Zainab's Writings

Dear Karachi, I love you. Everyday, they tell me how terrible you are, with your overpopulated neighbourhoods and filthy streets flowing with sewage, they tell me tales of your unreliable, almost nonexistent transport system, of poverty and power outages. Till not so long ago, I used to read in the paper; stories about corruption, robberies and the government’s lack of attention thereof. I don’t read the newspaper anymore. I know there’s more to you than what the news reports say. There’s good in you, good which I see everyday when I step outside. I love you for all your sincere people, people who care and are willing to make a difference. I love you for the fact that despite all your industrial growth, traditional values thrive anyway; you still have not transformed completely into a modern capitalist society. I love your diversity; your people which originate from different parts of the subcontinent creating a wonderful distinct culture, each with their own set of ideas and bel

This is the first chapter of a short story I'm working on. I will hopefully post the other parts soon, or as I get done with them. ----- It was an early Sunday morning, and after a hectic week of work, the neighbourhood slept uninterrupted. Everything was still and silent; everything except for the branches of an old neem tree that swayed in the wind - and the sparrow that lived on it - which went about their usual business, oblivious of the fact that it was a Sunday. Next to the neem tree there was an old house (the oldest on the street, perhaps even older than the neem tree itself). For years the house had stood alone next to empty plots on the street, and it had seen the deserted region grow into a neighbourhood that buzzed with life. But now, it wore a tired look; it seemed like it no longer wanted to carry on with life. The yellowish paint on the walls once used to be white, but now it was peeling off; it seemed as if the people around had stopped caring for it. In

At school I was always the high-achiever ; although I seldom worked hard at my studies. There were occasions when I wouldn't feel like doing the work I was supposed to do, did it half-heartedly, and still received a 'Well done!’ comment from the teacher. One such incident from kindergarten is still fresh in my mind. The class was doing a Picture Composition - a  writing activity which required us to write and draw about a picture of a seal performing in a circus; taped to the blackboard. I happened to be in a bad mood, and purposely gave my worst to the task; making sure I coloured outside the lines in the picture I drew. However, to the teacher it was quite satisfactory, and I got a smiley-face for it. This was one of the first impressions the school gave me: you had to satisfy the teacher, your own standards of satisfaction were irrelevant and unimportant. Although I was mostly a very obedient student, bitter experiences happened to me as well, some of which still stick