Fisherman's Wharf

Pier 39 at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, California is crowded with people. They stride by easily, hair whipping in the nippy breeze. I stand on the deck, and feel the wooden planks creak beneath the soles of my joggers as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I put my palms on the railing, leaning forwards slightly to get a better look. Below, the sea lions lie sprawled out, a chain of thick, shining dark metal-grey bodies.

The sun keeps playing a game of hide-and-seek with the clouds. When it peeks out of the layer of fluffy white, the sea lions seem to glow brighter. Their large exteriors seem to glisten hotly under the sun, the shine intensifying. As the sun is obscured again, a dim gloom falls, and the sea lions appear as a darker mass that is close to black. I stare avidly. I’ve never in my entire life seen creatures that look like these. They fascinate me; I can’t tear my eyes away. They’re disgusting and blubbery and mesmerizing all at the same time. The air reeks with their heavy stink. There are so many; I’m in awe at the number. I’ve never seen even one sea lion before. Seeing dozens and dozens of them flopping before me languidly, as though they have nothing to do but lounge lazily forever, is amazing.

The smell is irritating my mother and my siblings. They move off the pier, and I follow reluctantly, stealing a last glance. We go to In-N-Out burger, slide into booths and eat hungrily. Out of all the new fast food chains I’ve recently tried in America, In-N-Out is my least favourite. The buns aren’t as soft as I prefer, nor the beef as juicy. Wiping our fingers, we exit and start walking outside. Night has fallen, and the air is chilly. My father calls to say that he has left his office and will pick us up from Fisherman’s Wharf in fifteen minutes.

We’ve walked a good portion of the way before my brother declares that he needs to use the toilet urgently. My mother sighs in frustrated exasperation at the thought of trotting all the way back, but she knows they have no choice. My brother isn’t one of those people who can control their bladders for extended periods of time. I can, though. It’s a capability that’s been tried and tested on several occasions, for I refuse to use public toilets unless they are absolutely sparkling clean.

“Your father will be here soon. He’s expecting us, and there’s no point in all of us walking all the way back. You and Ayzal stay here and get in the car when he comes,” she instructs. “Tell him Zoran and I will be back in twenty minutes.”

I nod my head, though I feel a bit nervous. At the age of twelve, I wasn’t a very confident girl. Standing alone on a deserted pavement in the middle of a blustery night with my ten-year old sister scared me. I didn’t even have a cell phone. But my mother is already turning back, walking away without giving me a chance to voice my concerns. I stand there, hugging myself, numb fingers digging deep into the pockets of my jacket.

There is a waist-length pole nearby. Bored, my sister latches onto it, clambering atop and spinning herself in slow circles. There is nothing driving her movements except the feeling of boredom, and the restlessness to do something. A homeless African-American man lurches up, looming up and springing out of the darkness like some kind of perverse Jack-in-the-box, as though scooped up and conjured from thin air. His shoulder-length hair is greasy, his clothes creased and spotted with mud, his eyes red and bloodshot. I’m properly terrified.

His squinty eyes focus on my sister as she spins away, oblivious. “You’re gonna want more of that, honey!” he calls out harshly. “When you’re older. Trust me, you gonna want some.”

My sister looks at him blankly. She is only ten and she has no idea what he is talking about. But I do. This man is referring to sex. He’s referring to the women who twine their legs around poles and grind against them.

He stumbles forward blearily, his mouth pulled back into a leering grin. “How old are you anyways? Not so little. Nuh-uh. I can see little titties. I can see ’em.”

It feels like all my nightmares have come true at once. Every horror I’ve ever dreamed has morphed together into a grotesque bubble, trapping me and my sister inside effectively. There is nobody around. The darkness swallows me, the night engulfing until the only thing that is left is this man, my sister and I. We are shrouded together in a veil of black. The entire world shrinks down to this moment, right here, right now. I wish I had a cell phone, I wish I had a cell phone. My heart is hammering. I want to call 911, and tell them there is a man harassing us, but I can’t because I don’t have a cell phone. If he attacks my sister, I will not be able to push him off.

A man and a woman walk by quickly, glancing at us. I glare at them. Too afraid to speak, I will them with my eyes to look at us, to realize something is wrong and help us. I plead with them through my pupils. I can’t tell if they understand or not. But they don’t stop, and they’re gone, gone, fading away into the open jaws of the endless night. The hope of being rescued by someone flickers inside my breast and dies.

Ayzal inches towards me. Out of the corner of her mouth, she whispers, “What do we do?” I look at her. Our eyes meet. Grabbing her by the arm, I suddenly propel her forwards with me. 

“Run!” I scream, and we dash down the street faster than we’ve ever sprinted before in our lives. We don’t look back to see if he is following us, because neither of us has the courage to turn our heads. Our feet slap against the pavement, hard and fast, as we speed in the direction of the In-N-Out burger joint, not slowing down until we’ve pushed open the door and sunk into the softness of its yellow glowing interior. 

Blog Anniversary!

I guess I should apologize for changing the blog’s appearance nearly every other month. But I’m really not going to do any such thing. Because the point is, I love my blog and I’m not going to stop until I’m absolutely, positively satisfied with its appearance.

And since I’m hardly ever absolutely, positively satisfied with anything, you can expect plenty of changes here for a long time to come.

The real reason for this blog post however is that it’s time to celebrate *drum roll please* My Blog's 1^st Anniversary! And that momentous occasion deserves a happy dance, I feel.

Go shorty, it's your birthday. We gonna party like it's your birthday. 
(Or rather the blog's birthday, but never mind.) 

My blog anniversary was on May 2^nd though, to be precise. But the thing is, I have papers in two weeks, so I can’t really be expected to focus on other things nowadays, can I? Not that I’m really studying much anyways. Just watching re-runs of Desperate Housewives.

In about two weeks time, I’m about to start becoming as desperate as these five ladies, who are renowned for their desperation. If I knew the examiner, I might even offer him sex to get straight A’s. Okay, no I won’t. But I’ll be sorely tempted. Which is desperation at its extremes, I would say.

Anyways the point remains that I fully intend to study, and like I always say, it’s the intention that truly counts. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who believes in this, since even the Holy Prophet himself uttered: “The intention of a believer is better than his action.” I think that proves my point completely.

Moving on, I can’t believe a year’s already gone by. Or to be more specific, I can’t believe a year’s already gone by and I’m still busy bumming around and failing at life in general. I started this blog in the hopes that it would help me become a more accomplished writer. But all that it’s really done is make me write even more crappy poetry than I usually do and whine a bit more about my life than I previously did. It did help me meet some pretty spectacular people though, and make connections that really matter to me. So for that in itself, starting a blog was one of my, shall we say, more enlightened decisions of 2011.

Also, 71 followers in one year. Woah. That’s several dozen more than I was expecting to be honest, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who read what I write, and appreciate it. You guys are amazing.

I love you. And puppy-dog eyes. Could it get any cuter? No seriously, could it?

My own birthday is only about four months away now, and I can’t even tell you how much I’m anticipating it. Not because I have any special plans for the day. I’ve stopped building up birthdays into huge gigantic affairs that hold tremendous expectations, because to be painfully honest, my birthdays have always been a teensy bit disappointing. Not that I would expect any birthday to go absolutely perfect. But it’s just that I’d just really like one birthday where I feel incredibly happy and on top of the world. But every year practically something or the other disastrous happens and ruins my ‘on-top-of-the-world’ feeling. Like my last birthday, when I had the worst fight ever with my mother right as the clock struck midnight. But we’re not going into detail on that because it makes me slightly teary-eyed every time I think about it and because it’s incredibly depressing and I’m not going to ruin my blog’s birthday as well.

But I am looking forward to my upcoming birthday because I’ll finally be eighteen. And I’ll be legal and able to do things like these:

Smoke.

Because cigarettes are yummier than ice-cream, yo. 

Volunteer for military service.

Except the last time I broke a nail, I cried. So this one might be out of the equation, perhaps.

Visit a porn site (without having to lie about my age).

My expression while watching porn. No seriously, this is probably what it’ll be.

But nah, I wouldn’t actually do any of these things. I’m a Good Girl. And as I was saying, even though I will technically be legal and capable of enjoying all the perks that come with it, it’s not really about that. Because let’s face it, I’ll still be living in my parents’ house, eating the food they put on the table, going to college with their money, and begging my mom to lend me all of her make-up. 

But rather, it’s the knowledge that I will be eighteen and an adult, even if my lifestyle might not reflect any great change. So it will be a pretty big milestone for me, and a journey that I can’t wait to embark on.

A dozen times

A dozen times you’ve made my heart flutter, my lips curl into a smile. A dozen times you’ve told me you loved me, and heard me whisper the words back to you. A dozen times you’ve been there for me. A dozen times you’ve heard me speak, my voice crackling over the line at three a.m. And even when I thought you might get tired, you didn’t.

And I asked; Will you ever get tired of me?

No; you said. I will never get tired of you.

And so I believed you. And I was happy. And you were happy. And it all sounds just so simple, but that’s because it was. It really was just that simple.

But not simple in a trite way. Or even in a trivial, meaningless way. No, not at all. It was simple in a poignant, magical way.

And then what happened?

It stopped being simple.

But it wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t supposed to stop. I wasn’t ready for it to.

But the sun was setting. And the stars were retreating into darkness, one eyelash-blink at a time. And the wind was sweeping all the leaves off the trees, carpeting the ground in gold and green and brown. And you said good-bye.

And here we are.

Two entities once joined, now separated, revolving slowly in solitary orbits. 

Bicycles

One of my most recent decisions has been to finally learn how to ride a bicycle. Oh don’t be silly, of course I won’t march myself out the door and hop on my younger brother’s bicycle and start pedaling down the driveway right now. Not half a month before my papers, to be sure. But in the summers, yes. Not in my driveway, though. I don’t want all the servants and guards of the street staring unabashedly at me as I mosey my way down the tree-lined street, wobbling uncertainly from side to side, gripping the handlebars so hard that my knuckles turn white. I’ll have to find somewhere secluded, I suppose.

It’s a bit ironic, though, if I recall what my history is. Bicycles and I go a long way back. I was five years old the first time I ever parked myself atop one. My grandfather wanted me to learn how to ride it. He would sit outside, squinting in the harsh afternoon sunlight, leaning forwards in the lawn chair with his hands clasping at his cane, beaming widely as I cycled in circles around him. Round and round and round I used to go, until I became so dizzy that I couldn’t see straight and the sun turned stronger and stronger, like a fireball burning brighter and harder.

But it was exhilarating, because I never fell. Of course, that was only because I had those training wheels at the sides which made it practically impossible for any kid to topple over. But I liked to think it was because of my incredible prowess as opposed to the wheels. I felt more awesome thinking that way.

But then my grandfather went and died, and the summers got longer and hotter, and I didn’t feel inspired to trudge out in the heat and practice riding anymore, simply because there was no one to watch me to do it. Nobody felt inclined to take my grandfather’s place and push me into getting physical exercise. And when the bike started gathering dust and cobwebs, nobody even remembered the afternoons I’d spent yelling and whooping as I speeded down the street. We had more important concerns to worry about, and important things have a tendency to push less important things into the background, until they become transparent and shimmery and almost invisible.

Besides, who needed to cycle anyways? Girls in Pakistan didn’t cycle their way to schools, dupattas flying out behind them, dark hair bouncing in perky ponytails. They were driven, in cars. The roads weren’t safe. The security system in the country wasn’t strong enough. Besides that, it wasn’t even in the culture. Pakistan doesn’t involve little girls speeding about on two wheels on their own. That’s not what this country is about, folks, we all know that.

But California was. And my father made it perfectly clear he wasn’t going to chauffeur me around when I visited him there at the age of thirteen. He had better things to do.

“How will I go anywhere?” I asked, horrified. And when he gave me the answer, I was speechless.

I still remember the day he pulled me along relentlessly to the local park in San Mateo to practice at learning my new mode of transportation. The sun was setting in the cloudless blue sky, a light wind was picking up, and I must’ve looked properly hilarious. I was bawling, tears sliding down my face. I remember boys kicking at a ball and stopping their activity to stare at the amusing spectacle of a girl dressed in light blue flared jeans and a short top, dragging a bicycle behind her and looking as though she is walking to meet her executioner. My terror must have been written plain all over my face, obvious in its magnitude. The fear was consuming me, like a living, breathing thing. I could feel it invading my limbs, taking over, paralyzing me. It was the most horrific sense of panic I’d ever felt. It was almost unjustified in its intensity. I had no reason to be that petrified. But somehow, on that day, I just knew I was about to hurt, and hurt badly.

It might’ve gone okay, in the end, if not for the fear. I was doing okay. I was riding, just like you’re supposed to. I made it all the way down to the end of the park, in a straight, unbroken path. I even allowed myself to believe that I was getting the hang of it. But then the path ended, and there was a barn, and I had to turn, and the fear came back, like a bear that was lying dormant for ages but suddenly roused out of hibernation, and I knew then, I just knew, that all along when I thought I was getting the hang of it, I wasn’t really, not at all. The control I thought I had? Just a delusion. And I was about to crash, big-time. I saw it coming at least two minutes before it did. That was the worst part of it all. The part where I knew what was about to happen, but I could do absolutely nothing at all to stop it, because my body seemed to have turned to stone. The only thing to do was ride it out, and the fear as I waited for the pain to envelop me turned out to actually be far, far worse than the pain itself, when the pain actually came. I lay sprawled on the ground afterwards, blood dripping from my face onto the pavement, and I almost laughed because it seemed ridiculous yet delightful to me, the idea of fear of pain being worse than pain itself.

My fingers trace the skin under my skin. I still have that tiny scar there from the stitches I got that night. It’s not visible directly, and nobody would ever notice it, not until I draw attention to it myself. The kind African-American doctor with the big, bright blue eyes told me that, the night I lay stretched out in the hospital bed. “You won’t have a noticeable scar,” he promised me. The nurse next to him, a chubby, blonde, pink-cheeked woman, smiled encouragingly. “Aren’t you lucky you hit yourself somewhere like that? Now you won’t have to worry about a scar spoiling everything the day you go to the prom.” I felt like telling her I wouldn’t be going to the prom; that I don’t think my parents would let me indulge in such things. I felt like telling her how that saddened me, because I secretly, actually wanted to go. I wanted experience their culture for one night, wearing a strapless, floor-length dress and with my hair pulled up in a messy bun, a corsage pinned to my wrist. But it hurt to move my mouth, and my parents were watching me, so I said none of these things. Instead I cried as the African-American doctor stitched me up. And I let them think it was because of the pain, even though it wasn’t. The doctor’s hands were so gentle, I barely felt anything. They were feather-light, and almost soothing to the touch, and when he was done, I smiled at him and knew he’d forever changed the wrong, misinformed perception I’d previously held about people of his coloring.

So why decide to ride a bicycle now, after all this time, when there’s nobody to push me? I don’t know. Because I’m not really scared any more. Not as much as I used to be, at least. Maybe because I finally know it’ll never really hurt quite as bad as I think it will. Or perhaps because I’ve long since come to realize that emotional pain scars a thousand times more deeply than physical pain ever does. Or maybe it's because I wish to conquer the skill, so I can finally say aloud, “I know how to ride a bicycle” and know those words to be perfectly true. Or maybe there’s no reason at all. I’ve come to understand now that there doesn’t always need to be conscious reasons for every decision, or for everything you do. And that sometimes, in fact, it is the very lack of a reason that can make something truly, incredibly special.

Replacements

I feel lost without him. He was never mine to begin with, but even then I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost something precious that I had. I tell her that. I call her up. “Zee,” I say. “Zee, I don’t know what to do.”

It’s not that I don’t have ideas. I do. I can think of a million ways to make it up to him. But the point is he won’t give me a chance to let me do any of those things. How can you make it up to somebody if they refuse to let you?  

Zee talks, I listen. I like the way she talks, and the things she says. It matches my train of thought perfectly. Talking to her is not the same as talking to him. But it’s a close second. The closest I’ve been able to find so far.

                                                                           *

The Walking Dead is a television show that makes my heart pound faster, my fingers shake, and my stomach tighten. It’s like an addiction. It’s terrifying, but the terror elevates you to a higher plane of being. Even though my nerves tremble, I can’t stop watching it. It’s grotesque, it’s macabre, it’s beautiful, and it’s mesmerizing. But most importantly, it gives me something to think about. At this point, I’d welcome anything as long as it keeps me from thinking about him, and how much time has passed since we last spoke.    

I watch. And when the episode ends, I feel like I’m floating down from another planet, another world altogether. Reality was lost in translation for a certain period of time. I close the laptop, put my head between my knees, and focus on trying to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.          

                                                                           *

“Put the egg noodles into boiling water for three to four minutes only, not longer than that, otherwise they will become too soft.”

I nod energetically, pen and paper in hand, writing down everything dutifully. My teacher sighs and tells me that it’s not about writing. “Cooking was never about writing,” she informs me emphatically. “It’s about tasting, smelling, seeing.” Her voice is full of passion, but I don’t get infected and the pen doesn’t stop flying across sheets of paper.

By the end of two hours, delicious aromas are wafting around the kitchen. My favourite part has arrived; the part where I get to devour everything we’ve just cooked. As I eat, my teacher's Persian cats stroll in, white bodies moving lithely, gracefully, long fur swaying with the movement. The cats refuse to acknowledge me and ignore me haughtily. But they say nothing when I play with their kittens. I pick up the tiny, wiggling, fragile little creatures; they can fit in the palm of my hand. I love their big blue eyes, tiny faces, and sharp little claws. I love the way they mewl and start to fidget restlessly if I hold them aloft for too long.

I love this place because for a few hours a week, my only focus of attention can become food and kittens. I don’t think about tests, chores, worries, people I miss, or anything else. I only think about how to create and prepare delicious dishes, and how to bond with furry little animals. I like knowing that for a few specific hours, I have only two certain things to think about, and nothing else. No other replacements, not for these few hours, no indeed, not at all.