound insufferably whiny, and extremely ungrateful for what I do have. A mind like this is a breeding ground for further depression.


This is my attempt at encapsulating all those negative feelings; put them out in front of me so I can leave them behind. And hope for a better tomorrow. I know what I could/should/would do to make it better. I’m working on it.

I’m just having one of those days. I’ll be fine.

Excess Baggage.

Life…….. is a journey.

Bear with me here. I know this is one of the most clichéd statements ever.  

We are always changing, if only slightly at a time. Forever in transit, we go from who we once were, to who we will soon be, to how we might be after. Each of these places is distinctly different, presenting new scenery, a different climate or culture. As experienced travellers from an early age, we come prepared.  The experiences collected are our ever-growing baggage. Our emotions and precious memories are the stuff that the side pockets are overflowing with and we keep the people and things dearest to us in our hand luggage, within reach. Everything is meticulously packed, and, as I believe, the luggage completes the traveler. Whether they are scruffy globetrotters with huge rucksacks, minimalist businesspeople with thin briefcases, hassled mothers with nappy-laden baby bags, each will carry space for more additions, for their journey isn’t over yet.

True, we may tend to keep our regrets and grief too, along with all other negativities we’ve acquired on our travels, buried deep at the bottom of the suitcase. It usually results in having to jump on the lid to force the zip closed and almost always means that you have excess baggage. Some of these things; spur of the moment expenses that we now regret, petty sentiments that seemed to mean the world to us at one time; are those that we haven’t the courage to leave out. This excess baggage becomes a burden we are made to pay for and a weight which is a nuisance to lug around. I’m a compulsive hoarder myself, and the anxious tendency to over-pack is one I have little control over.

The companions that join us on our journey often determine how it’ll go. The fellow travellers we begin our journey with or the ones who remain with are the longest are the ones we can share our luggage with, and that we can ask to help with our burdens without hesitation.  Those who join us temporarily, maybe from a single destination to another, may make for good company. Then again, there are the more unpleasant folk, who may force their baggage upon you to avoid paying extra tax, or who shove their hand luggage uncomfortably in your feet.  Then there are the kind strangers, who might push the trolley along for a while, and give us a chance to walk freely, or the friendly hitch-hiker who never fails to put a smile on your face.

Some of the most valuable companions are those who help you unpack, convincing you to discard of those tacky souvenirs you never should’ve kept, because they too, throughout their journey have learnt how hard it is to let go sometimes.  For them, I am most grateful. It’s a relief to be rid of excess baggage.

My journey is far from over, the next destination unknown. Yours too, I guess.

Enjoy the ride.


What’s In A Name?

“That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.” 

-Romeo and Juliet

(That may be so, but what if the rose doesn’t smell like a rose?)


A long time ago, when I was but an amorphous mass of rapidly dividing cells, my placenta, that is, my telephone line, my internet connection, my cable, my pantry and my bathroom all combined, developed as a placenta praevia. It led to some inevitable, but nonetheless minor complications for my mother at the time of my birth and she had to stay in hospital for a few days longer than was normal.

My mother had liked the name “Hadia” for a long time, and so it was decided, upon it’s arrival, that this little bundle of joy should be called just that.

One of the days after, the maternity ward’s nurse stopped as she came by my mother’s bed. I imagine her to be a freckled, mousey haired woman, with named Margaret or Esther or something along those lines, no doubt. In (what I imagine to be) a southern Irish lilt, she enquired the meaning of my name. Upon hearing the answer, she cried “Are ya sure ye want t’name her that?! Ack sure, she couldn’t lead herself outta the birth canal!” which (I always imagine), was followed by a hearty chuckle. She then, most likely, continued to straighten my mother’s pillow in a business-like manner, before breezing out of the room still tittering at the thought.

Coming to more recent times, the amusement glinted in my mother’s eyes as she told me the story. My own laughter, however, was short-lived as I realised that indeed, the shoe didn’t seem to fit. I’ve heard it being said that the meaning of a person’s name often describes a part of, if not all of, their personality. This presented quite a predicament for me.

The saying may be true that “all who wander are not lost”, but, while being well experienced in wandering, I most definitely wouldn’t consider myself fit to lead anyone anywhere. The “Hadia” or guide in me must be well hidden, as the thought of having such responsibility gives me jitters.

One chilly December afternoon, while roving the streets of Lahore in the back-seat of a rickshaw packed with four friends, a heated discussion caused by a minor confusion occurred. Being the most frequent visitor, I found myself in the position to provide directions to our destination. My throat became dry no sooner than the idea was proposed. The rickshaw driver’s eyes flitted back and forth, from the still red traffic light to me through the rear-view mirror, and back to traffic light. I glanced at the red light too, a ticking time bomb, a warning signal. Left or right? Right? Or was it left? All previous knowledge I had of the area departed me and I was at a loss for words. The light changed colour before I could decide, and while I managed to choke out a feeble “Left!” in the last millisecond, I could tell my companions’ faith in me was at doubt. Let’s just say that particular journey resulted in four fed up ladies (as well as a rather embarrassed “Hadia”) arriving at their desired destination considerably later than they hoped. So much for guiding anyone to righteousness.

Few must possess the same qualities as I, of being both a wanderer and hopelessly lost! Throughout my early years, even, I had a high propensity to wander off when we were in crowded places. Whether it was my own thoughts that led me astray, or the attraction of the surroundings, I certainly don’t remember; but I do recall that it was terrifying every single time. One particularly horrendous instance was on a family holiday to Disneyland. My parents had turned around to gawk at some attraction, while I, caught up in the steady flow of holiday makers was swept away. I didn’t realise how far I had gone, and certainly didn’t know where I was, which led to nothing but the unavoidable waterworks. What a pitiable sight it must have been, this little pony-tailed girl, tears falling thick and fast down her face, Minnie Mouse clutched in one hand, wiping her snot away with the other. I was spotted by a French student, who thankfully could string together a sentence of English and swiftly returned me into the arms of my panicking mother.

I often have such doubts about my “Hadia-ness”.  I have never been able to be bossy and usually am the first to compromise. However.I have younger siblings, for example, who I never fail to boss around and tell off. I provide constant reminder for them to toe the line. And strange though it seems, they do look up to me as an example.  I have learnt that when I am assertive or I find myself to be insistent about something, it’s rarely irrational and I know my heart is in the right place. I usually end up being the neutral party or the confidante in a spat and my thoughts are well heard and acted upon by peers.  These few arguments that still give me hope. Maybe there is something of a leader in me, in that case. Not a president, but a vice president, maybe? A Neville, perhaps, if not a Harry, trumping up heroically when least expected?

Maybe I am Hadia, after all, and not just in name.


Flipping page after page,
For days upon days,
Sub-stages sandwiched in tests;
We keep our poor heads,
Off pillows of bed,
To battle with each of these pests.

This lecture, that figure,
The load just gets bigger,
We’re stuck in a nauseous trance;
Our heads beginning spinning,
Surely, sleep is winning,
For the words have started to dance.

The day will soon come,
When our wits are all numb,
Pages rifled and pens clicked on cue;
Exchanging glances with friends,
Till the time finally ends,
On the tips of out tongue , “How’d you do?”.

On that fateful board,
Be it bloodstained or scored,
With marks high or horrendously low;
A clap or a cheer,
A sniff and a tear,
Then it’s off to the canteen we go!

I’ll admit, this poem is rather like some of the things I wrote while in school. I was, however, thinking I may send it into the college magazine.

Introduction, Perhaps?

I have kept quiet too long now.

Like many, I write. From a young age, I began writing, dreaming, as many do, to one day be published and renowned.

It was always my means of expression, until a couple of years ago, when other things took priority in my life. Only then did I really realise that, what writing means to me has since changed and ultimately, deepened.

I fail at adequate verbal expression for my thoughts and feelings. Ergo-

 “That’s where writing comes in. It is as necessary for the survival of my haughty sanity as bread is to my flesh.

-Sylvia Path

My journals, pages upon pages of thought have long since been misplaced or discarded. And I was silenced. Everything was kept inside.

I have decided to open up now. Please, be gentle.