An Ode to Hugs

A mother’s arms,

The first to hold.

A teddy bear,

Chasing away monsters.

A dog on its hind legs,

Paws wet on shoulders.

A heavy blanket,

When outside, thunder roars.

A hunched palm,

Under the midnight sky.

A cup of tea,

With an old confidante.

A lover’s warmth,

Full of promise.

A child on your lap,

Pudgy arms around your neck.

The final embrace,

To the grave.

The Red Balloon

So much depends upon

staunching the flow

from the cut

in my thumb

after the palette knife slipped

staining the painting

crimson

like the red balloon

against the setting sun

when the curly-haired child

ran for ice-cream

only to stop

and look up

to see her childhood

floating away.

Near-death

            When recounting a near-death experience, the words ‘blacked-out’ and ‘paralysed with fear’ tend to creep into the tale. Mine was a little different.

            Vague memories of water and a blue and pink swimming costume wade to the front of my mind whenever this incident is brought up, but most of it lies in a chasm with the other experiences a three-year-old has.

            It took place in a farm near the border of Balochistan, near the coast. The place was a three our drive from Karachi, and owned by my father’s friend. This was not the first time we went there, nor would it be the last. Regular visits continued till 2009, after which trips became less frequent and Karachi’s security was failing, confining us to the city, and so the farm fell into disrepair.

            The image that comes to mind when the word ‘farm’ is said is one from William Carlos William’s poem, ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’, but this was a different sort of farm. Upon these wide acres stood row after row of palm trees, and in the very centre was the concrete farmhouse. Two stories high, the bottom housed the cars, and ascending a flight of steep stairs, there the fateful moment occurred.

            Our group was a conglomeration of families, and occasionally, others would be invited too. As a child, my only concern was whether they had children; therefore I did not pay much attention to the couple that was joining us that day.

            Jumping out of the car as soon as it came to a halt in front of the old structure, I raced up the narrow stairs, leaving the adults to deal with the bags and boxes in the trunk. Above, the pool was yet to be filled, so we children skipped into the dry space, shrieking as water began spouting out, courtesy of some adult who had the foresight to turn the tap on.

            Lunch was the first order of business. As the mothers opened boxes of sandwiches on the table, the fathers were left to the task of extracting us from our fun. Water lapped around our ankles as we stepped out of the pool.

            Hastily scarfing down my food, I was eager to run right back into the pool, but the rule of waiting thirty minutes after eating stuck firmly with my mother, and so we all played on the other side of the ‘L’ shaped farmhouse, next to the food table.

            Years seemed to pass before the women announced that we could finally go swimming. A cacophony rose as children clambered into swimming costumes and fathers inflated armbands and brought kickboards and other floatation devices for those of us who did not know how to swim.

            Dressed for the pool, I did not wait for someone to slide the armbands over my small hands and all the way up to my shoulder before blowing air into them. When everyone remained preoccupied with dealing with the other seven or so children, I meandered over to the pool.

From what I knew, the water was still up to my ankles. Even as my small feet were submerged on the very first step of the pool, this child’s mind thought nothing of it. More and more of me went underwater as I descended. By the fourth or fifth step, only the very top of my curly head could be seen, but no one was there to see.

No one except for the one-time visitor to this place in my childhood who I had barely registered simply due to the fact that he had no children for me to be fascinated with. A lucky coincidence aligned his going downstairs to the car to fetch something with my fatal shenanigans.

Not much of this is recollected, but as I was told, he saw a small figure, unable to float, just bobbing near the surface. Disregarding the knowledge that his phone and wallet were in his pocket, he jumped in and pulled me out. The splash caught the attention of the oblivious others. While I remained unfazed by what may have transpired had Fate not intervened, my parents thanked my saviour profusely.

Said saviour and his wife returned to London soon after, and so, when this tale was regaled to me, I had no face to put to this hero. Eleven years later passed before I finally met this mysterious man. In London, at the age of fourteen, I was finally able to thank the person who saved my life.

A Whirlwind Day

            The missing ‘C’ on the sign that should have read ‘Thai Cuisine’ was the first sign, but longing for this supposedly delicious food clouded any sense. The sole middle-aged waiter was the second sign, but we sat down, pinning skepticism to the fact that it was lunchtime and not a lot of people would frequent this location.

            As we ordered our meal, we played into the wrong assumption, built from previous experiences at Thai restaurants, that the servings would be rather massive. When the soup arrived in a small bowl, no one said a word. No one but my father wanted soup anyways, so we sat and played eye-spy in the warmly lit place.

            Laden with carrots and baby corn and capsicum, the chicken and beef lay buried to the bottom of the red and green curries, respectively. Prior knowledge sought to quash what was in front of us, and imagination enlarged the minute serving size. The four of us dug in.

            On the very first bite it was clear that this place here in Oakville was not the same as the Suko Thai we had fallen in love with a year ago, in Toronto. Flavour struggled to push through, and the only thing we could be grateful for was that the food was not so spicy that we could not eat it. Still living in disbelief, my mother attributed it to the different chefs. Disappointment sat at the bottom of each bowl as the last grains of rice disappeared.

            As my father paid the bill, he inquired whether this was the same branch of Suko Thai as the one downtown. We all knew the answer before the man spoke, and we walked out of the restaurant with no intentions of returning.

            Outside there was silence, until my father noticed the sign reading ‘Demetre’s’. This renowned dessert place filled our stomachs with excitement, and we could all use a pick-me-up after being so enormously let down. Entering cautiously, the very smell of the place was proof enough that this was indeed a different location of the same place. Sugar and chocolate wafted under my nose. Everything about this place was massive, from the nutella bottles to the banana split sitting on the counter, all the way to the menus!

Deciding to share, our hearts were set on one thing: cake and ice cream. I found too much enjoyment in simply reading the names on the menu to actually pick a dessert; therefore this task was delegated to my mother and sister. Clearly catering to the masses, names like ‘Severus Shake’, ‘Chewbaclava’, and my father’s favourite, ‘Baking Bad’ jumped out at me.

Settling on a ‘What the Fudge’, we eyed each dessert that was carried past. And when ours finally arrived, the wait was worth it! The fork slid through the cake like a boiled potato, and a fudgy sauce dripped off the metal prongs. Reaching over for ice cream to go with this delectable delight, the firm solid easily slid onto the utensil. The chocolate elicited a low groan from my lips as it hit my tongue. Our guess for the ice cream was that it was vanilla, but this creamy sweetness was unlike any taste experienced before. Accompanied by a low hum, the treat was devoured.

Not one of us could have predicted this whirling end to what we presumed would be a sweet family Sunday lunch, but as we drove back towards Mississauga, there was not a one person in that car who regretted this trip.

A Different Kind Of New Year

Tomorrow would be the first day of the new year-not by the Gregorian calendar though. It’s the first of Moharram, the start of the Islamic calendar, and the Islamic sect of Bohris has a specific way of celebrating.

This year, two families merged together for this occasion. Dishes were lavishly prepared and set out, and we all sat on the floor around the thaal, ready to dig in. The large, flat silver surface groaned under the weight of numerous dishes. As per tradition, the meal started with a pinch of salt. This ritual out of the way, we move on to a taste a small plate of rice and sprinkles. Two additives that conventionally belong to savoury meals and desserts, respectively, mesh well together. As sprinkles are crushed under teeth, the sweetness mingles with the mild saltiness of rice, preparing us for the food ahead.

Next is the traditional South-Asian dish, kheer. Cold and smooth, the rice pudding slides over my tongue in just the right consistency: not too runny, not too lumpy. Delicious as it is, this sweet treat makes me hunger for the saltier foods, and so we progress on to the next round.

After the customary bite of flat roti and gur, each person chooses from a variety of small portions of food, in this case being koftay and kababs. The sugarcane is lumpy and hard and sickeningly sweet, so the gur is to be avoided, but alternating between a bite of spicy but dry kabab and moist meatballs makes the obligation to eat the entire roti somewhat bearable.

It was the chhollay here that salvaged this course. Boiled to softness, the chickpeas and potatoes will melt in your mouth. Drenched in tamarind chutney, the thin, crispy papri, a bright orange against the dull brown chhollay, juxtaposes both in sight and in a bite. The addition of coriander and onions tops off this scrumptious side, and for those daring enough, a sprinkle of chaat masala adds just the perfect amount of tang.

The fish remained untouched when someone mentioned that seafood and milk together lead to disastrous consequences, and of course no one would give up dessert for this salty sea creature. And so, we moved on to haleem. Steam rises from this viscous liquid. A hand extends to squeeze lemon onto the surface, and then coriander and fried onions are dusted on. This bland concoction of blended wheat and meat now flavoured, I take a large spoonful, spluttering at the unexpected heat. The second bite is savoured, as the freshness of the herb mingles with the sour citrus.

Finally, the dish everyone anticipates: a homemade dessert with a crumbled cookie layer, topped with frozen cream, and finally, chocolate sauce and smooth peaches! We all attack like savages, adults and children alike, spoons delving deep down to get the perfect combination of crunchy biscuit and soft cream.

As the circle reaches its end with this sweet dish, we each taste a lick of salt, reclining back in the living room, ready to dive into a new year.