half past nomad

I met Kevin in the Combinatorics class. He sat with Brook nearby, Dan behind me and the rest of the click just falling into place. Even the Indian girl who puzzled me was part of the group. They were all Math Education majors and that did not include me. Long dark hazel hair, sharp blue eyes and a constant smile on his cheerful face, Kevin had the entire class loving him in no time. I rather liked him, and given my sometimes shy personality, wasn’t quite sure how to befriend Kevin; I didn’t need to. Kevin befriended me.

I didn’t have a beard back then. I was just weird old me. Kevin and I would hook up after class, talking about this and that. And girls ofcourse. We were both on a break at that time, absolutely confused by what the female species wanted, especially from the two of us (not together, just individually but never the less a daunting challenge made more terrifying by the fact that women look pretty). I remember the last stunt I pulled in that class. Hey akds, you remember the fountain infront of Matthews Hall? As per tradition, we all have to go through it atleast once in our stay at college. After one fine Friday jumma khutba, I was walking back to campus with the bleached-white haired Malay bro and I decided that it was the day for me. I got fully drenched and proceeded to my Math class. Dripping wet. From head to toe. And sat in the class with the water pooling away from me slowly. I didn’t take any notes that Math class.

It was near that same fountain that I had my first real conversation with Kevin. As he was walking away, I told him that I had blocked her. It was over. No more. It sucked. I hated it. I didn’t want anything more ever again from her. He stopped and turned around. Looking at me straight, in the middle of that crowded college student broadway, he confessed to me that he too had applied the same remedy. She was out of his life. Never again. Never again, he said to me. And that was how I really met Kevin.

Designing the Future: eye opening article that refers to re-vamping the Industrial Revolution to adopt to a natural humane lifestyle.

I have over 60 people on my MSN Messenger list yet I barely talk to 5 of them. That’s sad. And common.

I have 57 feeds on my Bloglines account and I’m sad that all of them have been perused; there’s nothing new to browse upon on any of my 57 regular blog reads. I’m sad.

Family is a funny thing. You would think that extreme sports push you beyond your limits but that is nothing compared to the emotional pressure that is brought by the never ending rollercoaster that is your family.

This group of people, banded together by a fate God written, beat a single unified heart spread throughout. It’s hard to put down your finger on its pulse – but this faint pulse shifts its home constantly; a heart here now, a heart there now, a heart fluttering. It concentrates itself on the family member in need and this need in turn pulls to itself the faint threads of the family.

This difficult changing challenge is you against a heart more deeply intertwined within you, then the one that beats inside your chest.

Change or Die: An incredible article outlining human behaviour and its ability, or lack of, to change.

I have discovered my love for Ovaltine cookies and a double cuppa chai. It’s true love. We plan on eloping next Tuesday.

The hum of the fan in the room is reassuring. My little yellow legal pad flutters about, a paper butterfly too tired to fly, too smart to escape. Clothes lay scattered about in the bedroom; belts here, ties there, shirts shirts oh everywhere. The bed, amen, is clear of any debris. There’s a small clay ornamental trashcan that I have many times tried removing from my bedroom, yet it finds its way back home; how will you find your way home when I drop you out of the window 6 floors high little clay pot?

The clay pot is a hideous little disfigured item. I don’t know how or why my parents could even fathom purchasing this item. Surely, there were tough times then to have forced their hands into such a torturing decision. I know I’m in pain. Last year, my mom decided, as we were flying out of Pakistan, to express her love for clay pots, dishes and glasses. By buying them and trying vainly to stuff them in her suitcase in an attempt to smuggle them home. I forgot about them, packed them and sent them into the plane’s cargo. Four hours later, the open suitcase revealed a massacre unlike any other in the history of the family; there was red broken clay everywhere.

The moral of the story was simple. Don’t fly Aero Asia even if you’re desperate. I forgot. The airline sucked. That’s why I remember the broken clay pot. To those adventurous souls who do desire thrills unlike none before, unlike none ever to come, please sir, proceed to departure gate number 6. Thank you and we hope you enjoy your flight.

There’s a city in NZ called Christchurch. There are Muslims who live there. They are referred to as Christchurch Muslims.

I also installed Matt’s Asides, which are tiny little entries without the major header. They make blogging easier & nicer.