The sun must come

All photos originally uploaded by yaznotjaz; collage created last summer by Hashim_A, rockstar (and tea-lover. gross!) extraordinaire. Photos may be individually viewed in the Muir Beach photoset.

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Tomorrow is the sister's birthday, and in ten days it's mine - and I'm so horrible at this birthday business, mine or anyone else's. Last year, all I wanted for my birthday was sunshine. This is a predictable wish, and it worked out quite well in 2006. I already know how I'm going to spend the last day of my birthday month, this year. It's the first day that I've got to figure out.

Today, I spent the morning at the dealership, learning that a 30,000 mile service and new brake pads and rotors on my car would cost a whopping grand total of $810+tax. Tomorrow morning, I should make them give me a spiffy rental car to make up for it. Spiffy cars can make up for a lot of things. That's why people buy red sports cars when they go through mid-life crises. Me, I'm going to go through a quarter-life crisis. Perhaps, I might as well have an identity crisis, too, while I'm at it. It'll be like this morning, when the lovely gentleman who was driving me back home from the dealership asked, "So, where are you from?" And I raised an eyebrow and responded coolly, "Oh, the Bay Area, mainly. But I also grew up living in Sacramento and a few other places."

"Oh," he said, and I smiled at him. There was silence for another minute, until he ventured again, politely, "I meant, where are you from originally?" I mentally threw up my hands in defeat, and replied, "Pakistan."

"Oh, that's nice!" he said, delighted.
"Yes, it is."

After this morning's car-related dramas, I've spent the rest of the day at work, because, unlike the rest of America, I'm not off for President's Day. That sound you hear? That's the sound of Yasmine unsheathing her stabbing paraphernalia - because, as Hamza asks, "What fun is life without stabbing paraphernalia?" But, seriously, what is this drama about working on a national holiday? It's disgusting. Almost enough to make a kid contemplate unemployment. I should be sitting outside in the sunshine, looking at the fourteen plastic grocery bags filled with tangerines that we picked this weekend, eating breakfast in the courtyard - all the things my parents were doing this morning when I called home to ask the daddy-o about advice related to my car.

Instead, I've spent the day indoors, ostensibly project-planning, but also day-dreaming about sunshine and beaches and warm water and the day my hands will turn brown again, because, as the sister exclaimed over dinner last week, "You're so white!"

That's it. When spring is here for sure and the weather stays consistently warm, I'm heading down to Santa Cruz for some sunshine and sand.

How to balance work and play

Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

My new business cards came in at work today, and the first thing my friend A (he of the Halloween GMail chats) said was:

A: Think of all the guys you can now meet at ISNA* conferences.
A: "Salaams brother...here's my card...fax me your biodata." **

*ISNA = Islamic Society of North America's annual convention, held in Chicago. (Here are a few photos I took when I was there for the first time, in Sept. 2006.)
** Biodata: For those of you who aren't South Asian and in the know, check this and this.

Oh, and next time I go to ISNA, I'll let the world know in advance, so we can hang out. I promise I won't give you my business card.

You gotta let me make my choice alone before my food gets cold

Eliza's, at California & Divisadero in San Francisco, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

This is just to let you know I'm alive and well and constantly complaining to friends who apprehensively fear for my safety - not to mention my soul - about this winter weather business. (My favorite whine of the week: "Winter is stupid. What was God thinking?") Shut up, I know I live in California, but it's freakin' cold 'round here, take my word for it.

All I've been doing these last few weeks is eating, sleeping, lying on my couch watching Season One of Grey's Anatomy (I am so behind the times; they're actually on Season Three now, apparently), and making plans left and right to hang out with friends who support me in my predictably last-minute whims involving get-togethers and food sessions.

Speaking of food: A couple of days ago, having skipped breakfast (I can just see 2Scoops, my self-appointed Nutritionist Extraordinaire, shaking his head over there in sunny San Diego), I continually whined to B while at work about how hungry I was. Lunchtime came and went, and I hadn't even left my desk to go and eat. I think we've all realized by now that my eating habits while at work are disgraceful, to say the least, but even I've got to admit that there are days when I need what the rest of the world calls real food. Even the thought of the mint chocolate chip cookies and snickerdoodles, which I brought in the day before and which were now sitting abandoned in the workplace kitchen, just wasn't doing it for me.

Finally, at 3.45pm, I pushed my chair away from the desk, announced, "I'm going to go find some food!" and walked out to my car. While pulling away from the curb, I called the closeby Desi [South Asian] restaurant. "Hi, I'd like to order two samosas and a naan, to go."

I could swear I heard a muffled laugh from the guy at the other end of the line. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's it. About how long will it take for the food to be ready?"

"Less than fifteen minutes. What's the name?"

"Yasmine."

When I walked into the restaurant ten minutes later, a guy called out, "Are you Yasmine?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, we only had enough vegetables left for one samosa," he said apologetically,

"Oh." I stood stock-still, thinking, "One samosa and one naan? Geez, what the hell kind of real meal is THAT? The one day I even bother."

Out loud, I said, "One samosa is fine. I do get a naan, though, right?"

The guy smiled. "Yes, the naan is all ready."

I swear I go to this place just for the naan. I had barely settled back into my car before I tore into the bread, freshly-baked and piping-hot. Curiously, I opened the styrofoam container containing the other half of my order. Inside were two samosas. TWO.

I let out a confused, "What the hell?" before I realized that "one samosa" means one order, which actually means two samosas. Suitably enlightened, I closed the container and continued munching on the naan. I had already eaten more than half of it by the time I got back to the office, where B greeted me with, "It's past 4. I can't believe you're eating lunch now, when we're leaving at 5.30 anyway."

Good lookin' out, because by the time I met the lovely rehes for dinner at 7pm, I was still far too full to properly enjoy our Desi/Thai meal. Anyone who can give me good Thai food recommendations is a rockstar in my book (I am extremely wary about Thai food; what I've grown up eating as savory food - i.e. vegetables, etc. - should not taste sugary sweet, as far as I'm concerned). rehes and I need to hang out more regularly. I trust her recommendations.

By the way, did you know that Desi restaurants have spiffy-looking websites now? Man, we're coming on up in the world these days. Never mind the fact that any Desi restaurant describing its food as "seductive and enticing" makes me giggle.

Sometimes I get the feeling that I'm standing in the wrong line

Having ordered and paid for a caramel pecan cream pie at Baker's Square last week, I was idly checking out the tattoos on the young man named Brian who was boxing up and bagging my purchase. Suddenly, Brian glanced at me across the counter and asked, "Do you know what sundar means?"

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Sundar. Do you know what it means?"

"It sounds familiar, but I really have no idea. What language is that?"

"It's Hindi," he said.

"Oh, well - "

" - I was going to impress you with my Hindi," he added, smiling. "But I guess it's not working."

"I guess not," I said, smiling back. "I don't speak Hindi."

"But your English is great," he said magnanimously, handing me the bagged pie across the counter. "You don't even have an accent or anything."

"Well, I would hope not," I said, a little annoyed but still smiling politely. "I was born in California."

"Yeah, it's perfect."

"American born and bred, what can I say," I replied wryly, turning to leave. "Have a beautiful day."

Later, while cutting the pie in Somayya's kitchen, I asked, "Hey, what does sundar mean? The dude at Bakers Square was asking me, but I had no idea."

"I think it means 'beautiful.' He was totally hitting on you, Yazzo."

"You think everyone's hitting on me. You needa stop with that business."

"You're just oblivious all the damn time. And I think sundar really does mean 'beautiful.' "

"What a stupid boy, then," I said derisively. "Telling me how great my English skills are, is not the way to impress me."

Seriously, people, get with the program. Also, for the Hindi-speaking Blogistanis: what DOES sundar mean?

As an aside, a few of my friends have been teasing me lately about how my "gorgeously drama-free life" was shaken up recently for a day or so. Everyone who knows me knows how much I love my lack of drama, and those few whom I'd confided in took great pleasure in gleefully throwing my drama-free mantra back in my face. Over the phone the other morning, I was updating Somayya on the situation, and explaining why I wasn't going to take advantage of this opportunity, why I didn't think it was right for me, and all the off-the-top-of-my-head reasons why it just wouldn't work.

Somayya overrode my objections with an evisceratingly sharp retort: "Oh, shut up, Yazzo. Just shut UP."

"I'm just sayin'," I said lamely.

From the other end of the line came the impatiently blunt, cuttingly clear voice of the one person who knows me best: "All you're saying is a bunch of BULLSHIT."

See? I love this kid.

Can I get your hand to write on

Year-round shoes of choice, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to dinner with the very few friends from high school whom I like enough to engage in such activities with. Remind me to tell you stories about why I disliked high school, and why my fifth-year reunion last December was a ludicrous waste of time.

At the end of our dinner, as we stepped outside the restaurant and began saying our goodbyes before heading in our individual directions, the topic of shoes somehow came up in conversation. I, of course, had to add my two cents to this discussion, so I remarked that I can't stand to wear real shoes, even during winter.

N looked down at the requisite flip-flops on my feet, and said understandingly, "Yeah, but, see, it's part of your culture."

I wonder if my face betrayed the disgust I felt. A lifetime spent combating ignorance and explaining who I am and why I do the things I do, and yet it still came down to such inane observations from people I thought knew me. "My culture? You think I wear flip-flops because of my culture?"

"Well, yeah, don't you?"

I laughed, because the whole exchange was so ridiculous I couldn't even believe I was making this clarification: "Buddy, I wear flip-flops because my feet feel freakin' claustrophobic in real shoes, alright?"

"Oh."

I came home and shook my head a few more times over the absurdity. The next day, after a morning spent shaking off nagging feelings of deja vu, I remembered bits of a poem I had written last year, and the part that comes back to haunt me is this:

Someday,
You will stop laughing at me
For wearing flip-flops almost
Year-round
When you understand that
My ancestors wore sandals
Across all seasons
Because they couldn't afford real shoes to cover
Their brown feet
As they toiled in the fields.

And you will nod in understanding and slip off
Your name-brand
Logo'd sneakers
And we'll sit on a sunny plot of grass,
Barefoot together,
Squinting at the sky.

Well. Never let it be said that long-lost high school friends don't know me. But just to clarify, I really wear flip-flops only because of the claustrophobia reason mentioned above.

One thing to add: Much love and gratitude and sunshine to Fathima and Ruqayyah for their beautiful emails. I will reply, but, meanwhile, thank you both for taking the time to check in - and, of course, thank you to everyone else who's harassed me via the tagboard and comment box, too. I'm here, I'm alive, I've missed Blogistan. I told blurker N, who caught me on AIM the other afternoon, that you'd all stab me if you knew the number of half-written weblog entries that I've let sit on my computer instead of posting them as I should have been the last couple of months. So, stay tuned for stories about why I enjoy my job, about my first time at the recent ISNA convention in Chicago (and the rockstars I met!), and for musings on Lebanon and September 11th (I do nothing if not write on topics much too late, clearly).

Did I mention I missed you all? I really did, dammit, contrary to what you may think of my periodic, flaky-flake habit of abandoning you without explanation. The next round of cranberry juice is on me. Here's to sunshine in September, rockstars.

880 South toward San Jose

In light of my recent post on personalized license plates, these plates, which I saw on my way to work this morning, are the best ones ever:

RAADHEY.

Raa dhey.
Get it?
For those who don't, raa dhey, in various South Asian languages, translates to something like, Make way. And the driver - Desi, of course - was speeding along and switching lanes in such a haphazard, helter-skelter manner that one would think he was back in the motherland.

No day is ever wasted

Yurt at Zaytuna Institute, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

[You can check out some more Zaytuna photos from a few weeks ago here, if you are so inclined.]

I spent most of last Saturday with my sister, as we went on a manic event-hopping spree that consisted of the Birth of a Prophet program at UC Berkeley, the South Asian [INDUS] culture show also on campus, and finally the Burdah [Poem of the Cloak] recitation at Zaytuna Institute in Hayward.

[By the way, there's a Poem of the Cloak musical, did you know? With thanks to the lovely Sumeera for telling me about this so long ago. I came across the website just now.]

The evening before, our father asked pointedly, "Don't you think it's strange to go to a religious program and then a culture show right afterward?"
Well...no. Not at all. Not when he raised me to love and respect and take pride in both, so that I celebrate both on a daily basis. Celebrating as a group, with hundreds of other people who feel the same way? Even more rocking, is what.

I know my sister was disappointed that the mawlid program at Berkeley was not as lively and inspiring as last year's, and that later we didn't even get to enjoy the entire culture show because we had to head out to Zaytuna, where we only stayed for about half an hour. The day seriously had a hit-n-run sort of feel to it.

But I don't think Saturday was a total lost cause, though:

There was the young man rocking it up to the radio (or the music in his head?) while driving on Foothill Blvd. in Hayward. Or was that Shattuck Ave. in Berkeley? Wherever it was, he was clearly having fun, and we enjoyed watching the physical, arm-waving, head-bopping manifestation of his spazzed-out rockstar bliss.

There was the little boy named Daniel, about four years old, who lay spread-eagled on the floor where we were all seated after the mawlid program and repeatedly propped his feet against my back while I tried not to shake with laughter and scare him away.

There was the guy at the coffee shop who took my order and asked curiously, "Did you used to swim when you were young?"
"No, I can't even swim!" I sputtered in surprise at the random question.
He laughed, and began to turn away.
"Wait," I said, confused, "but what made you think of asking me that?"
"Oh, nothing, we were just talking about swimming."
"Yeah, well, I still need to get with that program."
He shook his head, smiling. "Don't worry about it too much, you're okay without knowing."

There was the fact that I sat through (part of) a South Asian culture show and actually enjoyed myself, although I think my alma mater held better ones. There was the fact that I'm somewhat over the desi-phobia that initially made me flinch from attending such events. (In fact, I texted Somayya at the beginning of Saturday's program with, I'm at the desi culture show at Cal. Remember our freshman year, when we left all early? - a mere fifteen minutes after it had started, to be precise, because we felt claustrophobic surrounded by so many South Asians and especially despised the men sitting behind us for so obviously talking smack about us in Punjabi as if we would not understand - Good times!)

There were all the beautiful people I love to see, both in Berkeley and at Zaytuna. And the gorgeous Burdah recitation. And spending most of the day with my sister.

There was the fact that I re-discovered my love for the video feature on my digital camera, and used it extensively that day. So I have videos/audios for some of the tabla and bhangra from the culture show, as well as some of the Zaytuna Burdah recitation, if anyone wants! [The videos are kinda not all that - since they're grainy, and apparently my 12x zoom is only for photographs and not for videos, and also because I can't sit still for lengthy periods of time so they're kinda shaky - and at Zaytuna I just aimed straight at the carpet instead of at the sea of faces surrounding me while I was recording, so there's nothing to see, really, but the audio part is fun in all cases, so let me know if you want me to share. Bhangra is rocking. You know you love it.]

By the way - To the person who recently searched my weblog for "Zaytuna": I hope you found what you were looking for. In curiosity, I performed the same search myself, and came across this post I had completely forgotten about. Thank you for the inadvertent reminder towards activism and accountability.

Driving home that night, we played our own copy of the Burdah, and midway through the ride I was stung by a sharp, split-second stab of grief. Tentatively reflecting on it, much as one touches or prods a sore area to discover where physical pain originates, I finally remembered it was because I continue to subconsciously associate the Burdah with this day, just as little red cars remind me of this day and bubble bottles of this one. Driving home late at night on empty roads? Deja vu sometimes when seeing my face in the dresser mirror as I'm pinning my headwrap? Check, and check. We find the deepest, most painful memories in the most mundane things.

Still, amidst random moments of grief, there are stories like this beautiful one.

As my favorite imam says, "Every Friday is Eid. Every day is our Eid."
Celebrate.
As Suheir Hammad writes, Affirm life.
Or, as I would say, Stand in the sunshine and dance, if you know how to. -Someday, I will learn, and join you, too.
Sing, even if you can't really carry a tune in a bucket; if you sound like an eight-year-old boy with a perpetually stuffy nose, then so be it. -I'll throw caution to the winds, and chime in; we can be eight-year-old boys together.

Maybe it's all about what the coffee shop guy was saying after all: We're okay even without knowing. Might as well quit worrying and just live it up anyway.

Hope for recovery

Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Islamic Relief has recently been sponsoring a series of six dinners around the United States, in order to raise funds for continuing support for the victims of last October's earthquake in South Asia:

The earthquake which devastated the South Asian subcontinent in October has affected millions. Islamic Relief is working hard on the ground and around the world in order to ensure that the 3,000,000 people left homeless are not forgotten. Please join us to help us in our efforts to provide sustained rebuilding and rehabilitation projects to a devastated population. [Rebuilding Lives, Restoring Hope]

If you were following this weblog towards the end of 2005, you know the earthquake is something I felt quite emotional about.

So when my sister forwarded the email about last Saturday's fundraising dinner in the South Bay and I sent it to my father with a note asking, "Daddy khana, would you be interested in going to this event?", I was gratified to receive an instant email back: "Absolutely! Let's go."

At the dinner, I was impressed by the rundown of Islamic Relief's work, their speeches and powerpoint presentations and video footage and the 4-star rating accorded them by Charity Navigator (the largest charity evaluator in the U.S.), and their overall professionalism - but mainly I was impressed by their passion for what they do. The speakers I heard that evening - not only the Islamic Relief people, but also local community leaders and activists - have dedicated their lives to helping people and making the world a more beautiful, safer, respectful place, through various efforts. The least the rest of us can do is support such causes from the safe distance of the secure homes and comfortable lifestyles we inhabit.

In all the speeches about the earthquake, and about giving and making sacrifices in solidarity and in compassion, the part that struck me the most forcefully was when one of the brothers up there said, "We all set aside money sometimes, here and there, thinking we'll use it later in the year, for something or other. I know you've saved your money for something important."

He paused, then added quietly, pointedly, "Maybe this is important."

Someone later mentioned, "Alhamdulillah [all praise is for God], the winter in South Asia was not as harsh as we had thought it might be: there was only three feet of snow, as opposed to the six feet we had been expecting," and I sat there remembering that, in the two days prior to the dinner as I hung out with the ALL STAR CRACKSTAR SQUAD (killer phrase trademarked/copyrighted/all that drama by 2Scoops, and, don't worry, you'll hear more about the hanging out sessions later), all I had done every time we ventured outdoors was scrunch up my face like a disgruntled five-year-old and whine, "Why is it raining, dammit?"

I was stunned. Three feet of snow? I'm so sick of winter, I can't even handle three drops of rain. Clearly, some necessary perspective is in order.

If you're in Chicago, Tampa Bay, FL, or Dallas, the event's still on. Take a couple of hours out of your evening, and go.

Re. the dinner I was at last weekend

- Why are most of the Karachi people I've come across so damn snooty? Someone please explain. And I know it's not just me having an inferiority complex, because I am Pathan and thus superior to everyone, that just goes without saying. What? You don't agree? Don't make me stab you. As they say in Rambo III, "May God deliver us from the venom of the Cobra, teeth of the tiger, and the vengeance of the Afghan" [with thanks to Z for the link and laughs]. Yeah, I'm quoting Rambo now. The quality of weblog posts is really improving.

- To the young couple with the toddler: He's an adorable boy and I want to pinch his cheeks and take him home with me. But when he's running wildly around the room with a cheeky grin, you taking him aside and feeding him sugar-dripping gulab jamun and a glass of coca-cola is really not the way to get him settled. That kid needs to be on junk food lockdown, dammit.

Yesterday I got lost in the circus

Four things:

ONE. I finally got a chance to watch Rang De Basanti yesterday afternoon, over at Naz Cinema in the South Bay. I thought it was rocking. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much during a movie. Because our huge group was practically the only audience, I got to laugh as much - and as loudly - as I wanted. And, damn, do I laugh loudly. Is that something I need to be working on?

On second thought, screw that. I'm 25 years old; I refuse to change my loud laugh now. People will just have to start getting used to it.

Also, re. Rang De Basanti: Aamir Khan is way too much fun as usual, Kunal Kapoor is hot and I am considering marrying him when I grow up, and I was actually impressed with Alice Patten's grasp of Hindi. If you're way behind the times with desi films, as I always am, you really need to go see this already. Let me know what you think.

TWO. My favorite crackhead is in the Bay! I foresee lots of ice cream in the near future. Except it won't be mango ice cream from Chinatown, don't worry. Also, we'll have to fit real food somewhere in there, too, since 2Scoops is my self-appointed Nutritionist Extraordinaire.

THREE. It's supposedly 66 degrees Fahrenheit inside the house right now. Lies, all lies. My fingernails are blue with cold. Freakin' hell, yaar.

FOUR. To continue with the disgruntlement, here's a damn stupid question you should never ask me: "What's your GPA [grade point average]?" What makes you think I would even consider answering that question, unless you were a prospective employer or a really, really (REALLY) close friend - of which you are neither, last time I checked. Yeah, really.

Well, I know there's a reason to change

Every day brings us closer to spring, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

As the year winds down to a close, here are a couple of things to keep in mind:

Smile on your brother: The tsunami victims who are still struggling to rebuild their lives, the people devastated by the South Asian earthquake, the strangers on the street. These are just a few examples of those whose stories have deeply touched me this year. You can find dozens more, if you take a minute to look around.

I'll put my "heartless bastard" reputation to rest for a moment and admit that this article about building orphanages in Indonesia, post-tsunami made me tear up:

What does $1 pay for in Aceh? someone asked.

"What does $1 buy here?" Alyan asked back.

"Candy!" the kids said in unison.

"In Takengon," Alyan said, "one dollar will pay for three meals for a child."

Her answer drew silence at first. Then one of the children said, "Let's send more."

[You can read more about the orphanage and Give Light at www.givelight.org. Someday I will share my tsunami poem here, if you think you can handle the scrolling involved.]

Please continue praying for the Attari family. And send some prayers for my uncle - my aunt's husband - who passed away recently as well.

May the year 2006 be one of beauty and blessings.

Tuesday, November 8th: Worldwide Vigils for Earthquake Victims

Today, Tuesday the 8th, is the one-month anniversary of the South Asian earthquake. Please join the global community in a worldwide vigil. It's too soon to start forgetting - it's practically winter, and people need our help now more than ever.

The purpose of the vigil is to:

- Donate money
- Press world leaders into action
- Bring this story to the front page
- Lead or take part in grassroots efforts

The sky knows no bounds

The sky knows no bounds
Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Today is Blog Quake Day.

It is also the day that the UN is holding an international donor conference in Geneva to dicuss relief operations and aid the victims of the earthquake before a "winter without pity" sets in.

Last week, after writing this post about the October 8th earthquake that hit areas of northern Pakistan, Kashmir, India, and Afghanistan, I felt so helpless and in dire need of mental relaxation that I did what I do best: I stopped by the local park on my way home from running errands.

Getting out of my car, I glanced in the direction of the playground and realized that there were an inordinate number of adults and children present. Some kid's birthday celebration. Not the best place for respite, after all, but my head and my heart hurt and I really, really needed the swings. I hesitated about whether to keep my sunglasses on (something I've never done outside the car), but then mentally shrugged. I hadn't wanted to see people; if I kept my sunglasses on, it'd be as if they weren't there. And if I kept 'em on, it'd be as if I blended into the background and perhaps no one would unduly wonder why this 24-year-old was venturing into the swing area. And, of course, if I cried, no one would notice. It'd be like sunglasses with superhero powers.

I slammed the car door shut, defiantly shoved the sunglasses further against my nose, and stalked across the playground, head held high, mouth tight, eyebrows furrowed, looking straight ahead. I couldn't tell if anyone watched or not. I dropped my bag onto the sand and clambered onto a vacant swing with only a cursory glance at the giggling little girl occupying the next one over. Only when my legs were swinging high was I able to breathe deeply for the first time all day.

But even with my superhero sunglasses on and my face sternly set in a squint against impending tears, I watched people, as always. A little boy, no more than four, sat astride a tiny, training wheel-equipped bicycle and peddled happily along the concrete paths winding throughout the park, followed by his mother in the distance. I turned to watch him with a slight smile as he continued peddling behind me. Just as I did so, he turned the bike handles abruptly, upsetting his balance. Both the bike and the boy tumbled down, crookedly coming to a rest half on the concrete pathway, half on the scratchy bark that lined the playground.

I sucked in a breath and slowed down my swing, but even as I dug my toes into the sand and his mother watched from yards away with only the merest, mildest hint of concern on her face, the little boy, lying face-down at a worrisome angle on the concrete, let out an unexpected, high-pitched peal of laughter. The pain around my heart eased up a bit. I felt an answering smile on my face, and, shaking my head, watched him wriggle around, jump up to his feet, and try to raise his fallen bicycle. It took him several minutes. I quickened my swing again and marveled at the fact that children are so resilient.

It is inconceivable to me that the same sky that spills sunshine in California will be soon sending snow onto the heads of those in the mountains of Pakistan and Kashmir, that the survivors have barely had a moment to mourn the loss of their loved ones, focusing instead on digging bodies out of the rubble and trying to make it through the night. Numbed by grief and cold, they wait for aid so that they can erect tents and make it through the winter.

Like Basit, I, too, have bought a pile of used books recently, with money that could have instead gone towards relief efforts. Actually, I've bought quite a number of things in the past few weeks: books, numerous bags of groceries, a pair of sandals, a shirt, some earrings. And every time the register rings up my purchases, I wince and think to myself, "Okay, for every dollar I've just spent here, I'll donate one towards earthquake relief." Because that's a lot of dollars. It's always hard to remember that once I get home, though. Or once I wake up the next sunny morning after tossing and turning in my comfortable bed and wondering what those without winterized tents are doing.

I've temporarily given up music this month in deference to Ramadan, listening to nothing but Quran recitations in my car these days. And for the last eighteen days, all I've been doing is compulsively playing the recitation of Surah al-Zilzalah, the chapter entitled The Earthquake, on repeat. I never thought I'd be able to recite those tongue-twisting lines myself, but I've got the first three down by now:

Idha zulzilatil ardu zilzalaha
Wa akhrajatil ardu athqalaha
Wa qalal insanu ma laha

When the earth is shaken to her (utmost) convulsion,
And the earth throws up her burdens (from within),
And man cries (distressed): 'What is the matter with her?'-

Think about how long these last eighteen days must have seemed for those affected by the earthquake.

DesiPundit has taken the initiative in organizing this Blog Quake movement to raise relief funds. As I mentioned previously, a small list of relief organizations is available in DesiPundit's post. You can also directly help relief efforts by buying hella slick tshirts through Chapati Mystery.

Here are a few ideas for donations:

one: The Association for the Development of Pakistan (ADP) has a Long Term Earthquake Relief Fund, which will "fund redevelopment once the immediate needs have been met."

two: The Edhi Foundation is "undeniably the most trusted NGO in Pakistan with a large operational network throughout the country." They accept credit card donations through this site. If you reside in the United States, you may also mail them checks at:

Earthquake Relief in Pakistan
Bilqis Edhi Relief Foundation
4207 National St
Corona, NY 11368-2444

They are a registered charity, Tax ID 11-345067, phone number (718) 639-5120.

three: Hidaya Foundation is an organization in the Bay Area that I know well and trust. Don't you want to help them help these children?

also: Baraka at Truth & Beauty has a creative list of ways in which you can help, and Sister Scorpion has posted everyday, practical ways in which we can cut back on our personal budgets and send the saved funds towards relief efforts. You can so do this.

The earthquake-related death toll has already hit 80,000, and will definitely reach still beyond that, as survivors in turn fall victim to the perils of cold weather, limited medical attention, and malnutrition. An entire generation of children has already been lost in many of the villages and towns rocked by the earthquake. Those people who've been lucky - or unfortunate - to survive are in dire need of blankets and winterized tents. In two weeks, it will begin snowing in the mountainous regions of Kashmir, and the nearly one million survivors who still have their lives to rebuild are lacking adequate shelter. A second wave of deaths has already begun.

The UN has said, in regards to this earthquake, that they have never before seen such a logistical nightmare. The photographs I've seen so far, and the articles I've perused, are breathtakingly shocking and heartbreaking. Please take a minute of your time to donate towards relief and reconstruction efforts. Help those who are struggling for relief and aid.


[Technorati tag: blog quake day]

'Cause if you're not trying to make something better/then as far as I can tell you are just in the way

Hey, kids, how goes it? I'm still around, just trying to find things to do with myself besides chase the sunshine around the house. Somedays, it's just so much easier to uploads photos to Flickr and deal with brusque titles/captions (or none at all) than it is to compose coherent pieces of writing for this joint. But I'm getting to it, don't worry.

Meanwhile, for your personal amusement, I've found an index of mp3s of old TV theme songs [via Kottke]. I haven't listened to them yet - I've just been scrolling through and giggling at the list - but Knight Rider and He-Man are on there, so what more can I say? Let me know how it goes.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I've got two important things I need you to pay attention to (and I know you will, because you are rockstars):

ONE.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005 is Blog Quake Day [via Baraka at Truth & Beauty]. DesiPundit explains:

We request each of you to make a small post about the earthquake, and direct your readers to a suitable avenue for donating to the relief efforts.

Every single dollar contributed, multiplied by the vast numbers of bloggers, will go a long way in helping these people rebuild their lives. Our experience of the last few weeks showed us that, no matter how small our blogs, and no matter how few our readers, the words we write and the way we use our blogs can have far-reaching consequences. We learnt not to underestimate our powers. Let’s now use our powers for good.

A small list of relief organizations is available in DesiPundit's post. You can also directly help relief efforts by buying hella slick tshirts through Chapati Mystery.

Please, please contribute, whether through weblog posts or direct donations or whatever you can do. It would be gorgeously rockstarish of you.

TWO.
A business associate of my father's sent me the following email a couple days ago:

Your father gave me your email address. I spoke with him earlier today about an idea that my women friends & I have been kicking around. We’ve been noticing and discussing how pervasive fear and hatred (especially of other ethnic groups) have become in our society again in the last few years, and how many of the politicians have fed this fear to promote their own agendas. We’d like to do something at least on a local level in our community to stem this tide & help people of all ethnicities to relate to each other as people. Our thought is to start with a group of women in Sacramento. We’d like to invite women from most of the major ethnic groups represented in this area to start a multi-ethnic women’s group. Would you be interested in helping us form such a group?

I know you graduated recently (congratulations, by the way!) and are not up here on a regular basis, but if you’re in the area for other things we can arrange a time to get together that fits your schedule.

I am humbled by the ladies' compassion and decision to engage in some form of active change, and am honored to have been asked to help in any way I can. I replied back with some thoughts, but I'm feeling a distinctive lack of ideas at the moment, mainly because I haven't really sat down and brainstormed yet. I've had plenty of experience with women of color discussion circles and intercultural dialogue and alliance in college, but it's been a few months and I'm worried I may have lost so much of what I learned through such experiences over the past few years.

So I need your help in brainstorming concrete thoughts and ideas regarding mission statement/goals/problem areas or issues that you feel a group such as this must focus on addressing. Anything and everything regarding intercommunity/intercultural relations and dialogue and safe spaces and women and diversity and all that fun stuff. I'm looking at all of you: Guys and girls, Muslims and non-Muslims, and whether or not you identify as "ethnic." Apparently my comment box is seriously on crack, so drop me an email whenever you have any ideas. Help a kid out. I promise I'll write back.

p.s. Once more, don't forget: Blog Quake Day! on the 26th!

EDIT: Looks like my comments work again. I think. Otherwise, try the email. Thanks much.

The foundations are canyoning.

"With every difficulty, there is relief"
Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Nightly, I dream of rain and hail and snow-covered mountains, when in reality my local mountains are gorgeously goldenbrown and I daily chase patches of sunshine all over the house so I can gleefully warm up my fuzzy-socked feet.

The past few days, I've been reading countless news articles about rescue workers tentatively forging into mountainous areas, into villages that have been cut off from any sort of relief for days following the earthquake, hoping to ease the suffering of those who have survived but being confronted only with devastating destruction and the sickly sweet stench of rotting corpses. I've read about villages that are eerily empty of children, about feeble elderly people who - in a cruel twist of fate - outlived the earthquake even as their children and grandchildren perished, about angry survivors who feel betrayed by the lack of aid in their areas. Survivors who've been sleeping outdoors for days, who can already see the snow on their mountains as winter begins to set in. I obsessively hit refresh on news websites throughout the day, checking for updates about the aftermath of the earthquake. I've watched dozens of sobering video clips. The photographs just get worse.

Every afternoon, my mother asks me, "Is there any news?" and I know instinctively what she is referring to, because, let's face it, most of the time we don't really care about the news unless it affects us directly, unless it is about people from our motherland, unless the reporters interview and the photographs depict people who look like us. Yesterday, I went to the grocery store, and, just before I walked in, I made a sudden beeline for the shopping carts by the newstands, even though I needed only a few items and a basket procured from inside would have been enough. What I really wanted to see was if there were any above-the-fold articles about the South Asian earthquake at the newstands. Of course there were, enough headlines to get me sufficiently teary-eyed before I continued indoors to finish shopping for groceries and supplies I've never had to beg for.

While Pakistan childishly bickers over whether or not India has really been crossing over the Line of Control in disputed Kashmir to provide relief and aid (God forbid that the two nations should even think of helping one another), there are still remote mountainous areas that are cut off from aid, forgotten villages whose remaining inhabitants have been left to fend for themselves, and survivors who "take their quota of relief rice to a wet rocky patch wondering where to cook it" because they have no fire or utensils at their disposal.

I am reminded of part of a piece I wrote in January, in response to the Asian tsunami:

.
.
.
Like you, I watched the aftermath of
That tsunami thing on television.
Like you, I watched the faces of the people
Left behind,
Dazed and broken,
Shell-shocked and shattered.
What do you do when your world
Literally falls down in ruins
Around you?

What you do is this:
You scrabble in the cold, hard ground
And lift out chunks of dirt
To dig graves with your hands
To bury your children.
You pray that the vast world beyond your boundaries
Will be watchful and compassionate enough
To ensure that you receive
Clean water and medicine.
And food, too, yes, food.
But you can't help but weep
In irony, in frustration,
When they send you endless bags of rice
And you have no clean water with which
To wash and boil the rice in.

And what you do is this:
You close the gaping eyes of your loved ones
And cover their faces with shrouds
And step back to watch as they
Fill the mass graves of victims of
That tsunami thing.
And you whisper fervent prayers over the bodies
Because you so desperately want to believe
That there was a reason for all this,
That God was not absent
From the world the day
The waters rose up in walls,
Only to leave behind the horror and stench of decaying bodies
And vestiges of colorful rags
And empty, flattened villages
In the wake of that tsunami thing.
.
.
.

It's all heartbreaking, but, really, the earthquake survivors don't need my tears. Lord knows they must have more than enough of their own. What they do need is food and shelter and medical supplies, and money to ensure that they get all those things. News sources talk about compassion fatigue and donor fatigue. I hope this is not true of all you people reading this, because we don't have jack to be fatigued about. So scroll down and check the links below. As Hemlock said, "For those of us who can turn to our beds and sleep in comfort, I want to know how we can look ourselves in the eye."

Again, RESOURCES & things to read:

Quake survivors answer BBC readers' questions

Hemlock has posted a list of supplies that the NGOs are specifically asking for.

Baji has the following post for October 12, 2005 [The donations through APPNA are indeed tax deductible]:

The Association of Pakistani Physicians of North America, APPNA, has set up an emergency disaster relief fund for the victims of the earthquake. You can call in your donation by credit card or send in your checks to their office. If you want to fax, you can use this donation form. APPNA is 501 C3 organizations. All donations may be tax deductible as permitted by law.

A P P N A
6414 S. Cass Avenue
Westmont, IL 60559
Phone: 630-968-8585 or 630-968-8606
Fax: 630-968-8677
Email: appna@appna.org

Danial, a reader of this weblog, emailed me with the following info [Thank you]:

"I just wanted to bring to your attention the need for tents in the earthquake hit areas. We are not able to purchase tents here in Lahore anymore and there is still a dire need for them. So please get people to ship tents over to Pakistan. Apparently, PIA is willing to ship donated goods over to Pakistan free of cost."

The document Danial attached explains that "3-5 million people have been left homeless and at least 200,000 tents are required, there ARE NO MORE TENTS IN PAKISTAN, ALL THAT WERE AVAILABLE HAVE BEEN SHIPPED TO NORTH. Please send as many tents (preferably waterproof, winterized) as you can. People abroad don't even know that Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) has decided to carry all donations from any of its stations wordwide for free."

I know you like the word "free." Find your nearest PIA station on the list of PIA's worldwide Stations by Countries, and here is the list of PIA's booking offices around the world, alphabetized by cities (see N for New York, C for Chicago, F for Frankfurt, D for Dusseldorf etc.). For more info, please contact Waqas Usman: waqasusman AT gmail DOT com, (Mobile) 92-321-4060186.

avari/nameh has also posted several links for relief and aid.

And, again, Chai is collecting donations for blankets and tents. Every little bit counts, especially considering that one American dollar is worth so many Pakistani rupees.

Blogistan's very own lovely GrouchyOwl is in Pakistan, covering the aftermath of the earthquake for her newspaper. Wishing her much strength, steadiness, and safety.

[I know I've been going massively link-crazy lately, but this is the only way I can remind myself, and make it personal for myself. Add thoughts and ideas and links to the comment box if I'm missing anything. Thanks much.]

When the earth is shaken to her (utmost) convulsion/and the earth throws up her burdens (from within)

My eyes, and my heart, ache from three days of reading about the earthquake in South Asia. For most of Saturday, I sat at my father's computer, alternately updating Excel/QuickBooks spreadsheets, downloading mp3s of Quran chapters for my father (I prefer Sa'ad al-Ghamidi; he wanted Abdul Rahman al-Sudais), and compulsively hitting "refresh" on news websites for the latest coverage of the earthquake. With a sobering magnitude of 7.6, the earthquake's estimated death toll has climbed from a few hundred to over 30,000 in the course of three days. The ever-increasing numbers, and especially the stories of people digging through rubble with their bare hands, bring back the heartbreak of the Asian tsunami last December.

Early Saturday morning, when we woke up for the pre-sunrise breakfast to prepare for our fast, my father mentioned in passing, "There's been an earthquake in Kashmir. A whole village was wiped out."
At noon, Somayya's father called, inquiring, "Have you called Rawalpindi?"
"Yes, last week," I said.
"You haven't called today? There's been an earthquake near Islamabad."
"What? I thought it was in Kashmir."

Every news website we skimmed mentioned Kashmir and Islamabad. We panicked, thinking of my mother's family in Rawalpindi, not too far from Islamabad, the Pakistani capital. I hunted for every map I could find; most did not list smaller towns and villages.

"Ummy, you need to call 'Pindi."
"It's one a.m. there right now. They'll be sleeping" she said uncertainly.
I almost snapped back, "Maybe you should be worried about whether or not they're still alive," before considering that that was the last thing she needed to hear at a time like this. But my father was home a few minutes later, and his urging did the trick. They managed to get through to Rawalpindi, and alhamdulillah, everyone is fine, although the aftershocks continued even while my relatives were on the phone with my parents. Some, I read later, were up to 6.3 in intensity.

I read temors reached as far as Ahmedabad in Gujarat, India, my friend D's hometown. I called her. "D, I was just reading about the earthquake. Is your family in India safe?"
There was a long pause. "I thought that was in Pakistan."
"Well, mainly Kashmir. But I read they felt it in Ahmedabad, too."
"Hold on, let me check with my mother."
She called me back a minute later, with news that everyone was okay.

Mansehra is near Abbottabad, which is near Attock and Hazro, which are part of the same district as my own village in Pakistan. In 1995, we stopped for ice cream in Abbottabad, and I was wide-eyed at the wide orderly town, having been a village girl for a year by then. Mansehra is not far; it's painful to read stories of the hundreds of children who died there (as well as the 400 schoolchildren in Balakot) when their school buildings collapsed on top of them. They're already being referred to as the "lost generation." Every place is connected somehow to yet another place; the world feels smaller every day, everything hits a bit closer to home every time I turn on the radio or surf news websites. This was never more apparent to us than now.

Disaster coverage tends to focus on urban areas, and I felt selfish for resenting it on Saturday when all we heard was "Islamabad and the upscale residential Margalla Towers" nonstop and kept asking our friends and family, "But what about the village? Hazro? Attock?" But it's natural to think of our own homes at a time like this, and necessary to remember that those who were poor and lacking before the earthquake are even more so now. If the earthquake had shattered District Attock, we would have been devastated. It is unsettling to read Chai's notes about lack of proper rescue efforts in Islamabad, and I think of how much more complicated such attempts must be in rural areas, in villages similar to my own, where streets and alleyways were so narrow that even taxis had difficulty maneuvering through, much less emergency vehicles and equipment. The logistical problems of getting food and medical supplies to villages in the mountains must be especially difficult. And winter is already setting in, in some areas.

Our television is limited to about two (static-prone) local channels, so most of the news we've been receiving has been through family and online news sources. This has been especially difficult for my mother, who wishes we had cable channels so she could see and understand the effects of the earthquake with her own eyes. Photographs, though distressing, have been more helpful in conveying the impact.

Living in California, and especially in the San Francisco Bay Area, we've gotten used to the idea of earthquakes. After all, we're sitting right on top of the fault lines. Friends in other areas shake their heads at the thought of us living right smack in the earthquake zones, but we laugh back and continue on. In the aftermath of this recent South Asian earthquake, local news stations have been emphasizing that the Bay Area has a 62% chance of experiencing a catastrophic quake like the 1989 Loma Prieta temblor. I still remember the 7.1 magnitude earthquake in 1989, which memorably collapsed the upper level of portions of the Bay Bridge and the 880 freeway, crushing cars on the lower levels. My father was working in San Francisco at the time, in one of those tall clusters of skyscrapers you see as you cross the Bay Bridge into the City, even though I could never figure out which one was his. When the earthquake hit, his building shook madly from side to side. Somehow he made it down several flights of stairs and twenty miles south to his friend Mr. R's home in Belmont, where he stayed overnight. We at home in the East Bay, having felt minor tremors ourselves, watched television footage of flames and smashed concrete for hours, waiting to hear he was safe.

The Gujarat earthquake of 2001 hit close, too. I remember we had just walked out of chemistry lecture and were standing on the lawn outside, Somayya and D and our friend A and I, when someone absently questioned D about whether her family was safe in the aftermath of the Gujarat earthquake that had occurred a day or two before. She paled. "What earthquake?"
We mumbled something about 20,000 people dead. A thrust his cell phone at her. "Here, use this."
D was dazed with worry, yet protested, "It's long distance."
He almost shouted at her: "I don't care if you call India. Take the damn phone and call your parents."

And then there was the minor earthquake back when I was living in Pakistan. Drowsy with my afternoon nap, I thought my mother was sitting at the edge of my bed, shaking it with her laughter. I've always liked telling this story. But what was only minor tremors at my end must have been more forceful somewhere else.

The stories of grief and loss coming out of the earthquake are heartbreaking. As Hemlock commented the other day on Monologist's weblog, "Everyone is somebody's someone."

To those from Kashmir, Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan - I hope you and your loved ones are safe and well inshaAllah. Much strength and peace and ease. And relief, especially relief.


RESOURCES

Knicq has an extremely well-written and thought provoking post, as does avari/nameh. Go read.

BBC reporters' logs are here.

South Asia Quake Help contains "news and information about resources, aid, donations and volunteer efforts" [via Sister-Scorpion].

Karrvakarela also has a list of several organizations we can donate to for relief work.

Chai's family is collecting donations for blankets and tents (about Rs. 270/$5 and Rs. 7000/$120, respectively) for those who have lost their homes. Please contact her for more information.

shiny smooth automotive goodness, and goodness of another nature.

Let me tell you about my friend S. My friend S is one of the most selfless people I know, the kind of person who, I've realized recently, is always putting everyone else before himself. Somayya is another one of those kind of people. They know it and I know it and everyone else knows it and they keep doing it, sometimes to their own detriment, but that's what makes them so tight, dintcha know. It's a vicious cycle sometimes, but we need more people like that in the world.

S is tight. Actually, he's the self-proclaimed tightest person in the whole wide world. He used to send out emails to the listserve, signing off as, "S____ a.k.a. Tight One." Most of the time, though, he'd email us one-liners stating simply, "I am so tight" or "I am hecka tight," prompting me to fire back responses along the lines of, "Umm, no, the world does not revolve around you, buddy."

I have to be careful about how I respond to S's comments half the time though. Most of my conversations with friends and acquaintances revolve around sarcasm and wry remarks that may come off as disconcertingly harsh and are thus somewhat misconstrued by overly sensitive people like S. Recently, for example, in response to something he had said, I told S he was "hella rude and obnoxious."

He reminded me that he is a fob, chiding me for using "big complicated words he can't spell or say." I didn't realize until the next day that he was dismayed by my comment because he thought he had genuinely hurt my feelings or offended me. So he apologized profusely. Taken aback, I burst out laughing, until I realized he was serious, so I apologized in turn. And then I had to do a step-by-step explanation of the role of sarcasm in my daily conversations. What drama.

"Besides," I explained later, "it's not about me. You know I can take it. But you made that comment to someone you don't know, and who doesn't know you, and I think it comes off as a hella rude first impression."

Then I told him how tight he was, to soften the criticism.
"I know," he said, as if that were obvious. "People tell me all the time, 'S___, you are so tight.' I'm like, 'I know I'm tight. Watch out, people, tight stuff walkin' through.' "
I rolled my eyes, as he continued muttering, "Man, I can't believe I'm so tight."

I've come to realize though that, like many of us, S uses his seeming arrogance, sarcasm, and blunt commentary as a front for masking deeper insecurities and somber life experiences. Once in a while, he'll remain serious long enough to share unexpected, heartbreaking stories, like the one about the girl in high school who used to treat him like crap for wearing the same jeans every single day, because he could only afford one pair. Last summer, he told me I was wise, and I said, No, I'm just complacent, because life's always been too good to me. How could I be wise, when I can't even begin to fathom experiences such as his: "I've slept in the airport, on park benches and streets, collected cans at night... I have done all that, and I don't take it for granted."

"I remember where I come from," he always tells me, "and I'm proud of it. Whatever I have now can be gone in a heartbeat, and I'll give up everything I have, cuz I ain't taking it to heaven."

Two Fridays ago, I checked my phone and found the following text message from S, whose house I had left my car parked in front of that morning before hanging out with Somayya the rest of the day: I washed ur car n took most of da scratches 4rm da right door. I couldnt clean da rims.

I called him straightaway to convey my massive gratitude. "No problem," he kept saying, with a note of genuine surprise in his voice, as if he couldn't understand why I would be calling to thank him. "I was washing my car, so I thought I'd go ahead and wash yours, too."

Last Monday, he called to ask, "Hey, are we still on for lunch tomorrow?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Okay, cool." He reminded me that he was heading out of town in two days, and that he would be back in Sacramento in a couple of weeks. "So hey, just drop your car off tomorrow when we go to lunch, and I'll clean the inside of it, too."
"Are you serious?!"
"Sure. For free. I love cleaning cars."
"Will do, then. Awesome, dude. Thanks so much!"
"No problem. It'll be ready by the time you get off work. Oh, hey, when's the last time you got your oil changed?"
"I dunno. It's been a while, I think."
"How long a while?"
"A few months?"
"How many months?"
"I dunno, man," I said absently, sitting down on the floor of my room and warming up my hands at the heater. "Maybe, like...last summer or something?"
"Ohhh my God... Do you know, you're supposed to change your oil every three thousand miles? Okay, I'll have to change your oil, too. The hell is wrong with you?"

He was supposed to tell me the lengthy, convoluted story about how he made it to the United States, a story he said would take him anywhere from two to five hours to relate. Instead, he spent our entire lunch berating me for not remembering the last time I got the oil changed in my car.
"I don't remember, okay?" I said, throwing up my hands in impatience. "So get over it. I just take it to Jiffy Lube every few months, and they take care of all that drama."
"Every few months? You said last summer. Your car doesn't deserve you. By the time I'm done with it, it won't even want to go home with you at the end of the day."
"Well, I check my oil regularly, even if I don't know how to change it. And the coolant, too. Doesn't that count for something?"
He was not impressed.

We finished lunch, complete with much eye-rolling on my part, and then S dropped me off at work. He then called me twice that afternoon. The first time: "Hey, do you want Armor All on your car?"
I squinted. "Almond oil?"
"Armor All."
"What's that?"
"Say 'yes,' " mouthed Somayya. "It makes your car all shiny."
"Oh, yeah, definitely then."

The second call: "When's the last time you got your transmission fluid changed?"
"Umm..."
"Okay, I'll change that, too."
"Thanks, buddy."

Preoccupied with work and pseudo-studying, I didn't make it back to S's house to pick up my car until almost 9pm that evening, but even in the darkness I could see how clean and shiny my car looked. S and I spent fifteen minutes walking around his driveway, checking out my car from every angle as he relayed everything he had done: washed/polished/waxed the outside, scrubbed the rims, vacuumed and cleaned every inch of the inside, changed my oil and transmission fluid... Thorough detail.
"Oh, and I replaced your air filter, too. Took out your old one and put a new one in." He fished my old air filter out of the garbage can and held it under the garage door light. "See this?"
I peered at it.
"See how black this is?" he said, pointing out the obvious. "It's supposed to be all white."
"Dang." I skipped around my car again, repeatedly rubbing my index finger against the surface, feeling like a gleeful little kid. "It feels so slick. You musta used hella wax and polish on this." I laughed. "Dude, it looks so freakin' clean, I can't believe it!"
"It wasn't that dirty," he shrugged.
I looked at him in disbelief. "Man, are you kidding me? Did you somehow miss the black rims and the inch-thick layers of dust on the dashboard?"
"I've seen dirtier cars than that, okay. Make sure you get your oil changed every three thousand miles," he reminded me. "With all your driving, you have to do this regularly. Wait, how many miles do you drive a week?"
"Umm. Six hundred a week between home and school. Oh, and I work three days a week in Sacramento, too."
"Dayamm. So that makes how many?"
"Another ninety or so. So let's make it an even seven hundred."
"Seven hundred miles a week?!" he yelped. "For the love of God! What are you, insane?"

He handed me a plastic grocery bag. "What's this?" I asked, peering inside.
"An extra bottle of oil, and one of transmission fluid, left over from what I put in your car."
"Dude, just keep them for your own car," I insisted, but he refused to take them. "Okay, just tell me how much all this stuff cost, so I can pay you back."
"No," he said obstinately, opening my car door. "Go home."
"Fine then. I owe you a couple of lunches and ice cream, whenever you get back."
"Okay, okay. Oh, and wear sunglasses in the morning," he warned. "The car might blind you."
I laughed, eyeing the car in the dark. "Buddy, I'm loving the shininess, whatever I can see of it. There's no way it's going to blind me."

The next morning, however, I had to concede he was right, as the sunshine bounced off the interior of my car - especially the shiny dashboard and steering wheel - and attacked my eyes, which were already strained after a late-night study session. Yellow-orange-tinted sunglasses to the rescue!

I called S when I got to campus. "The car looks awesome, dude. Thanks so much!"
"If you thank me one more time," he snapped, "I'm going to throw up."
"Please restrain yourself. And get over it."

In the afternoon, he left me a voicemessage: "Hey, what's crackin'? I just listened to your message from last night, too. Stop thanking me. I just washed your car, it's not like I saved your life or something. Have a beautiful day with your 10am to 9pm back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back classes. Oh, and make sure you don't get stepped on, okay?"

I've been more in touch with S over the past week than I have over the past six months before that. This is mainly because I stalk him everyday by calling to tell him how shiny clean my car is, and how much I love it, and so he feels obligated to return all my rambling phone calls. Now that he's got me all mushy about my car, S is working on two things:

1) Constantly reminding me about how short I am [I'm 5'1", and, yes, I'm perfectly okay with this]
(Sample voicemessages: "Did I ever tell you that you're so short? I noticed it today and was like, 'Dang, Yasmine is hella short! I didn't want to step on you.' " and
"To me, you will always be thirteen years old. Be careful and make sure you don't get stepped on, okay?" and
"Why are you so short? And your brother is a giant. Why? Genetics can't explain that." and
"I'm taller than you. Taller means everything."); and

2) Harassing me about my lack of study habits
(He called me a couple of evenings ago to check up on how my studying was going.
"Um, actually, I just finished dinner."
"Dinner?" he said incredulously. "You got home at 7:30. That was three hours ago. It took you three hours to eat dinner?"
"Well, no, but there's nothing wrong with prolonging a good thing."
"Unless you're taking 24 units," he pointed out. "And your problem is, half the time, you're driving. And the other half, you're napping. What's wrong with you? You're always taking naps everywhere. You need to stop sleeping so damn much."
And last night:
"Are you studying?"
"No! It's Friday!"
"Every day is a Friday for you, isn't it? How are you planning on passing those 24 units?"
"Shut up.")

I'm easily amused and impressed by simple things, and so the ways to my heart are many. But because I am also the Commuter Child Extraordinaire, two things will earn you my massive, never-ending gratitude: Washing my car for me (which no one has ever willingly volunteered to do before S tackled the job), and filling up my gas tank to the max (which my dad always does on the rare occasions he borrows my car).

S called me late Thursday night to share a "pretty tight" verse from the Quran. Why do people always assume I'll be awake at 12:30am?

Oh, wait, because I usually am.

To continue... I was actually asleep for once in my life, so he left a voicemessage with the verse, and the related footnote/commentary. I listened to it early yesterday morning, on my way to school, grateful for the timely reminder in these weeks of ungodly, uncharitable thoughts on my part:

And call not, besides God, on another god. There is no god but He. Everything (that exists) will perish except His own Face. To Him belongs the Command, and to Him will ye (all) be brought back. (Quran, 28:88)

Later in the day, while I was at work, he IMed me with, "Hey, I found another pretty tight verse."
"What is it?"
"2:255. But I don't know how to say it in Arabic."
"Oh!" I said. "That's called Ayat al-Kursi. It's one of my favorites. I can recite the Arabic for you, if you want to hear it. Lemme call you when I get off work, okay?"

I finally got around to calling him that evening, while I was on the road, about ten minutes from home.
"For the love of God!" he exclaimed. "What took you so damn long? I've had the crappiest day ever, and I was looking forward to the Arabic version of that verse all day long."
"Sorry. Alright, buddy, here goes..." So I recited Ayat al-Kursi and the two verses that follow it.
There was empty silence for a few moments after I finished. Then he said, "Wow."
"Yeah, it's good stuff, huh?"
"That just made you the tightest person in my book."
"I already knew that, but thanks anyway."

How can you not love being friends with a kid who sends text messages like the following, a la Martin Luther King, Jr.'s famous speech:
i had a dream and i woke up and wrote about it, that one day we will find a place to eat, i have a dream today that we will eat good food and chill, i have a dream today that my stomach will be full of good food, i have a dream today.

Today's text message states:
u are tight cause u have a friend like me who is the #1 TIGHTEST. ME. i'm Tight. thus making u guys tight cause u guys are my friends.

Indeed.

there's a reason why we have supervisors

Okay, so I'm back.

I'm sure you'd like me to elaborate on that, seeing as how you enjoy living vicariously through me, but my life over the past month has been filled with nothing more exciting than four classes, two jobs, and drinking more hot chocolate this quarter than I must have in the past two years combined. Oh yeah, and I'm currently sick, and my tastebuds are down. There's no worse way to torture me than to ensure I can't taste my food. Yeah, life is grand, what can I say.

What else have I been doing? I spend my days jaywalking through downtown Sacramento, and my nights…*gasp!*…sleeping, for the most part. I've also been grudgingly learning to (kinda sorta maybe, but not really) like shoes. I've even worn socks with shoes a few times. This is a big step, as I'm sure you realize.

Don't worry, all is not lost. I'm still as crackheaded as ever. I'd still rather cut through the muddy grass rather than walk all the way around, "because the only useful thing I ever learned in calculus was about minimizing distance." [The fact that I was a calculus tutor for two years in college is beside the point.] I had french fries for lunch yesterday. Other than that, I've been surviving mainly on chips and candy. And I still gobble down my food faster than anyone in my vicinity. I'm not sure this is quite a good thing.

Why am I trying to justify myself anyway? You know I'm a strange child. We've established this numerous times already, because I like being repetitive.

And my lack of updates doesn't mean I've been neglecting Blogistan. I've been reading weblogs just as much as usual, but in my lurker mode, that's all. Also, the vacuum cleaner completely ate the cord off my headphones a few weeks ago, so all you people who've been posting audioblogs over the past month, I haven't gotten a chance to listen to them, so STOP IT ALREADY. The end.

Speaking of jaywalking and Sacramento and crackheaded people, let me tell you stories about the people I work with. Please excuse me if I'm not as funny as I think I am. Happens sometimes.

Let's begin the rundown on some of my crazy co-workers –

H#3 [This is H#1 and this is H#2, for your information] stops by my desk close to lunchtime one day and mutters a question. After asking him to repeat his request twice, I throw up my hands. "Why are you such a mumbler?"
He asks one more time, louder: "Do you have any ketchup and/or mustard around here?"
I roll my eyes. "Dude, what would I be doing with random packets of ketchup and mustard? What do you think, I keep it in my desk drawer?"
And who uses the term "and/or" in real-life conversations, anyway?

AZ thinks Persians are the best and everyone else is the worst. He periodically threatens to leave the company because "he doesn't want to work with India and its neighboring countries."
"India" would be G, whom I'll get to in a second; "neighboring countries" is a reference to the three of us who are Pakistani.
AZ also likes warning, "I'll do a hit-and-run on you with my Persian rug."
"I'll stab you first," I respond, which is AZ's cue to saunter around the office, showing off his biceps. This is