Last night i had an argument with gman as he once again brought home this sorry potato-carrot-pea bhara samosa "acha so is this the potato samosa you are always hankering about"? and I had to repeat my chant of no no no , its boiled potato cut in cubes (NOT MASHED), zeera, chili flakes filling encased in a thick not flaky pastry. He shrugged his shoulders exasperated "I think tumharey imagination may hai, there is no such samosa". I fought back my tears. No its not a figment of my imagination. Just as
long summer evenings breathing in raat ki rani
motiya flowers at traffic signals and the fragrance filling up your car
twilight in summers marked by spraying water on the bricked courtyard, pulling out the GFC fan, dragging out the chairs turning the TV around so you watched it sitting outside, late night gup shup and listening to the BBC bulletin on the radio before turning in for the night.
winter evenings sprawled in front of the heater doing heater math. too close and my cheek burns move an inch and i feel cold. breathing in damp clothes set out to dry. Giggling at Razia Butt and A R Khatun novels....Rehaan Rehaan Rehaan. Somehow winters meant Ammi Jans and Bari Buas and Afshan, Farrukh and saunf supari. Summers were Queen's Library and the entire Louis L'Amour collection.
Childhood fears that the Russians will invade us. And it will not just be the cheap Russian air conditioners, sardine tins, chocolate raisins and notebooks flooding the market. Years afterwards someone asked me if I had ever thought all the cheap Russian food stuff was courtesy the toxic larders of Chernobyl. I am not glowing in the dark ..not yet, no...so I think not.
our annual CMH pilgrimage for our shots and our glee when the orderly said some God forsaken childhood disease had been eradicated.
IS NOT ALL A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION.
There is a couplet in Urdu:
Ab ke hum bichde to shaayad kabhi khwaabon mein mile
If we were to part today our only hope is to rendezvous in dreams (apologies for the translation. Never ask a Pashtun to translate Urdu)
Dear Alu Waley Samosey, I might dream the past which is another country but only when this current nightmare can end.