It looked like a tangled mess, those sawayyan; vermicelli, lying in a mound in the silver-gilt rim white porcelain dish on Eid morning in Nani Ami’s home. Next to it lay dainty matching bowls with silver spoons, a large carafe of fresh, raw milk, a sugar bowl and several bowls of dried nuts, slivered, whole and crushed to a dust-something for everyone’s preferences in the family. [Read more...]

Salted caramels from Trader Joe’s and saffron strands from Yekta were always packed into my suitcase for my trip back home to Rome. And when I was really lucky, I’d get to take back a blueberry-banana bread loaf made by Aunty Shelly and a cranberry walnut loaf by Aunty Sabiha, my Ami’s dearest friends. [Read more...]

‘On Exile’ (to borrow Edward Said’s phrase)

My post is inspired by ‘York’, by Belgian Waffle, a fascinating blogger, who has written a nostalgic piece about her city of birth.

I was born in Lahore, Pakistan and left my homeland when I was two years old. My life, if sketched as a path on a map, would be a series of zig zags, going from Pakistan to America, to Nigeria, to America, back to Pakistan, then to Kenya, to Bangladesh, to the UK, back to America again, to Italy and  finally, Canada. At the age of 13, when we were living in Washington DC, Baba, my father, decided to send me to live in Pakistan with Mader, my paternal grandmother,  because he didn’t want me to become “Americanised”. I didn’t want to leave my parents, my sisters, and I especially didn’t want to leave my Ami; my mother, my best friend. But I didn’t resist or fight back; racist children in school had made my life miserable beyond comprehension, and all I wanted to do was to run away from them.  [Read more...]