The angel is back

Everything has changed.

After a long gap, Sahar has returned to being an angel again. My samajhdar beti. The one who you can talk to and explain very complex ideas as well.

She was born with this gift. When Sahar was 8-9 months old and so very perfect, I used to say that I must remember that Sahar was born with the natural gift of calm, reflective, sensitive intelligence. And not start taking credit for it….. “Look what a good job we did as parents”

After the trauma of Aliza’s arrival which broke our cosy twosome, our shifting home to gr noida, and my continuing to work long hours….

The clouds have lifted from Sahar’s skies… its bright and sunny and breezy. She loves her school, she belongs there with ease.

She compliments me.. you are my princess, my queen, my girl… she said today.

She makes Aliza laugh away her irritability and anger

She compliments Papa and everyone else too.

Sings Geeta Dutt and Nayara Noor….

Aye dil mujhe bata de….. tu kiss pe a gaya hai

Hame mathe pe bosa do…… ! Give me a kiss on my forehead, mum

Homeless at Home

Homeless at Home

I’m a film-maker , an artist, a mother and my husband’s lover. What’s wrong with the word, wife?

Must be something not okay about it because I do not say I am a wife. I am probably not a few things a wife is supposed to be. And I don’t want to be those roles either…. So I won’t use that word for now.

(Things are great between Afzal and me….this is a better marriage and partnership than I could ever have imagined even if I had really pushed my imagination from a feminist standpoint. So not using the word wife is not a bad thing, I think)

Coming back to why I feel homeless at home.

There are a few issues here: God, religion, dress code, our mothers. Some others which are unconnected to my marriage: the house is too big, I’m too lazy for consistent housewifery, I worked and traveled for news television for too long.


Also these days accentuated by the fact it’s the month of Razman and this is the first time that I am at home watching Afzal observe his fasts. Empathy, guilt, love…. A combination of emotions causing me to be uncomfortable in my skin.

When he fasts and suffers and prays and I don’t, we become very different. And ‘differences’ is still a bad word for me. It makes me insecure and a little scared.

And that’s the time when it really helps that we have two children who still make us chase them to eat and use the potty and separate them when they are too tired to be nice to each other.