Tea Time in Dubai

Second Day of Trekking in Nepal: A World of White & Fuschia

2010-06-13T12:32:00.001-07:00

The trek from Gandhruk to Ghorepani winds through Nepal’s famous Rhododendron forests. The next morning, after sampling eggs and Tibetan bread, we begin to climb once again. School children bound down the steps with their satchels, trading cheerful Namastes with us. Old women sweep their verandas. Higher up, in the cool dappled shade of the forest, we walk past icy springs, over little bridges and up more steps. A group of Langurs lounge in the trees. The air at these altitudes becomes a tangible sensation. I can taste the sharp Pine tang, feel my lungs filling up with the fuel. Despite the hours of walking, my step lightens. Around a sharp, narrow bend, I hum along with my IPod. By the time we get to Birenthanti for lunch, even the rain doesn’t bother me.

Out of the sooty and dark Nepalese mountain kitchens, I have tasted some of the most tasty and fresh food in all my travels ever. The lentil soup and the vegetables wrapped in steamed Chappatis hit just the spot. And after such necessary tasks as the removal of sneaky leeches from our legs, refilling our water bottles and taking much-needed toilet breaks, we are on our way again.

The mood outside is dark and thundery. But soon, while we cross a churning stream, nature becomes positively aggressive. Rain freezes into hailstones that strike our heads and arms and make us yelp with the surprisingly sharp pain. In a matter of not more than fifteen minutes, the forest is transformed. The mossy floor has disappeared under the white snow, intensifying the Fuschia of the Rhododendron blooms that continue to drift down silently from the trees. Treading carefully on the virgin snow, we pass a herd of Yak grazing in the forest. The silence is complete. Only occasionally, it's punctuated by the tinkling of bells or the sound of laughter and groans.

Without much warning, the forest gives way to a clearing at the edge of a cliff. Here, wildflowers create a shameless riot of colour. A vast vista of verdant green mountains and floating clouds opens up below us. I feel a jolt in the pit of my stomach. It’s hard to believe we have actually walked all the way up there. The wind picks up and it’s just around sunset that we make it to Sunnyside Lodge in Ghorepani. There, a fire, food and hot chocolate await us.

First Day of Trekking in Nepal: A Tale of Endless Steps

2010-06-12T10:57:00.000-07:00

It’s almost midnight and I am lying in a narrow bed with a searchlight strapped around my head, reading Tilled Earth, a collection of short stories based in Nepal. Just outside the big picture window, the ground drops several thousand feet into the valley below. Against the invisible horizon stand the chiseled white peaks of Annapurna South and Macchapuchre, making their mighty presence felt even in the deep dark that has descended over the Nepalese village of Gandhruk. A mere thirty-six hours after leaving Dubai, I couldn’t have been in a place more different. And I have probably never exerted myself harder to get somewhere.

Earlier that morning, we began our trek in the village of Nayapul (900m), one of the starting points of the Annapurna Circuit in the Himalayan foothills of Nepal. It had seemed easy enough then, walking through Nayapul, where daily life spills out of the small wooden houses into the verandahs and the narrow, unpaved lanes. There is great industry and energy but the pace is charmingly unhurried. The Nepalese sweep their small shopfronts, feed the chicken, wash the laundry, bend over sewing machines, comb their hair and shout after their children. Around a sharp bend, a low chant emanates from a small, semi-dark hut. A group of bodies sway inside.I stop to watch but a fleeting sensation of being an intruder into something intensely private makes me move on.

Along the sluggish Modi Khola, the sun beats down on our heads. A little wrinkled woman in a red batik skirt stops to inquire where we are headed. In the huge conical basket strapped around her head, the chickens raise a raucous protest. ‘Ah, Gandhruk!’ She smiles, raising her eyes to an alarmingly high point in the mountains. Lunch is at Riverside Guest House that extends a ‘Heartly Welcome’ and claims to have clean toilets. Indeed, the hole in the floor is basic and you have to bring your own loo roll but any nasty smells or sights are mercifully absent.

After lunch, we begin to climb. Rocky, uneven steps cut into the mountainsides are the only way to reach Gandhruk at 2000m above sea level. First-time trekkers like me soon feel winded and light-headed. I begin to wonder exactly what I have signed myself up for. But gradually, as we climb higher, the first feel of sharp mountain air laced with the smells of forest cools our hot faces. Panoramic vistas open up at every new turn. Above us, mountains swirl in mists. Below, they extend in lush terraced hillsides. Far below in the valley, the river appears nothing more than a silent grey ribbon.

It begins to rain. At a tea house, we stop to pull our rain ponchos out from the backpacks. An old man in a traditional Nepalese hat sits on a rickety picnic bench at the edge of the cliff. Fat drops of rain patter down around him and on his head. But he seems oblivious. We fill up on water and apples and move on to climb more steps.

Five hours and extremely sore legs later, we trundle up the last few flights of steps to Annapurna Tea House in Gandhruk. There’s nothing like being exposed to the elements to make you appreciate the warmth of a family-run lodge or ‘real’ toilets and hot showers, even temperamental ones, for that matter. The dining room is rather drafty but the hot Yak Cheese Pizza and deep-fried Apple Donuts warm us up. Behind the kitchen counter, a baby slumbers deeply on a flat wooden bed, oblivious to the trekkers from all corners of the globe who, for a short while become a part of his home and family.

Gandhruk is home to the Gurung tribes and the famous Gurkhas of Nepal. Here, there are no cars and very little electricity. For someone just out of the concrete jungle, it is hard to imagine life in a place like this that reverberates with a deep silence and the awe-inspiring beauty of the proud Himal.

[Photoessay] Nepalis- Fleeting Impressions

2010-04-27T01:20:00.001-07:00

Bhai Sahab, aap convince hogaye ya main aur boloon?

2010-03-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

I am always telling stories about myself. Not the kind of stories we read in books, nor usually incidents that have happened to me. By stories I mean that my conversations with people are an ongoing narrative about me. I have had this rather uncomfortable realisation for some time past now. I am eager for people to see me in a certain way- the way I perceive myself to really be- intelligent, sensitive, thoughtful, progressive, kind, ambitious, tolerant, friendly, witty, well-read, funny, trustworthy and so on. But what a very long list this is!

And so when I am in a conversation, I construct my discourse to reflect this. I am too quick to jump in with my own opinions, my own views, my own ' I knows' and 'I thinks' and 'I feels' and 'I believes'. In short, there is too much I floating around me, enveloping me, at times deafening me to them. I am scared that if I don't make my voice heard over others as quickly as I can, I won't be heard at all. In other words, I would be brushed aside as stupid and boring- someone with nothing to say at all. And that would be an injustice as I know that that's not who I am.

And there I go again with my 'I knows'. The truth is that I crave approval. A not so unusual desire, you might say. Yes, in some ways, we are all looking for approval, from parents, friends, managers, even our children. Yet, I hear myself say all the time- oh, I don't really care what people think. But I do. Oh yes, I do. And hence the verbal diarrhoea centered around 'I'.

Reminds me of a scene in Jab We Met where Kareena Kapoor says to the ticket inspector on the train Bhai Sahab aap convince ho gaye ya main aur boloon? Alas, my daily social encounters are not so straightforward, nor am I as unaware of myself as Kapoor's character in the movie. You already read the long list of great qualities I think I possess.

I am too aware of myself. I am too much about me.

I wish to be like the few gems I have come across who listen to me and make me listen to what I am really saying. They have this serene look on their face and an absolute lack of the need to cut in with anything that begins with an 'I'. They don't need approval or affirmation of their qualities because they don't think they are all that anyway. They don't tell too many stories about themselves not because they are smug and already sure about their greatness but because they genuinely believe that others' stories may be more interesting, more educating.

That I believe is the origin of that serene look....the death of their egos. The scarcity of self-centered stories....

Watching My Name is Khan: I feel bruised and confused

2010-03-20T09:43:00.000-07:00

Watching My Name is Khan is like being kicked in the stomach, punched in the face, wrung by the neck, armlocked, headlocked and bent over backwards. All at once. But there are some moments of reprieve too, especially in the first part of the film, moments cruelly tender, as we are circled and rounded and primed for the double, triple whammy that's about to hit us. Yes, My Name is Khan is ALOT to take in in one cinema sitting and in my opinion, almost thirty minutes too long.

I love Karan Johar's ambitiousness, Kajol's amazing black eyes and the way she slips so effortlessly into the mature romance thing. Shah Rukh Khan has been redeemed in my eyes after Om Shanti Om (yes, i have just barely forgiven him for the rebirth and yes, I do hold long grudges). The India of Khan's childhood is real and immediate; the autistic boy's backstory is delivered efficiently, economically and with alot of empathy. Great start.

Moving on to 'lover meets fatherless boy', I was preparing to cringe and silently pleading with Johar not to make it a Kuch na Kaho type sickly sweet instant-best-buddies-soup relationship. And congratulations to him, the rapport that builds up between the two is kept endearingly down-to-earth. Much later in the story, Khan does go on to call the boy his best friend, but that's more upon reflection on the character's part rather than any preconception on the directors'. As viewers, our intellect is held in some regard, at last.

Cleverly, we are lulled into a suburbian bliss- school runs, soccer practice, marital banter, birthday parties and dinner at the neighbour's. All this ofcourse, so the big blow truly leaves us fighting for breath at the same time as wiping off unashamed tears in the darkness of the cinema. From here, the plot turns into a bit of a mission. Infact, a big mission, as the austistic Khan sets out to meet the president of the United States.

It's not Johar's fault. Doing a film on the twin tower attacks, life in post 9/11 America; touching on the following wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Hijab, beards, power of the media, hurricanes, treatment of African Americans by their government, all thrown in with an inter-religious marriage and a little-understood disability like Austism is like trying to contain several genies in one bottle. Perhaps, Johar believes that the Indian cinema audience doesn't find it their money's worth if it's not BIG. Or may be, that's just his style. But in the second half, the plot kind of lost its tightness and in a way, it's hold on reality.

Infact, it got to a point where I felt like I was watching several little films in one. In particular, the episode of Khan's return to hurricane-hit Georgia was too obvious as a plot device to give him something of the underdog hero status in the public eye. In other words, it interrupted the momentum and just felt contrived. The arrival of his relatives and a whole other group trawling water and carrying boxes of aid over their head had me groaning out loud. My husband, ever conscious of making the slightest noise in the cinema, had to elbow me. But I caught him shaking his head too.

Here on, everything just felt like the means to an end. An end that definitely should not have included a fake Obama. That made it impossible for me to suspend my disbelief, in other words, think of the story as anything but that. Why did Khan have to meet the president? I feel that Johar did enough to open Mandira's eyes to her love for Khan and in the process, drum in the message of love over hate/peace over war that he had set out to deliver. Rizwan Khan didn't need to see the president. It could just have been a symbolic goal.

But no, Johar couldn't resist the drama. And perhaps, it's the cynical old me who thinks it was totally unnecessary. But for me, it diluted the strength of the message and the amount of fun.

Do I think the Shahrukh/Kajol/Karan Johar trio did a good job? I think they did a fantastic job in entertaining us. However, My Name is Khan is no Forrest Gump, as I heard someone claim. For that, Johar would need a tighter grip and sharper focus on his plot than he managed this time round.

Let's wait and see what he does with the next big one...

Value for money? 8/10

Three Cups of Tea, Anyone?

2010-03-19T01:44:00.000-07:00

This book is one hell of an inspiration. So I finish reading it, pass it onto my mother in law, who reads it like I have never seen her read anything except the Quran; then I come across the sequel 'Stones into Schools'; can barely put it down. All the while, The Realist Novel is screaming at me, my first essay deadline is staring me in the eye. But I can't stop following Mortenson's amazing mission, his mind-boggling devotion and the progress he made, defying the many many obstructions....

I keep thinking of the time I went to Kaalam,a valley in the foothills of the Hindukush mountains, many years ago now. At Maghrib time, one evening, my family and I did Wuzoo by the River Swat and climbed up this path to a house perched on the terraced hillside. A house very typical of the region, a long, low structure with few windows and little light. After the idyllic surroundings of trees, mountains, goats and children playing about while women shyly covered their faces on our approach yet extended a warm welcome, the first thing that assaulted us upon entering the house was THE SMELL. The smell of - I don't know- damp corners never touched by sunlight, lingering smells of food and bodies and acrid butter tea that were never swept out by the wind. I remember we could barely breathe as we offered our prayers. We tumbled out of the dark and fell about gasping for air. Well not really, but you get my point. And that wasn't to be the end of it. The next day, we all broke into this strange rash- blotches of angry red all over our bodies- bug-bites, I believe. Back home, my wise doctor-to-be cousin made us bathe with water in which she put some purple solution. You can imagine how we turned our noses up at the whole thing, how smug we felt about progress and cities, how relieved we were being back in the impersonal, arrogant jungle of concrete that we called home.

And here's this American man, with no connection whatsoever to Pakistan or Afghanistan- the cruel mountains, the harsh life people live at the edge of the Karakoram and over on the other side, the freezing plateaus of Afghanistan, in houses that we found so dank, so inadequately equipped with the necessities of life. Yet, over the last decade or more, he has lived with them for months at a time, not only sharing cups of tea but slowly, patiently, initiating the sea change in these impoverished mountain people's lives by educating their boys and girls, empowering their women, investing his life into a mission that takes years, sometimes decades, to show measurable results.

What drives him?

Perhaps I should ask, what keeps us so complacent?

A Charity Appeal: Help Me Raise Money For Educating Poor Children in Pakistan

2010-03-11T00:06:00.000-08:00

Can you help me raise AED 1500 or £270 for the countless children of Pakistan who need to be educated?

These children have never seen the inside of a school and are this very moment, probably labouring away somewhere in a factory, a footpath, a shop, a roadside restaurant or a rubbish dump.

To help educate them, I have decided to support The Citizens Foundation, a charity that has so far built 600 schools for these very children in the most impoverished areas of Pakistan. To raise awareness and funds for TCF, I am participating in a charity challenge. I must:

1- Raise a minimum of AED 1500 or £270.
2- Trek to the Annapurna Base Camp in Nepal in April.

I am bearing all of the costs associated with the trek. For the funds I must raise for TCF, I am starting by contributing AED 100 to their cause.

Will you help me raise the rest? Even an amount as small as AED 50 or £10 can make a difference!

Please open your hearts and donate generously.

If you are in the UAE, give me a call at 050 153 1652 and I'll collect personally.

For outside the UAE, drop me an email at shum.ahmed@gmail.com and we will arrange something.

For more information about the trek and my participation, contact me or TCF UAE's Buisness Development Manager Sarah Siddiqi (info@tcfuae.org)

My Thoughts on Why I Cover My Head

2010-03-06T08:51:00.001-08:00

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I have been thinking about why I cover my head. In the beginning, a few years ago, it was all about doing 'the right thing'. Lately though, I have been wondering what this 'right thing' is.

1- Allah (SWT) commands us to do it.

2- It saves me from undue male attention.

3- It helps men preserve their 'Emaan'.

4- It is an important part of my identity as a Muslim woman.

5- My husband wishes me to do it.

It's actually none of these, apart from the first one. Even that, if I am totally honest is not the true impetus, as the limited-understanding human being that I am, I need to ground everything in reason.

It's funny how whenever I get into conversation about the Hijaab with a friend who doesn't observe it and we get talking about it, I not only feel slightly uncomfortable but also usually round it off very tactfully with

'Well, you know, it's a very personal thing, you can only do it when you believe that you should and you feel ready.'

Yet, I don't really know what I mean when I call it a 'personal thing'. If it's Allah's command, there's no room for personal choice. Yet, I seem to find that the only way to define it to others. The other day, it suddenly occurred to me why.

To me the act of covering my head is so intensely personal because it cuts out my vanity, or atleast some of it. When I stand in front of the mirror with my hair framing my face, spreading around my shoulders and think 'I look good', I feel this thing, almost akin to power, surge through me - I am attractive, others find me attractive- I define myself as such due to my looks. But when I don a hijaab and all of a sudden don't look as good as I thought I did without it, I am forced to redefine myself and the meaning of 'attractive'. Hijaab forces me to be modest, to dig deeper into myself and find if there is anything else beautiful to me me beside my hair-framed face. It humbles me- the whole thing, everyday, everytime I try and look!

That's why I call it 'personal'.

To me, it's like a check- everytime I think too materialistically; for materialism to me is not just over-obsessiveness with money but also outward beauty and these days both can often mean the same thing- yes everytime I start pining too much after things- the hot trends of the season, eyelash extensions or may be, in my later years, some skin tightening magic that will put us in debt, my hijaab checks me. But wait, brow reshaping and Botox are my rights as a modern woman, right? They will make me happy, right?

Well, at least, my hijaab makes me question it.

As for avoiding undue male attention, I don't believe you can do that just by wrapping a piece of cloth around your head. Neither do I hold myself responsible for preserving a man's Emaan- if it's so frail as to be led astray by the sight of a woman's hair, the man seriously needs to go work on it. I have often heard,

'What can a man do if a woman parades herself and uses all that's available to her to attract him? It's in a man's nature. Allah made him that way'.

It makes my blood boil, this. A man's responsible for controlling his own thoughts and desires by keeping his own gaze averted, remember? In other words, he has his own hijaab to do.

And that's why, I say again, it's a personal thing.

I am not debating what the Qur'aan says or judging those who don't cover their heads. I am merely trying to explain to myself why I do it. And also what it does for me, my hijaab.

Our 99.99% Bacteria Free Bottoms

2010-01-19T05:38:00.000-08:00

When you want to go to war with nasty household chemicals, the revolt starts at home. My husband claims that a clean bathroom smells 'clean'. By which he means, a clean bathroom smells like Mr. Muscle has been at work and someone has had the pleasure of pressing down on the nozzle and spraying a powerful foamy layer of antibacterial all over the sink and the toilet. Ahhh. A strong scent of lemon has been left behind. 99.99% of the bacteria has been annihilated. Your bottom is free of germs. Your hands will not pass on a deadly virus to your baby, wife, lover.

'That's cos your mum grew you up on Flash and Jif and Harpic", I retort, stung by his lack of appreciation at my efforts of making our home chemical free. When I tell him I only buy non-toxic cleaners derived from natural plant sources, he thinks it's a passing fancy, a silly fad. When am I going to get over it and make sure our house is REALLY clean?

I haven't told him that none of our toilets have seen bleach in months. He'd probably fire me.

When my cleaner comes, she makes a face at the unimpressive brands I buy. She thinks I am stingy. When I tell her the mopping liquid has no harmful chemicals and is concentrated so we don't waste more water than we must, she thinks I am positively mad.

I get her obsession with Dettol and Clorox. We are all obsessed this way.

What, you don't use Ariel for your laundry? Seriously?!

This organic-whatever-green washing up liquid doesn't lather nicely. Where's the Fairy?

Why don't you give the high chair a good clean with some Jif Power Cream?

We are all possessed. TV commercials bought our souls. And paid us off with a 99.99% germ free life. And oh yes, carcinogens too. You know, those cancer giving things we all have floating about in the house. Oh sorry, there goes the crazy woman again, all hyped up over non existent threats.

Just think about this: cleaning product manufacturers are not obliged by law to list the ingredients in their products as doing so may reveal trade secrets. It's all a huge game. Money makes money makes more money. They are not our well-wishers. Yet we trust so blindly. We don't stop to think that almost 98% of the synthetic chemicals found in these products have never been tested for toxicity, carcinogenic or birth defects.

We don't consider that our older generations had nothing but the pantry to turn to for cleaning. We just write them off as less germ-conscious than we are today. Well, you know what, they were damn lucky. Unlike us, they didn't risk their health and spend a fortune swinging between the fear of infection and the clutches of greedy megacorporations.They had the good sense to invest in a big jar of soda bicarb and a bottle of good vinegar.

That's where I am going too. But I probably wont let my husband in on this just yet. I need to prepare a case. The above was just a rant, a cry to ask all of us to throw away those idiotic blue uniforms and the complacent smiles and be more informed of what we are exposing ourselves too.

So long!

Please, Can't We Have Morning Shows All Day, Please?

2010-01-13T23:12:00.000-08:00

Is this Shaista Wahidi absolutely crazy? That woman has, what, two hours of airtime every week morning of every week and everytime I tune in, I swear, it's a load of crap coming out.

Today:

A Chat with a Group of Pakistani Women Living in Dubai

Location: A luxuriously decorated villa

Conversation:

People say Pakistanis living abroad love Pakistan more than the Pakistanis living in Pakistan.

PakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistanPakistan

Yes, sure, they do, cos they see both the good and the bad from outside. They don't just see the bits of elbows and eyeballs lying around after a suicide bombing, they see many good things too. Yes, many good things. Errr, yes, many many good things.

Such as?

Well, you know. Look at all the bright young Pakistanis working abroad in all sorts of professions and giving Pakistan a good name. Oh yes, abroad. Of course.

One of the women claims to be Pakistan's first laser eye surgeon. Working in Dubai.

It's all the media's fault. Everything. They spread fear and hopelessness. We need more reports about how nice the weather is these days in Pakistan. How people come out dancing on the streets when it rains and mothers run to the kitchen to fry pakoras. We need more morning shows. Infact, we should have morning shows all day. Haan jee! Aap baat karein na TV walon se!

Not all Pakistanis are bad people. We need the world to know.

I mean, when I visit Pakistan, I brave the risk of a bomb and go to Zamzama and Cafe Zouq and all kinds of places. It's not like we don't do anything there. We are not afraid.

We are running out of time. Say something?

Education.

Stop criticising other people for what they wear. Go and get yourself a pair of decent jeans.

Everyone contribute something to Pakistan on 'individual level'. BlandGenericAnyIdeasWhatExactly???

Pakistan Zindabad!

Next Segment:

A Tongue-in-Cheek with the Political Talk Show Host Javed Iqbal.

Location: Another tastefully decorated villa in Dubai

Introduction:

The serious, never-smiling anchors that you see on TV also have a 'human element'. Unn k bhi maa, baap, biwi, bachay, dost hain. Woh bhi muskuratay hain. Today, let's discover the 'human element' of the famous Javed Iqbal.

Hahahaa. Javed Sahab. Hahahahaa.

Clap with glee.

We got you today!

Hahahahaa.

Let's talk about Bollywood stars. Who is your favourite?

They are all very good. I have even met some of them.They usually don't look as impressive in real life as they do on screen. I was really disappointed with Ashwariya Rai.

Yes, I know! You have to see ShahRukh Khan in real. He's sooooo SHORT and skinny and dark.But Abhishek is the sweetest, most humble thing ever!!

Ofcourse, you look as good in real as on screen. Yum Yum.

hahahaha

Ok. Who is your least favourite politician?

Ermm. I am good with everyone. I am good.

Yes you are. Do you ever get any calls from women saying how handsome you are?

Go on, go on, tell us.

Well, ummm, once while waiting for a flight....this young woman....exchanged details...do some research for me...ummm....but....ummm.....she had other ideas.....ummm

Is your wife watching this?hahahaha

So, what is the difference between a friend and a girlfriend?

hahaha. Are you like, serious?

Okay, what's your score then?

Score?

Well you know. Don't be so coy.

Kisi shair ne kia khoob kaha hai...Jo guzri baatein hain, uhein aik haseen morh pe la ke chorh do....whatever!

May be some of them you didn't have a chance to wrap up so nicely, you can give them a message here...

Lots of shifting around in the chair.

More poetry.

Is your wife watching this? hahahahaha

Forget it. Sing us a song instead.

Next time?

No, now!

Please?

Ok. Thanks for showing us your human element.

Make sure you invite me to Insight with Javed Malik too.

But wait, what am I going to talk about?

hahahahaha

(To give credit to Mr. Javed Iqbal, he tried his best to field the extremely silly questions and came out as as the more eloquent, patient and sensible of the two)

An Unspoilt Little Omani Wonder

2010-01-03T23:36:00.000-08:00

Musandam is an amazing little gem tucked away in the folds of the Hajar mountains. Driving down crazy Shaikh Zayed Road in Dubai, through busy Sharjah thoroughfares and across sleepy Ras-al-Khaimah, I didn't quite know what to expect from this little holiday of ours. But hit the border post at the northernmost tip of the UAE and the face of the visa officer may be the last sorry-looking thing you'll see for a while. Before long, we got our first proper look at the beautiful beautiful Arabian Sea glinting like so much molten metal in the late afternoon sun. From here on, the road runs parallel to the coast on one side and the chiselled, sober-faced mountains on the other, all the way down to the little town of Khasab and the Golden Tulips Resort.

What can I say about the Golden Tulips? I quite liked it. Okay, so it's not really a young crowd's idea of wild fun or a honeymooner's dream of romance, fine-dining, hot stone massages and infinity pools. But give or take a few things, it's a lovely cross between a seaside hotel and a mountain resort. It made me remember all the Murree holidays we had as children.

As you enter, the lobby may seem a bit dated, but to me, the pine-clad walls, the woven rattan ceiling, the little terrace overlooking the sea and ofcourse, the ever-present picture of smiling Sultan Qaboos created a perfect mood of coziness and holiday cheer. We got lucky and got a suite on the top floor. The sea was everywhere. We were surrounded by it. We could see it, hear it from the living room, the bedroom. It was a perfect feeling of seclusion, peace and a much-needed break from traffic noise, lights and well, other people, I guess.

We felt ourselves slowwwwwwwwwwwww downnnnnn. From the balcony, we watched the dhows come in from the fjords as the sun set somewhere behind the mountains. The sea went a purply dark. The lights came on in the restaurant below and we went down to eat.

Dinner was a rather uninspiring affair of a 'continental/international' style buffet with grilled meats, pasta, biryani, breads etc. A bit dull but on the flip side, quite low-key and simple- good things that all Dubai folks need badly after the numerous fancy restaurants and the almost painful amount of choice.

The next morning was a clear, glorious thing made of endless blue sky and endless blue ocean. Off we went on a dhow to see the 'Norway of Arabia' from up close. First, there's just water and then suddenly, almost out of nowhere loom up tall mountains in the middle of the ocean. The dhow sails through a narrow gap between the mountains and enters the calm, azure waters of a fjord. All around you rise majestic rocks and cliffs and at the bottom of these, little beaches beckon with their white sand and perfect seclusion. From fjord to fjord, we enjoy the sun, the silence and JUST BEING OUT THERE and DOING NOTHING.

So where were the Dolphins? Just as we were glancing accusingly at the boat man, feeling slightly shortchanged, guess what? The boatman whistled to us and there it was, the glistening silvery grey dipping in and out, racing alongside the dhow. The Dolphins were creatures of pure joy- extremely graceful, agile and fast. There were four of them, two on each side of the dhow. And they kept up with us for a long time before swiftly, silently disappearing into the depths of the ocean.

Late in the afternoon, as we drove back to the hotel, we had a last look at the town of Khasab. Despite being separated from mainland Oman by the UAE, the place has a distinct Omani character with all the laid-back charm and an almost complete absence of 'touristy-sterileness' (a phrase coined by me). However,the town itself isn't much more than a hotel, a mosque, a petrol pump and a couple of forts. Yes, not even a drive-thru McDonald's, much to the shock of us Dubai folks. And hardly any cars. Just boats anchored in little bays, a stone's throw from people's houses. I would love to call it 'quaint' but it was so much more.

By eight that night, we were back in Dubai, laden with sleep-heavy babies, cramped legs and talks of going back to unforgettable Musandam.

How to Grow Cucumbers in Dubai- Germination Success!

2009-10-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

I was in Choithram the other day, wrestling with a plastic bag to put my cucumber in when it struck me- 'What's stopping me from growing my own cucumbers? At least I won't have to queue up to get it price-tagged. In fact, hey, it'll be completely free! But wait a minute, I have never even SEEN a cucumber plant, let alone grow one. Forget it. But the image of me picking a juicy green cucumber from my own terrace garden or showing Sara that her favourite veg has a life before it hits the supermarket shelves- I just had to give it a go. So after a bit of excited googling, I took myself off to Carrefour for some veg seeds, a few plastic pots and a couple of bags of potting soil.

After a few days of suspense and pretending it-wont-matter-if-they-die, guess what I saw this morning?

Subhanallah! Just look at these babies. Aren't they absolutely gorgeous? I have been smiling all day.

I am in Dubai and I am Gardening

2009-10-25T09:39:00.000-07:00

I have never ever, in my life, bothered to garden. Until a couple of weeks ago, I couldn't even tell soil from compost or mulch from bark. Most of these things still confuse me but I have taken the plunge- I am gardening!

Gardening Hour:

Admire pretty ceramic watering can.
Assess how much the plants have grown since, errr, yesterday.
Google 'what's chomping on my bougainvillea leaves'.
Make plans to catch guilty slug (ughh)/caterpillar.
Obsess over the browning tips of my Areca palm.
Pray plants won't die.

I wouldn't claim that gardening helps me unwind or takes me away from it all. I am too worried about killing my plants to relax. But there is something to be said for my sofa-ridden, laptop-bitten self to be squatting on the terrace and shifting soil into pots with my bare hands. The soil feels and smells lovely- soft and cool and earthy-if life were a perfume, I'd have it smell like that. The soil brings me back to me- to what I am and where I will go. It's sort of humbling- gardening....

Shumaila's 10-Step Cheat Hyderabadi Chicken Biryani

2009-10-18T11:19:00.000-07:00

This is my favourite Biryani- the taste of Pakistani weddings and parties- an amazing blend of chicken, mint, yoghurt and spices layered with rice. Today, I think I got it just right after several attempts. I don't claim it to be authentic, original or any such thing. But it's absolutely delicious if you get it right.

So here goes...

Ingredients

For Chicken:

Bone-in Chicken 500 gm

Biryani Masala (Use any brand and any type such as Shan Bombay Biryani, National Sindhi Biryani etc.) 3 tbsp or more if you like it hotter

Mint 1/2 bunch or 1 if small

Onion 1 medium, thinly sliced

Ginger 3 tbsp, crushed

Garlic 3 tbsp, crushed

Potatoes 3 Medium, cut in chunks

Natural Yoghurt 1/2 cup

Lemon Juice 1 tbsp

Oil 6 tbsp

For rice:

Basmati Rice 400g

Cloves 2

Bay Leaf 1

Cinnamon stick 1

Lemon Juice 1 tbsp

Mint 2 tbsp

For assembly:

Onion 1 Medium, thinly sliced

Mint 1/2 bunch, roughly chopped

Coriander 1/2 bunch, roughly chopped

Green chillies 2 (optional), whole, pricked

Tomato 1, sliced

Lemon juice 1 tbsp

Method

1- Marinate the chicken with the yoghurt, ginger, garlic and biryani masala. Leave it for a few hours. Overnight is best.

2- Wash and soak the rice in plenty of normal water.

3- Heat 2 tbsp oil and fry half the onions until light golden. Add the marinated chicken, potatoes, half the mint, salt if needed and fry until oil comes on top and a nice aroma arises.

4- Add a splash of water, cover the pan and lower the heat. Cook until chicken and potatoes are almost tender and there is just a little bit of gravy, most of it coating the chicken.

5- Meanwhile, heat the rest of the oil and fry the onion (from assembly ingredients) in a separate pan until golden brown. Spread out on kitchen towel. Pour the hot oil on the cooked chicken.

6- Drain the rice. Fill a large, heavy-based pot with at least 4 litres of water. Add all the ingredients along with the rice and bring to a boil. Simmer until rice is 3/4 cooked. Drain.

7- It's time to assemble everything now. In the same pot, spread half the rice. Pour over the chicken. Sprinkle the mint and coriander over it and arrange the tomato slices on top. Cover it with the rest of the rice. Sprinkle the fried onions and lemon juice on top.

8- Cover the rice with aluminium foil and then the lid. Place on high heat until steam starts to escape from under the lid. Lower the heat right down and cook for another 30 minutes. Turn the heat off and leave to rest for 10 minutes.

9- Mix rice and chicken with a fork.

10- Enjoy!!!

Nursery- About Me or Sara?

2009-10-15T01:49:00.000-07:00

I have had it with taxi drivers judging me over sending my 2 years 4 month old daughter Sara to nursery. Just this morning, a fellow Pakistani driver goes to me after dropping Sara off:

"I am shocked that your little girl goes to school- our kids back home don't even see a school until they are 6 or 7"

"But it's not really a school", I said, "They just play lots of games and have fun."

"But still", he insisted, "Don't you miss her? Doesn't she miss you?"

And over the last 6 weeks ...along the same lines with other taxi drivers....

She's so small.

Why spend so much money when it's not even school?

What's the need?

Do you work?

She must get really tired there. Do they let her sleep?

This is almost cruel (zulm hai!)

It's made me think alot. Sara wakes up at 8 am and I leave her at the nursery around 9. I pick her up somewhere around 1:30. She goes five days a week.

Is it too much for her? Do I just need a glorified baby-sitting service or do I actually think going to nursery will make a difference to her future?

Even before she was 2, she knew more than forty words. She tried to count with us. She could say A B C D. She could name a few colours. She loved to read, sing and play-act with me. She knew the names of at least five different animals and foods. She could tell us what she wanted- which particular cereal, juice or water, chicken or no chicken. What I am trying to ask myself is, if I had just kept her at home, would she have gone on learning at her natural pace until she was a bit older and ready for school? May be. But I would have gone crazy for sure.

There. I have said it now. Yes, the time she is at nursery is a nice, sane time for me. I can do my grocery without worrying about Sara smashing pasta sauce jars or stuffing her mouth with (unbought) grapes. I can make my breakfast smoothie and savour the taste of berries and bananas instead of pouring it like fuel down my throat. I can call a friend and have a REAL conversation without worrying about the house crashing around my ears. Most importantly, I can look forward to seeing her step out of the nursery with all her curls, smiles, tomato sauce-splattered top and that cherished, beautiful art work she may have done that day. What, I ask, is so bad/cruel/heartless about this?

Yes, motherhood is the name of all the above trials and tribulations, I know. But if nursery affords me a break from them for a few hours everyday, then why not? So even if it's just baby-sitting in disguise but is kind, caring, attentive and nurtures my little girl's intelligence and curiosity, who is it hurting?

Things to Eat and Drink on a Karachi Beach

2009-10-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

Gol Gappay Deep fried crisp, round and hollow puris filled with chickpeas, onions and spicy tamarind water. Unfortunately, the ones at this man's 'thela' tasted a bit stale and oily. These always remind me of the 1962 film song sung by Ahmed Rushdi that became the proprietary jingle of gol gappay walas all over Pakistan

Gol gappay wala is here, he's got Gol Gappay for you

Laughing and making you laugh, he sings from street to street,

Here he is, look here he is,

Very tasty is his fair stuff, just like (a woman's) fair cheeks...(errmmm)

Sand-roasted corn Sounds a bit weird but we grew up eating this. It's a little bit chewy but nice with some lemon and chaat masala. Probably the healthiest snack on the beach although the gritty black nails of the seller would be enough to put you off. I just dismissed it as sand. In the background, you can see a bit of Sara who can live on corn if she has to.

Chai A patriotic tea stand on the go. I love the big old kettle but the system of dipping in dirty cups into the bucket of water and using them again and again is, well- very economical and quick, I am sure....

Dal & Chana Garam Dry-roasted, salted and warm pulses and beans served in magazine paper cones. Quite yummy. Once you start, you can't stop.

Papad Deep-fried, crisp snacks made of spiced lentils or rice flour. We tried them and found them to taste of stale oil. However, when we told this man what we thought, his face sort of crumpled. We felt quite mean and spoilt.

Hara Masala (Green Herbs) Mutton Chops- piquant and light!

2009-10-14T06:03:00.000-07:00

More and more these days, I am attracted to Pakistani food that is fresh, healthy and lightly spiced. I find Green Masala Mutton Chops to fall in that category. And finally, after quite a few dinner parties, I think I have perfected the recipe. At least my own version of it. I just love the freshness and piquancy of the herby sauce and the soft juiciness of the mutton chops simmered in yoghurt and minimal spices.

This recipe cooks in two pans. So use one for the chops and the other for the onions and later to mix everything up in.

Here we go...

Ingredients

500 g Mutton (Goat) Chops, trimmed of any visible fat (I used Indian Mutton)

5 tbsp Natural Yoghurt

4 tbsp Rapeseed (Canola) Oil or any other vegetable oil

4 tbsp Ginger and Garlic Paste

1 tbsp salt

1 tsp Turmeric

1 tsp Garam Masala Powder

1 tbsp Lemon Juice

1/2 tsp freshly ground Black Pepper

2 medium size Onions, finely sliced

For Green Sauce

Roughly chop and blend the following with a little water

1 bunch Fresh Coriander Leaves

1/2 bunch Fresh Mint Leaves

4 Fresh Green Chillies (Vary according to taste)

5 cloves Garlic

1- Heat 1 tbsp oil in a wok or saucepan. Place the chops in the oil and stir a little until colour changes slightly.

2- Add the ginger garlic paste, yoghurt and salt and stir again for a few minutes.

3- Cover and cook on high heat for 10 minutes. Then lower the heat to medium and stirring occasionally, cook until the chops are almost done. You may need to add a little bit of water to aid the cooking.

4- Add the garam masala and turmeric and stir for a few more minutes until the chops are fully done and all the water has evaporated.

5- In a separate pan, heat the remaining oil and fry the onions until just translucent and soft.

6- Add the green masala paste and fry for a few minutes until aromatic.

7- Now add the chops into the masala along with the lemon juice, black pepper and more salt if needed.

8- Cover and leave on the lowest heat setting for 10 minutes.

9- Serve with boiled rice.

If you want a stronger curry, omit step 5, use crisp fried onions instead of fresh, or fry your own and then add them to the recipe in step 7.

An Organic Breakfast

2009-10-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

This morning, I entered Organic Foods and Cafe to find the cozy, sunlit space filled with the excited buzz of school children. Finally, finally, the weather in Dubai has cooled down enough to have a stroll in the morning, even if its just a run down to the store to pick up some oranges. And for kids to come out and learn about the good things in life such as a walk, spinach, broccoli, quinoa, Aunty Annie's organic ketchup, brown rice and recycled loo rolls.

But I am not sure how the parents would react if the kids harass them to shop at the store because "teacher says organic is much better for us then the stuff they sell at Carrefour." Obviously, schoolchildren don't have to concern their busy little heads with grocery budgets and the cost of food. For food does cost quite a bit when it's organic. Take carrots. 3 Dhs/kg in Choithram compared to around 9 Dhs/kg in Organic Foods.

So how do you feed organic to, say, a family of four without breaking the bank? Well, I don't really know myself. I have very recently woken up to what I have been putting into my own body and am still trying to figure out how to limit further damage. But here's a list of to-dos I am keeping in mind:

1- Buy more lentils, beans, rice, quinoa and wholemeal pastas. Easier on the purse, great sources of complex carbohydrates and protein. No danger of going off and ending up in the bin.

2- Eat less chicken. Can't afford more.

3- Eat even less red meat. Can't afford at all and don't fancy the saturated fat.

4- Make my own cleaners. Always fancied doing that anyway.

5- Don't beat yourself up when buying non-organic.

When I came back into the cafe, the children were seated around long tables having scrambled eggs, toast and cereal. For a moment there, the scene made me all soppy and nostalgic. I really wanted to sit down with them and talk. But they looked busy enjoying their organic breakfasts. And I came home to have mine- not organic but reasonably healthy with a bowl of oats sweetened with banana and sprinkled with omega-3 rich flaxseeds and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Excuse me, but do I smell?

2009-10-10T14:07:00.001-07:00

When I first went to live in London, I thought that people there were obsessed with body odours. Their own as well as other people's. Deodorant ads depicted ultra smooth, baby-soft underarms of a woman holding on to the overhead rail on the tube and some short guy next to her sniffing up to the dewy, dovey freshness with a dopey grin on his face. Oh yeah. Made all the difference to his otherwise mind-numbing daily commute. Okay well, may be the picture is a bit exaggerated. But the tube really is one place is London where you don't want to smell bad.

Try explaining this to someone who grew up in Karachi and traveled on the rattling-tin-box excuses of buses in the hot, humid climate with no air-conditioning and no limit on the number of passesngers that could be crammed in. The smell of sweat used to be so pervasive that after awhile you just kind of stopped noticing it. In the small women' s section at the front, the sour, yoghurty odours of cleaning women mixed with the timid-to-offensive bodily smells of housewives, students and old women. And mine, obviously.

Deodorant was either unheard of or too expensive. If you were lucky, you just had a shower everyday and the rest was all up to nature.It wasn't your fault that you lived in a hot country. Sometimes, you tried to do something about it by wearing the treasured perfume some aunt or uncle brought you from the States for your 16th birthday. But considering as it never went anywhere near your armpits, just as it wasn't mean to, it didn't really work. And frankly, nobody cared, unless you smelt like you hadn't seen a shower in a few days or you had put the same sweaty clothes on AFTER a shower. Now that was criminal, at least in my eyes.

Five years in the UK and my definition of criminal changed considerably. On trips back to Pakistan, I took armfuls of Dove sprays with me and urged cousins and friends to wear deodorant regularly. A right little miss smug I was, turning my nose up at smelly taxiwalas and passrsby in the bazaars. Uncivilized heathens, I thought. My attitude lasted until, some time ago, I happened to take a closer look at the ingredients of my deodorant spray and googled them a bit.

I learnt about aluminium chlorohydrate, present in most deo sprays. It can give me Cancer, even Alzheimer's. And there I was - spray happy- literally depositing the toxic aluminium into my breasts at least once everyday.Since then the quest has been on for non-cancer-giving, organic, natural deodorant that actually works.

The ones I have tried so far...

Aromarant from LUSH (City Centre, Dubai)

Nice lemony bar wrapped in paper. Contains lovely things like witchhazel and sandalwood essential oil. Leaves a subtle, soft fragrance and keeps my skin soft. But no, it doesn't keep the odours away a 100%.

Lafes Organic Deodrant

Bought from Organic Foods and Cafe. Has aleo vera and mineral salts to neutralize odours. When I first wore it a few days ago, I had to wait for a taxi in the 40 something heat. I kept wanting to sniff at my armpits, to see if it was working.When I finally got into a taxi, I was even tempted to ask the driver if I smelt. I didn't really but ~I didnt smell fresh and dewy either.

The verdict on organic deos? People, if I ever happen to wave my arms about anywhere near you and despite all my efforts, the teeniest hint of BO wafts over to your sensitive noses, get used to it. I'd much rather smell a bit than get cancer.

Minibus Photo courtesy http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/low/in_pictures/6657535.stm