It is 2016. By happenstance, I came upon this place where I used to write. I didn’t realize it was still here.

The links in my blogroll are dead. Those that used to comment, most of them I haven’t spoken to in years. I don’t even know if there is an audience for what I am writing now. But, I feel the need to write an update to, if blogs were living, moving things, what would seem like an unfinished life. No. I am still here.

My boy is now a ten year old kid. Still my boy. I live three thousand miles from where I used to live when last I wrote on here. My mother became disabled and I look after her now. Life became pretty weird.

But I’m still here. Maybe I will come back to write to… whomever you are out there.

Tomorrow I sign the papers that officially mark a close to the last five years of my life. It’s as though I have a loud speaker playing in my head – “Come in at 9am, meet the judge (if you’re lucky), sign on the dotted line, be on your merry way”.

So casual. Like getting a carton of milk from the grocery store. I think I had a harder time getting into the Bob Marley Fest when I was 16. In fact, I’m sure I did – the crowds were that heavy. At one point I remember that my feet were not touching the ground. I was held up by the enormous tug of the masses. Pushing, shoving, probably even groping. I had no control on my appendages even. An arm floating over someones head, a leg tucked behind someones else’s knee, my face buried in a large man’s underarm. The stench. I still remember that god-awful smell (Dreadful how scent triggers memory). And when I thought all was lost and I was forever gone, deep inside this abyss of bodies – they spit me out. Just like that.

I fixed myself, walked into Bayfront, sat on some grass with my girlfriends, giggled at the boys, listened to Marley whilst thinking I was just too cool for school. The man underarm episode was casually forgotten.

So casual. Like getting a carton of milk from the grocery store. Except this feels more like I’m getting up from the grass and going back into the abyss of bodies.

This is 2008.




Definition:   the hobby of watching trains and noting their serial numbers, usu. for long periods of time; by extension, any hobby or obsession with a trivial pursuit; also written train-spotting

We don’t note their serial numbers. We just spot trains. And really just trains using a certain railway path.

We do this on Saturday mornings. I just started this with him. He loves trains. I even bought us two nice pairs of rain boots. To get to the tracks, we have to cross some thick weed and grass. Being in the north now, I figured we might encounter some strange creatures in the grass. So I bought us rain boots. His are light blue, with dogs on them carrying balls. Mine have yet to arive in the mail. I like to think that mine are tweed patterned, but really I think it’s called “guncheck”.

So, Saturday mornings. We leave our house and walk towards the woods. There is a fence that separates our land from the railway tracks. But if you follow the path you’ll notice that there is a gap in the fence. A small gap. So we cross. This is where the grass gets tall, it gets weedy and there are a few bare bushes to be crossed. So I pick him up and cross these 10 feet with him in my arms. Yesterday when I did this his boot fell off. I didn’t realize till I had reached the clearing after the 10 feet. He kept saying “shoe”. And turning around, there was his lone boot sitting in the grass posing as though ready for a photograph. It would have made a great shot. But I didn’t have my camera.

So, once you cross the grass, weeds and bush you reach another path. This path rungs alongside the tracks. I like to think this path has been there for hundred of years. I like to imagine that we are walking along a very old Native American trail (this imaging is ruined when I look down and see what appears to be tire tracks belonging to some 14 yr old’s ATV). This path is separated from the actual two tracks by bush and a deep ditch dividing the two areas. Kind of like those in zoos that keep tigers at bay. Supposedly.

Yesterday we walked about a third of a mile before we turned back. We were following four ducks that made a turn into the wood ahead. He wanted to go on but then I started hearing what sounded like a dying cat from the trees and thought it better to go back. Next time I think it better that I carry a cane or something. For protection, of course. Or maybe be very 1920s and carry a rifle. That would match my as-yet-not-arrived “guncheck” rain boots.


I’ve lived in about six countries in my life. This all occurred before I turned eleven. But at age eleven you see the world differently. You don’t necessarily think let me explore this new place and meet it’s people. You think randomness. In Dubai, I was more interested in getting bindis from our driver Das. In Cayman, I tried catching fish with my mom’s leftover chicken karahi. Not quite Indiana Jones.

And now I’m in a strange period in my life. One full of joy but also full of question marks. Raising a newbie requires a lot of time at home. I’ve been at home for what seems like the past year. I was on bedrest for three months. Either way, it gets you thinking.

What the hell do I want to do with my life?

And, for right now at least, I want to strap Mr. Babes onto my back, pack a couple of things and a video camera and set off. I want to live outside the pages of National Geographic. I’m tired of this unsettling feeling.

I want to see the world because I haven’t yet

I want to see the world because I don’t know who I am anymore

I want to see the world to find God

I want to see the world through pure eyes like Razi’s, because mine are too cynical

I want to see the world because I don’t want to be lost.

So, that’s the plan folks. I guess I’ll wait a year for smallbot to grow and then we’re off.

I don’t like 9 to 5s. I don’t like routine. I’m searching for a nameless phantom. I’m chasing away fear.

I wasn’t feeling very well a little over a month ago, so I went out to sea. I saw a little island alone in the water and docked my dingy on its shore. Or rather, I just jumped into the water and walked onto the shore. And this island was full of amazing things. But the paths were not easy. I walked and walked till I had to crawl and crawl. In the end I found the island’s hidden treasure.

And he was inside me all along.

I will not post for a few days as I am about to embark on a certain rite of passage, if you will.

Do not feel grand, but will withstand.

I see you.


You know you are out there. In fact, you are probably reading this right now. YOU ARE THE NON-COMMENTATOR. No, don’t look behind you. It’s you and you know it’s you. You creep onto various blogs online. Lurking, reading, waiting for god knows what. You slither in and then you silently slither out.

But I know you’re there. Reading, thinking you’re anonymous behind your computer screen. But alas, you are not because I know how many hits my site gets. And frankly, with that number in mind I should really be getting more comments.

So next time, don’t tell me on the phone, don’t look at me in the eye in person and tell me you’ve been on my site. That’s what the comments box is for. Leave a comment! I am dead to you outside this blog.

On a side note – I think I am going into labor.

On a side to that side – if this is you:


or you are familiar with the Kalasha people of Pakistan. Please email me, I am investigating you.

I didn’t say that. Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji did. He also composed this in his spare time:


I can’t make the above pic come out clearly. Maybe I’ll do that later. Point is… is that it looks complicated. It’s like Islamic calligraphy. How they just write the Arabic so intricately but it looks so complicated you wonder, “what sura is that, I can’t read it”. Then you realize it just says Allah. Or maybe that’s just happens to me.

If you get a chance you should look up Sorabji’s picture. When he was younger, his hair looked like my friend Khwaja’s does now (even though his head is shaved but if it grew out I would imagine it to look like this). In Sorabji’s older pics he looks like a desi Einstein. Well he was only half desi, his father was a Parsi. Which reminds me, I’m looking for my long lost Parsi relatives. If you’re reading this please email me. You will know you are my cousin if you ever had an Uncle Adolphus.

Now that that’s taken care of. I’m listening to the Rach 3 right now. I can actually play it.* Check out Rachmaninov’s hands. He’s said to have the longest/largest hands of any pianist.


I’m kind of obsessed with people’s hand’s spans. I have pretty large hands myself. You can view them on my about page. Ameer thinks it looks like I’m getting handcuffed, but no… I’m getting married. HA!

*the first 25 or some notes that is.

After my last post of about 5 minutes ago, I got up and looked around and realized that I really don’t have anything else to do. So I walked backwards back to my computer and am now here again.

Not only do I not really have much to do. I don’t really have anything to say. What do people talk about on these things? Narcissists.

Right so where was I? Um, I really hadn’t gotten that far had I?

Maybe if I just keep writing sentences and pressing enter it will look like I have much to say and you will not only be awed… you will be amazed.

Right so let’s try it.

Yes, that last line went well. Very fruitful indeed.




Return (some of you might have different keyboards which say return instead of enter).



Alright, that went well. If you are still reading this then you must be really bored. Why not comment? Go ahead. Also, you can astonish everyone you know with my brilliance by linking me to your blogs or however the heck else you promote stuff.

Off to have a baby now. If not in reality, at least in my mind.