In the past couple of years I’ve watched friends, former lovers and exes alike choose people to boo up with and partner up with. Some I’ve been surprised by, others made sense to me. Real talk, it doesn’t matter what I think at the end of the day. If you like it, I love it.
I could ask why someone chooses one person over another person but I don’t think there’s any real rhyme or reason. It’s like asking why one person’s voice sounds like a warm and lovely lullaby while another person’s voice sounds like nails against a chalkboard.
I just don’t think we have a choice in the matter.
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Zainab Chaudary is Love Inshallah’s resident geek. Look for her column, “The Geekologist” every third Wednesday of the month!
First rule of Fight Club: you do not talk about Fight Club.
First rule of Browncoats: aim to misbehave.
First rule of Whovians: you never forget your first Doctor.
Every geek has a poison of choice. Yes, you can fan out over multiple shows and let your mind wander the ‘verse of “Firefly” or the final frontiers of “Star Trek.” But there’s always that one thing you connect with above all others – a show, a character, or a comic book hero. My poison of choice? A little British show about a 900-year old alien Time Lord with two hearts, (mostly) human physiology, and the ability to regenerate himself when on the verge of death: “Doctor Who.”
In 2006, I was working at a bookstore, navigating my way back to a life I no longer recognized after three years of living abroad. Life was different and yet the same, and like the Doctor, the new layered onto the old. When a coworker introduced me to Doctor Who, I recognized something of myself in it, in the man who travels, never ceasing, never stopping, and in the people who travel with him, only to inevitably get left behind. Like most sci fi and fantasy, it is the fantastical premise that throws universal human-ness into sharp relief and depicts the reality of being human better than any sitcom with a canned laugh track. These shows are unafraid to take risks, and prepare their fan base for anything. Even separation. Even death.
Check out this gorgeous project, “Follow Me,” by Russian photographer Murad Osmann. Each shot is of the back of his girlfriend as she leads him hand through various locations around the world. The project started when she became annoyed that he was so occupied with his camera and started pulling him by the hand. Read more about the project, here.
The bowl was in the dishwasher at work and I recognized it instantly. That rim of earthy green flowers decorating the edge of a crisp white Pyrex bowl. My grandmother had a set of the very same dishes in her house in Karachi and they would sometimes make an appearance at chai time. Was it a sign from God? Maybe. Maybe not. But it was something. See, my grandmother passed away last week. Mumma lived a long, full, and happy life. She traveled the world and had a large circle of beautiful and warm friends. She lived to see her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren build beautiful families and lives of their own. Hands down, Mumma was easily the most gracious and loved person I knew.
And yet, when my mother called to tell me of her passing, I had a very removed reaction. It had been many years since I’d seen Mumma. Over the last few years, her hearing had started fading and phone calls became too taxing. I would essentially have a conversation with her nurse who would yell my statements to my grandmother and then relay my grandmother’s response back. Sometimes, the nurse forgot that she didn’t need to yell the response back to me so the entire phone call became a very loud, almost ironic game of Telephone. Thereafter, her memory became foggy and she could never quite remember which grandchild I was. Eventually, the nurse was forced to admit my grandmother had no idea who I was and why I was calling. So, I stopped calling.
Heart, be brave.
If you cannot be brave, just go!
Love’s glory is not a small thing.
After I got married and the babies came, I would get up some mornings full of envy.
I was inundated with frustration regarding my identity: how I wanted to be defined and what I wanted to be known for. In my mind, I’d start a long list of comparisons between ‘me’ and ‘them’ in which I always came up short.
She is a doctor.
He is a Vice President.
She makes beautiful music.
He is a published author.
A small voice would pipe up, “And what are you? Nothing.”
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