I was not a very existential crisis type of person before. I was trundling along fairly uncomplicated and mostly quite empowered with my own decisions in life. In my my head, I thought myself borderline rebellious and stubbornly independent but fairly flexible too, if it really came down to it. But lately I find myself questioning a lot more.

The night before the Jalsa I was supposed to meet two really good friends for dinner when I did a flipout and just couldn’t do it. I could not see myself sitting at Espresso, I could not see myself having another conversation about Pakistan and its current state and the haalaat and the politics without first actually doing something first. Perhaps going to the Jalsa was personally symbolic of some kind of paradigm shift in my head or perhaps I will discover hidden in me some kind of inclination to be politically alive for the first time in my life- call it what one may, it was just time to do rather than talk. I felt physically repelled at the thought of yet another drawing room conversation from the safety of our own bubbles ensuing and for once I needed to feel that I too, was a speck of the part of those who needed change to be felt in their life. After several conversations with myself inside the echoing walls of my own head, each mapping all the scenarios that were even slightly possible, I had the plan in place.

As we drove to the Jalsa the next day, K probably against his better judgement talked into coming with me, I smsed my sister saying that there is a slight chance this could go all terribly wrong so please take care of the kids- I would ideally want you first or if you cant then mom and lastly Kay.

Like I said, perhaps it was all only just symbolic and by being there, I just felt like part of something bigger. Perhaps I needed to feel that there IS still hope alive in something out there. Or maybe I just needed to get off the conversational bandwagon and go out there to be part of something that is at least flapping about in attempts to make a change. I don’t really know. What I do however know is that we live here, for better or for worse and to stay sane, because we won’t go to therapists, we do what we must to feel like we are part of the systrem and not just some elite appendage. I don’t know what you do but I teach and I talk about being proactive and positive and faithful to the country we call our own- I work with places I know are also in their own ways trying to make a difference, by teachings kids or raising awareness. I try to design with conscience and delight hoping to put some good karma out in the world. I try to be part of ventures, exhibtions, ideas and dialogues which I pray may be one tenth of an inch forward towards those elusive better days for here. I bitch about our leaders, I complain about our systems  and I get angry about the garbage dump on our side street , a right I feel I earned by voting last time in the elections. I try to be a part of the system by following rules and regulations so I can also be part of the people who can say they lived their best life here and are part of the change as and when it happens.

But sometimes all this isnt enough. Sometimes the dramatic physical manifestation of all this in one loud gesture is more soothing to the ravaged soul than all the tiny little good things that we do on a daily basis and that is why I needed to go to this Jalsa and shout and scream with  hundreds and thousands of other hopefuls, who perhaps weren’t sure of the IK manifesto they were supporting but sure as hell believed in their right to be there, out in the open, heralding the better times that air was loaded with the potential of.

Me: It means that you shouldn’t blow your horn loudly because there is a hospital nearby.

Nadi (after a bit): And what does that sign mean?

Me: That sign means that no trucks are allowed here.

Nadi: And that one?

Me: That you should not turn this side.

Nadi: So all these signs tells us what are bad things to do?

Me: Not bad but yes not right. Things that are not allowed.

Nadi: So why are there no “No lying” or “No pushing” signs put up all here there, everywhere?

As December rolls around, there is a festivity in the air. Despite the fact that work and school is in progress till atleast the third week, the holiday mode is infectious. The twinkling lights and Christmas decor in shop windows help- yes our Enid Blyton and Archie comics childhood does link holiday season with snow and Santa. What also intensifies the joyous anarchy in the air in terms of work timelines and bedtimes, is the avalanche of friends and family that starts arriving for their annual Karachi fix. Late night chat and chai sessions- a long dinner grabbed with a friend while catching up on the last two years of life, park plans with the many kids, coffee plans with the old comfies, discovering a new breakfast nook with the love- all have a sense of lazy fun and long days all playing to the music of winter in Karachi.

I am in a super illustratey mood these days. Loving the raw marker feel that has Nadi enraptured these days. The roughness of the stroke the loss of details are all qualities in these one-minute sketches that are in line with the current mood of simply letting things roll as they will, without a need to examine, think or control.  Want to make tiny little drawings of everything to capture the feeling in the air. Truly feeling the joy.

I had been wondering if they would ever find common ground to exist on when a few days ago, I saw them sitting in front of Lily’s kitchen set and playing. I gestured wildly to k to notice and together we strained my ears so as not to appear overly interested. What we heard, k swears has ruined his childhood forever, because it seemed, that the Transformers, Decepticons no less, were very busy with their new role- making tea and omelettes with Lily while on break from fighting.

Flashes of another birthday at the same house in Qatar, my baby sister sitting on our green sofa, being yogurt by my mom, She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain playing in the back on our tape deck and my dad filling several large balloons with sweets and confetti- our own home made pinatas. The cake was a clown face, my mothers famous chocolate cake (the one with the deep bakey smell) and I vaguely remember that when I was cutting it, there was some drama. I think a friend also wanted to cut it and I was indignant but my parents made me share it. I remember all too clearly not liking that friend for the rest of the evening and not understanding why we have to be the nicer ones on our own birthday. I also remember that my big chunky pencil – the one that was almost 2 feet long) was added to the gift bin by mistake, something I had trouble making peace with for number of days.

Another birthday I have vignettes of running in my head is the one with the sparkly Minnie mouse tee shirt and black jeans. It was a fancy dress- and in my head I was a rockstar, of course. It was a new outfit and my hair was very long, cut in the Parveen Babi frontal flop style, I was allowed to wear clear lip gloss and of course I felt every inch the glam 11 year old I was. Out of all the costimes, I remember I loved Sharon’s and Wasima’s the best, Sharon was a zombie and Wasima Little Red Riding Hood. My sister had her friend Mani over. My dad who always made the video, had asked his friend from Video Spot to send a guy with the camera and I was a in equal measure, impressed that I had a proper camera person at my birthday and upset that my dad broke the tradition. It was also the first birthday I actually recall my dad being late and a little on the sidelines. In all my early birthday memories, my dad is a big big part of the fun. With his guffaw and exuberance, he would draw out the shyest of my friends, encouraging them to dance with him in the big circle, after which everyone would be vying for a spot in the limelight with him. I recall feeling all swelly with pride at having such a fun father- one whose presence made your party a success.

A fourth grade party comes to mind when I didn’t want to invite this girl called Zoobia because she was new and I hadn’t made friends with her but because she was one of the 4 desi kids in class, and the rest were all invited, my mother made me invite her and her sister, who was in my sister’s class. I remember they came weary silvery tin-coloured shiny clothes and were very excited to be part of everything, despite not knowing anyone. From this birthday, I particularly remember my friend Laila and her lovely hairclips and how much I wanted a pair just like those.

I really must hunt for these pics.

As a result of what I shall refer optimistically to as my “passionate” (read: impatient) nature, I tend to be a somewhat volatile person under pressure. Which translates to the the fact that I have many triggers, all of which do not necessarily have a delay switch. Mix that up with a healthy dose of the inexplicable guilt that all mothers from our culture are hard-wired with and voila, you have a BMD.

Bad Mother Days are horrible. You feel taut and tense, pulled in all schizophrenic directions that we women call our own. You want the children to be happy shiny busy and quiet. Not happening. You want the inspiration to strike now, in all its glory so you aren’t left doing some quick usual version of your typical style. Sorry, not happening. And you want the food to cook itself, the house to be clean and you to be sparkly witty and sexy just in time for your guy’s arrival. Nope, nope and nope. So although we title bad mother day, it also turns into an average designer, snappy wife and general crappy person day in the blink of an eye.

Now of course, BMD’s don’t suddenly show up unannounced. In fact, they are quite well known for slowly simmering to the point because of environmental factors. The key is in being able to recognize that build up and somehow, with support, diffuse the factors surrounding it. The advantage of being a second time mom should be that you have learnt how to tell that a storm is brewing- that somewhere on the horizon, you can sense the pending arrival of one of those days; one of these days when you will either explode, spewing a vertiable psyche class of issues at your poor befuddled 3 year old or you will quietly and dangerously simply curl up into a ball, switch off all semblance of thought and shut down. Yes, we can sense it with our infamous sixth sense, and yet, caught in the blazing headlights of the moment, more often than not, we simply freeze, unable to stop the gales of wind from carrying us, tossing and turning into the BMD zone.

The good news is these forays into BMD-land get better and shorter with time.  You have to know who you are, what works for you and find the tightrope you are happiest tackling. And as you learn to distinguish between the priorities and the super-priorities, you are better able to sift and sort through the clamour, holding onto the things that you absolutely must do to nourish your soul and sustain that sense of self amidst the dulling mundanity of this role, and letting go of those things that do nothing for you, that simply hold you back from truly making the most of this also brilliantly amazing time.

Perhaps she is right. After all, I like my closure with a dollop of the dramatic. A screaming match. A teary goodbye. A confrontational meltdown. A bare it all email. I feel the more over-the-top honest and flamboyant the gesture is, the better the…well…finishing. I cannot go back to mustering the required emotion to resolve issues so I figure, do it once, do it right. And then, never go back. Business finished.

And I said defensively, “No of course not.”

So the lie grew bigger and bigger,

Until I could not see her

And she could not see me.