Lara Zuberi's Blog

Although I knew she was ninety-two, and I was aware that she had been afflicted with Covid, I was hoping that the strength of her lungs would prevail—but alas, her time had come. The day Lata Mangeshkar passed, I mourned for her like I would for a person I knew well, someone whose absence felt tangible and painful. It has taken me a while to write this, as I am still absorbing the impact of this monumental loss, a loss that is not mine alone.

It seems impossible to contain the spell of her songs in a few pages, and encompass her boundless contribution in a passage, and it is not my attempt to do so. I write this merely as a small tribute to a great legend.

My earliest memories are filled with Lata’s songs playing in our house when I was perhaps three years old. Our apartment was tiny, although it never seemed small--it was a happy, melodious home, the mellifluous voice of Lata Mangeshkar reverberating from its every corner, living with its walls. My beautiful mother sang her songs, and does to this day, lyrics embalmed in her memory, her sweet voice always in tune. My parents share a strong appreciation for music, and I am ever so grateful for having this woven into my DNA. I began singing Ai Meray Dil e Nadaan as a toddler, mispronouncing it as ‘Din e Nadaan,’ mesmerized by its acoustic power many years before I understood the meaning of its lyrical words.

It is only recently that I have had the good fortune of finding a wonderful teacher, and am embarking on a journey of learning how to sing. This has given me a deeper and renewed perspective on the depth of music, as well as the genius of Lata Mangeshkar.

On the morning of her demise, my son, a playful sixth-grader, accidentally broke a decoration piece that sits on our mantle. I am not one to admonish over mishaps, nor am I one to be affected by the destruction of the finite. However, this was perhaps the only such item that seemed irrevocably tied to my childhood, and seeing it broken was upsetting in that moment. My parents had bought it when we lived in that apartment, when I was five or six. It was a colored Cinderella, adorned in a pink flowing dress, in her chaise with four horses, golden chains as their reins, a horseman perched on his elevated seat. After having lost their luster over the years, the chains had been replaced, and it appeared new despite being more than three decades old. My son’s shirt had caught in it, causing it to crash on the floor, breaking into a multitude of uneven pieces. It wasn’t just broken, it was shattered—parts of horse legs lay at different ends of the living room, the horseman’s arms amputated, the exquisite Cinderella dismembered.

I felt as if Lata and Cinderella—both integral parts of my life since my early childhood, were suddenly gone forever—and the breaking of this seemingly inconsequential glass piece, seemed to personify--and solidify the loss. We picked the countless shards off the floor, and as I accepted my son’s sincere apology, I reassured him that it was all right, and things are, after all, dispensable and replaceable.

We listened to Lata’s songs from every decade, savoring every eloquent rendition, while collectively mourning the loss of someone so dear to us.

Born to a father who was a classical singer, Lata ji had received early exposure to music, which became superimposed on an inherited talent and God-gifted voice. In an interview with Javed Akhtar, she recalled climbing onto the kitchen counter and singing among the clamor of dishes as her mother cooked, often to the latter’s annoyance. She corrected her father’s student at the mere age of five, forcing him to realize the musical maturity and infinite potential of his eldest child. The next morning at six am, he began teaching her on the Tanpura, and once she started, there was no turning back. Singing became her unbridled passion, and she dedicated her life to its pursuit and mastery. Although her father passed away when she was only thirteen, she continued along this path with unstoppable determination. Her Bollywood career began in 1947, the year of independence, and she became, in Dr. C D Deshmukh’s words, “ a tuneful symbol of national integration,” boasting a career spanning more than seven decades, recording her last song in 2019.

Master Ghulam Haider, often credited to be the first to recognize her exceptional talent, said, “Your voice is like a stream in its flow. Give it a classical turn and the Chenab loses its fluidity.” She mentioned him being her mentor, teaching her the art of singing while deeply connecting with the lyrics, transforming into the character depicted on screen.

I do have a very special attachment to Ae ga Anne Waala from Mehel. It was my grandfather’s favorite song, and I have been enchanted by its beauty over the years. Since technology was limited at the time, the music director, Khemchand Prakash, asked Lata to walk several steps gradually towards the microphone, in order to create the illusion of an echo to fit the haunting scene in the movie. This had to be repeated five times for the desired effect. Nargis and her mother listened to her sing, complemented her, expressing appreciation that despite being of Marathi origin, she had pronounced the Urdu word ‘Baghair’ with such ease and precision.

This focus on pronunciation is what sets Lata apart from singers of her time and singers of today. She gave credit to Dilip Kumar who once advised her to learn Urdu at their first meeting at the onset of her career. She took up this challenge with utmost urgency, dedicating herself as a disciple of an Urdu ustaad, Maulana Mehboob. He not only taught her accurate diction and fine linguistic nuances, but also went into depths of explaining the timeless and classic poetry of Mir and Ghalib. Although she never attended a formal school, her education at home was instrumental in her reaching the pinnacle of success.

At that time, playback singers were not acknowledged, and the Mehel album was titled Kamini, the character played by Madhubala in the movie. Countless listeners of radio programs repeatedly sent in requests, inquiring about the singer’s identity, the mystical voice behind the song, and Lata Mangeshkar’s name came to be known, becoming sewed into the fabric of Hindustani music. Sadly, Khemchand passed away shortly before his masterpiece received its due acclaim.

Barsaat was the first film that acknowledged her as a playback singer, and soon she was propelled into stardom.

When more filmmakers began recognizing her musical expertise, she was offered numerous songs and albums, and sometimes recorded for different films simultaneously, travelling by train, often working until three in the morning. She passionately enjoyed her craft, and the long hours did not impede her zeal.

She gave voice to the timeless lyrics of Shailendra, Majrooh Sultanpuri and Sahir, and the masterful and intricate compositions of Naushad, Anil Biswaas, Madan Mohan, S.D. Burman, C. Ramchander and others. Her dedication knew no bounds, as evidenced by her continuing the recording of the wonderful song Tere Sadqe Balam after having passed out from illness following the third take. She remained a perfectionist, often cancelling recordings when her sinus trouble intervened. Whenever she felt she could give her seventy-five percent, she refused to sing, despite composers insisting that that her seventy-five percent was better than her rivals’ hundred percent.

There is little doubt that the greatest songs would have been impossible without the talent of the masterminds who wrote and composed them, however, many of them expressed in later years that their creations may not have existed without Lata Mangeshkar.

The impact of her music has been felt from the times of Kemchand in the 40s, to Naushad in the 50s and 60s, to Khayyam in the 70s and 80s, to A.R. Rehman into the new century, touching many generations.

In 1963, during her performance of Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon, the former Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, overcome with patriotic emotion, is known to have wept unabashedly.

Songs from Piya tho Se Naina Laage re to Dekha Ek Khwaab tho and Aaj Kal Paaon Zameen Par will make you fall in love; yet others like Thor Diya Dil Mera to Yeh Shaam ki Thanhaayian to Uthae Ja Unke Sitam to Mujhe Teri Mohabbat Ka Sahaara will tear you apart; Bachpan ke Din to Bachpan ki Mohabbat ko will transpose you into a world of nostalgia; Chanda Hai Thu to Dur Kahin Ek Aam Ki Baghiya will reaffirm your motherhood; Bane ho Eik Khaak Se and Aurat Ne Janam Diya Mardon Ko will make you cry for injustice; Allah Tero Naam to Ai Dil e Nadaan to O Paalan Haare will connect you to the Higher Power in an unbreakable way.

Her high octaves are unmatched, they seem unreachable without monumental effort, seeming as effortless as exhaling a breath when sung by her. She acknowledged studying voice modulation with Anil Biswas who helped her achieve an extraordinary steadiness of her voice across every pitch. Always adorned in a traditional Sari, often white, she graciously accepted awards and accolades, including the highest national honor of the Bharat Ratna, and stopped accepting Filmfare awards after 1971, paving the way for newer talent.

In the 90s, she created a touching tribute to her predecessors including K.L. Saigal and Pankaj Mullick, and co singers including Mohammad Rafi, Geeta Dutt and Kishore Kumar, among others, in the form of Shraddhanjali. She introduced us to songs that newer generations may have remained oblivious to, simultaneously teaching us that humility and appreciation of our comrades keeps us grounded, ensuring our continued introspection and perpetual growth.


Although none of us spoke of the broken Cinderella, it hung in the air like the fact that we were all ruminating over Lata. The next day, I listened to songs of Andaz and Amar, Aarzoo and Anarkali on my way to work and back, and fit in a few classics into my short lunch break. I sang with her, every memorized word, feeling melancholic, but inspired--fortunate to have witnessed the remarkable journey of this unparalleled singer.

When I entered our home, I was greeted by Cinderella, appearing unharmed, her four horses intact, without the slightest crack visible. I gasped in amazement as I remembered my father’s extraordinary ability to fix things. It was magical. He said he’d seen on my face how much it meant to me, so he’d spent some hours dexterously reattaching each miniscule piece. I still don’t know how this could be accomplished without a microscope.

I felt as though Lata were here too, with me—her songs within my soul, singing to me, soothing me in times of despair, celebrating with me in times of joy, showing me the way to the impossible.

As she sang in Mughal-e-Azam,

Tumhaari Duniya se Jaa Rahe Hain Utho Humara Salam Lay Lo

Lata ji please accept Salam from the whole world—for all the singers you inspired, all the lives you touched, and all the hearts you moved.

Since the keyboard is designed with T juxtaposed to R, the typo for my name is—not infrequently-- your name, even when I am typing it myself. It is perhaps the only texting error that rather than irritating me, fascinates me.

Although you are no longer with us, your songs, like my childhood, will remain a part of my soul as long as I live—and although my heart was crushed when the news of your passing came, it has mended itself with the soothing voice of silk that emanates from your songs, and akin to the repaired Cinderella in her pink dress, it feels whole again.

Just as your music lives beyond the confines of the seven surs, Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa-Dha-Ni, your legacy lives an ocean beyond the ink of these words.


(Title inspired by Dr. Padma Subrahmanyam’s description of Lata)

The Evolution of Fear—A Letter To My Son

As a child, the only thing I feared was falling from a swing and scraping my knee—or Mom discovering my name penned on the wall in more than one corner of our home; or, as I grew older, the intermittent threat of political unrest in my city. When I was in college, I feared falling short of academic excellence, and not getting into the medical school of my first choice.

As an adult, I feared migration when I set out to traverse the globe and resigned myself to assimilate into a foreign country with a culture disparate from my own; I feared residency, but I feared completion of residency even more. I feared marriage but I feared divorce even more. I feared the hurricane--as warnings neared and sirens loomed; I feared the inevitable aging of my parents and the unavoidable physical gulfs that would separate me from friends of my childhood.

When at work, I feared making an error in judgement, that fulcrum between risk and benefit, which, for a patient was the fulcrum between hope and despair, the line between living and dying. Seeing the fear in their eyes, reflected in my own, and being unable to assuage it. I feared predicting the time of their demise—I feared being wrong in my estimate; but I feared being right even more.

The one thing I never feared was motherhood.

Once I became a mother, I feared my shortcomings—my want of dexterity as I fumbled with changing diapers; my inability to put you to sleep after every lullaby had been sung—melodies extricated mostly from memory, some composed extempore; not always discerning your needs with acumen. I feared my demanding career getting in the way of parenthood. As I took a two-year hiatus from work to care for you—I feared writing that as an explanation for the gap on my CV—though I know now that I can single-out that one as the most unfounded of all fears.


Last year, I feared Covid. The exponential rise in infections and deaths, hundreds then thousands, then hundreds of thousands of people—a microscopic, invisible sworn enemy of Mankind, causing undecipherable devastation. I feared acquiring it, becoming ill with it, and passing it on to you or your aging grandparents. I feared that it was lurking behind me, this unforgiving virus, following me like an unrelenting shadow. Stuck beneath my fingernails even after I’d washed them incessantly, skin cracked from excessive hand sanitizer—in my mind it was laced inside my ring, hiding within the seams of my coat, tucked inside the soles of my shoes. I feared it was on the steering wheel of the car, and the doorknob of our home, and it breathed with me and clung to me like a poisonous snake ready to release its venom at any moment. Day after day I’d hear of someone I knew well become infected—and worse still—pass away. The pleasant respiratory therapist we shared clinic space with for years, the one who helped others breathe-- succumbed to it after a prolonged hospitalization. I prayed earnestly in silence for three weeks while Bari Manana, your grandma’s sister, struggled to breathe, finally released from the hospital in Dubai, though with a long road to recovery ahead of her.

The isolation itself was devastating. You are diligent about wearing your mask and complulsively washing your hands, but every week there is news of someone testing positive in your school. My classmate posted heart-breaking pictures of her holding the hand of her dying mother in the ICU of a Dallas hospital, and my medical assistant returned to work a changed person after having lost both parents to this unforgiving disease. The vaccine has been a groundbreaking invention, and is changing the course of this catastrophe, but it will take long to be fully controlled, and may never be eradicated fully in our lifetimes. Amidst all this, I have feared ignorance of those who remain skeptics and, and who see masks not as life-saving guards, but rather as an obstacle to their freedom, and who will refuse the vaccine even when it is provided to them. Death by ignorance is by far worse than death by disease.

A new kind of fear is gripping me today, gnawing at my insides. It’s mixed in with the joy of seeing you growing up into the fine young man you are set out to be. It’s the fear that you will soon learn things about this world and about life that will rob you of that intelligent innocence that is so part of your being---that inquisitive voice that speaks with every thoughtful conversation, echoing alongside your unrestrained laugh.

You will learn about racism and inequality and all the hatred that possesses human beings. You will understand the abominable power of wealth, and how the world sadly revolves around it. You will read in history, about the atrocities of war, and of the suffering people of Palestine and victims of the Holocaust. You will know about the genocide of Myanmar and the catastrophe of 9/11. You will learn of lives lost in order for liberty to be found, and of nations destroyed for cities to be made. You will hear of lives lost for no legitimate reason, and lives lost for no reason at all—the stray bullet that struck a child through a broken window; the young woman who fell to her death as she took a selfie on the peak of a mountain; road rage gone out of control; the cyber-bully victim who could take no more. You will learn that every year as many people die in America of gun violence as of breast cancer—and while we have made commendable strides in science and medicine, the country you live in has declined in life expectancy from man-made ills of guns and drugs and alcohol.

You will feel the pinch of rejection and the sting of failure; you will experience inexpressible loss—you will fear remembering, but you will fear forgetting even more. You will hear the story of the photograph taken in rural Africa, a vulture advancing towards a starving child of similar proportion, and you will recoil at the thought of the child’s death, and the subsequent suicide of the photographer. You will learn that one percent of the world’s rich could have eradicated world hunger but did not; that clean water can be accessible to all the world’s population, but is not; that education is not a right but a privilege for most; that women are forced to marry, or beaten and killed for marrying of their own will; that children are abandoned and left to die in graveyards and garbage dumps; that alcohol and drugs have ruined an entire generation, that racism continues to exist decades after emancipation, and that many people are not honest or sincere or kind or well-meaning; that they are not you—and they cannot think nor feel like you--and that life can be unfair and humans can exploit others to no end--that altruism is the exception and not the rule. I fear that these thoughts will keep you up at night, as you grapple with them, and ponder over what you can do to find answers, and if answers exist at all.

I know I cannot protect you from the intrepid turns of life—nor can I shield you from all pain. It would be naïve of me to think that I can stop you from making every mistake —for no one in history went through a life of perfection, for it is the imperfections that teach us, that is how we learn and grow—and that’s how we survive and thrive. Parts of us are scratched and molded, as we go through a furnace, as we are cut with a scalpel, parts of us burn and melt and break---but then we are shaped and reshaped—and still manage to emerge whole. Every furnace burns at a different flame, and every scalpel cuts at a different depth. Not everyone’s life is the same—but everyone’s life is complicated.

I no longer have the lullabies, and soon I’ll run out of stories, the countless and often endless tales of friendship and of love and peace, with endings that are complete and happy—blissful stories that soothe you into a restful sleep, followed by dreams of butterflies in gardens, and rainbows in waterfalls, and kings in castles. Soon you will understand what is meant by no roses without thorns, and you will recognize the failures behind success, and you will decipher the discord buried in each melody and see through the hypocrisy of our patriarchal culture.

I am not a bird, that can build a nest, nor am I a butterfly that can craft a cocoon, though I wish sometimes that I were. You have seen me flinch when I put a bandaid on your hurt elbow and and an ice pack on your bruised knee. It hurts me more than if it were my own wound. I cannot pretend that sadness will never touch you—but I hope that it is transient; I cannot avert every mistake, but I hope that you will forgive yourself for making it; I cannot prevent every regret, but I hope that it will be overcome by contentment; I cannot protect you from every hurt, but I hope that sound judgement becomes your guard; I cannot convince you that life is perfect, but I hope you learn that it must be lived to its fullest; I cannot shield you from every setback; but I hope that resilience prevails.

I cannot tell you that the world isn’t flawed, but I hope that you perceive its beauty; I hope that you realize that for every Hitler, there is a Mother Teresa, and for every act of evil, there is an act of kindness. And kindness begets itself, and cannot always be paid back, but must always be paid forward; I hope you see the miracle of the sun rise and the glory of the full moon and I hope you stop to listen to the song of the nightingale, and slow your pace to inhale the scent of lavender, and pause to taste the juice of mangoes, and I hope you are granted the gift of lasting friendships and experience true love that is reciprocated in full measure. I pray that you are surrounded by the unselfish, and that you share a sizable slice of time on this earth with those who are just like you.

I turned forty about an hour ago.
My seven-year-old was next to me, counting minutes and then seconds until he could sing happy birthday as I stepped into the next decade. I do not consider myself particularly vain, so the inevitable hint of grey in my hair, and the unironed contours of my face are not at the center of my thoughts right now. The question that begs to be answered at this juncture is rather, how well do I understand life.
At two, as I walked and stumbled, uttering phrases that made little sense, I probably thought I understood life a bit.
At five, as dimensions of my personality emerged and began shaping who I’d become, I probably understood it better.
At sixteen, the world was mine, and I was sure that I understood it completely.
On my twentieth birthday, I wrote something about my deep understanding of life, and although I do not recall the exact words of what was titled 'Reflections in the Candlelight', I do remember the naivety engraved in the conclusion of that passage, something to the effect that I had seen it all. I do not have a compelling desire to look through scraps of yellowing paper in order to unearth that amateurish piece of writing.
In my younger days, my birthday had always been an exciting time of year for me, an excuse to spend time with my amazing friends and cousins, piling on solid bricks of memories with every milestone. My birthday falls in the midst of summer break, ensuring that academic pressures did not interrupt the fun. It was religiously hot in the sweltering Karachi sun, but weather was seldom a deterrent in the attainment of pure joy in those bygone youthful days.
At ten, I was a happy kid, a much- endeared, studious only child, my days filled with books and tests and friends, not to forget the countless attempts at quenching my creative thirst by always making time for writing, art and music.
At twenty, I was a medical student, with few worries beyond the pursuit of academic success.
At thirty, I was an immigrant physician in America, having completed my residency, and married for seven solid years.
At forty, I'm a mother, an oncologist, an author, and a divorce’.
Twenty years ago, I had envisioned myself as the first three.
Had there been a title in my college days of ‘least likely to get divorced’, I could have probably won it without much competition.
Strangely enough, I wrote an article at twenty, about the devastation of divorce. I wrote it in first person from the perspective of my friend who was going through it, in the form of a letter to her former husband. I mailed it from my college to Karachi’s leading newspaper, Dawn. I felt her pain and wanted desperately to share it with the world, never imagining that two decades later, this would become my own reality. To my surprise, I received several heartfelt responses from readers, and it began a conversation regarding arranged marriage and divorce and its consequences. It’s ironic that that very article played a pivotal role in propelling me into the writing world as I realized the power and impact that words in print can have.
I had not predicted this to become the path of my own life, and yet I have embraced it, and am proud of myself for making brave decisions that I don't regret. I feel complete and free, and rediscovering who I was, and who I'm meant to be, as a mother and a person, is a gift that I'm eternally grateful for.
Benjamin Franklin said that most people die at twenty-five and are not buried until seventy-five. I wanted so earnestly to disagree with this beautifully articulated, profound thought, and now, I can.
I don't feel any different, fortunately, in the level of my physical endurance, although I have to confess that sleep doesn’t come as effortlessly, and gone are the days when I could indulge in a guilt-free scoop of ice cream.
I’ve gained knowledge by virtue of my educational path, but I've gained wisdom, I hope, by way of life lessons. I’ve reduced my working hours in order to spend more time with those who will always matter far more to me than my job, even though I love my job, and consider myself blessed to be doing what I am so passionate about. I've spoken with people from many walks of life. Patients and friends and readers have confided in me, sharing their personal stories with utmost candor. I consider their trust a priceless gift. I’ve learnt that everyone has their share of problems, and profile pictures on face book can hide them well. In the process of sharing the pain of others, I have been healed myself.
I’ve learnt the nonlinear mathematics of balancing finances, the complex geography of the world, the peculiar science of relationships, and the fine art of saying No. I make decisions, both personally and professionally, and this has been truly liberating. I am more confident, more courageous, more grateful. I’m less trusting, but less judgemental. I’m able to see the spectrum of color in a world that I viewed before solely as black and white.
Its become easier to make acquaintances and harder to make friends--though I have found the very best and have hung on to them. I have friends that I made when I was seven, and they’ve continued to be an integral part of my life through ups and downs of each decade.
I used to be afraid of driving, and now I’ve driven long- distance for hours in the night. Though I’ve laughed plently at my own dearth of mechanical aptitude, I can now fill air in the tires of my car. Despite coming from a family who fears animals, I’ve killed a snake that was about to enter my home. I spend less time thinking of what others think of me, than I spend on pondering over verses of timeless poetry. I spend less energy on pleasing people than I spend on pleasing my conscience. I facebook less and read more. I procrastinate less. I walk more. I cook less. I travel more. I cry less. I think more.
I'm not as idealistic, perhaps, in that I know well that miracles can greet the very selfish, and catastrophe can strike the kindest of souls. I have realized that goodness is not as powerful a weapon against adversity as I once thought it to be. I have not, however, permitted pessimism to infiltrate my psyche. I believe strongly in human resilience, and in the unmatched healing power that time holds within its palm.
I've changed in many ways, although at the core, I’m not entirely different from the ten-year-old or the twenty-year-old that I once was. If there’s anything I’ve held on to, in all these years, its empathy, and I value that as something I’ve inherited and learned, and also passed on to my only child.
Turning forty has suddenly granted me permission to give some sincere advice, so I hope that you will take it.
Read. Respect. Write. Pray. Learn. Work. Love. Smile. Sing. Give. Grow. Hope. Carry on.
I've learned to look at life as a well-written story---and so it must, while being filled with purpose, be filled also with surprise. I hold on to the conviction that the best stories are often written in first person, so one cannot expect another to fully understand one’s joy or one’s agony, and utmost credit must be given for a sincere attempt at doing so.
So I turn the pages, one by one, working to deepen my understanding of what I've read and learnt so far, acutely aware that there is still a lot I do not know. All wisdom is relative, and growing up does not guarantee its attainment. I try not to rush through this beautiful book of life, making sure to capture my son's innocent laughter, my mother's loving hugs, my father's reassuring voice, all at once--pausing to absorb the hues of every sunset, and admire each petal of the magnolia that blooms outside my window. I make sure I walk along the beach, letting my feet dip into the Florida ocean and feel the sand slipping gently away.
So, my friend, keep turning the pages, and don’t let the twists in the story of your life frighten you. Well-written stories are meant to be unpredictable—so embrace the turns and bends. You may not be able to alter the main plot, or change the characters, but remember that you are the protagonist, and that role gives you the power to manage the joy and sorrow that come your way, and to find the fulcrum of your being.
You cannot control what others say or do, but you can control your reactions to them. Don’t be afraid to edit and cut and paste--rewrite some pages or some chapters if that will make your story more genuine, and if it will lead to a more fulfilling conclusion. Your life-story doesn’t have to be for everybody, as long as it has a small, but credible readership. It doesn’t need to be a bestseller, and it doesn’t need to be a critically acclaimed masterpiece either. Just make it a worthy contribution to the vast literature of lives.
Be inspired, and write it well.

I remember it so well, the day you were born. I remember how soft your skin felt against my cheek, and how your tiny pink fingers wrapped around mine. I remember your first cry, your first smile, your first step, your very first word.
My memory is good, but I wish it was better. I wish I could remember every minute detail-not just the cry but the sound that preceded it; not just the smile, but every laugh that accompanied it; not just the step, but every stumble before it; not just the word, but every sentence that followed it.
I wished at times, that I had a glass bottle, so I could pack all the moments within it, where I could see them, stacking them neatly one on top of another, and I wished I had a cork so I could lock them inside.
I have come to realize that there is a glass bottle, but there is no cork. Some of the old memories have to go to make room for the new ones. There is something remarkable about these moments that escape, though. They do leave traces behind, so that even if the moments are forgotten, the joy that accompanied them remains as the residue, and colors the glass bottle, beautifying it for years to come.

My earlier blog post Nov 2012 reflecting on the shooting:

On my way to work I pass the school zone and I sometimes frown when I am obligated to drive at 20 mph. Occasionally the school bus appears before me with the unmistakable stop sign projecting from its side forcing me to halt my car, thus allowing several children to safely cross the street.
Does it make me a few minutes late for work? Perhaps.
Does it make me secure that in this part of the world, cars will stop for my son when he is old enough to cross the road? Certainly.
Does my heart bleed for Malala Yousufzai when I think about how we fail to protect our children in Pakistan as they commute to seek their rightful gift of education? Every day.

Today, reflections on Malala's UN speech and it's aftermath:

Dear Malala,

When you took a bullet to your head, I prayed for you all night-that you live a long life-for who you are, and for the voice of girls' education that you have become- not only for Pakistan, but for the world.
You were flown to England, where you had life-saving brain surgery, and after the Almighty, I thanked in my heart all the dedicated physicians who cared for you then. Despite experiencing trauma of such magnitude, your courageous steps did not falter, and you continued to fight for education and peace. Last week, your speech at the United Nations on your sixteenth birthday was articulate, moving and a shining example of utmost resilience. You showed the world a much needed positive side of Pakistan, specially when you said that you do not even hate the person who tried to kill you.

For all that you said, I am proud.

A lot of speculation has emerged following the speech: "Why didn't she mention the drones?", "It's all a political stunt," "She is a CIA agent," "It was a rubber bullet," "She is receiving 5 star treatment of a royal princess while others in Pakistan suffer," "She is being called a hero while our real heroes like Edhi are not valued," to mention a few.

For all that they said, I am appalled.

Keep your head high, and tell them that no one would agree to be shot in the head to pull a political stunt; no one would choose a facial droop in exchange for fame or a british education. Tell them that you love Pakistan so much more than they do, for you are the one who has given the ultimate sacrifice. Ask them not to compare you with Sattar Edhi-he is a hero in all of our eyes, but they forget that you are sixteen. You hope to live long, so you can become Sattar Edhi, if only they will let you.

I am sorry that your own countrymen malign you while the world celebrates you;
I am sorry that we have lost the ability to recognize a gem when it is among us;
I am sorry that this bullet of negativity has been so wrongly directed towards you;
I am sorry that you survived a gun shot, yet we strive to kill you with our words.

Growing up in Pakistan, neither had I ever looked upon politics as a friend-nor had I particularly looked upon it as a foe. As a child, I found myself bored when dinners inevitably concluded in political discussions that I barely understood. I vaguely followed the unwritten rule of refraining from broaching with friends what was controversial. When I entered my twenties, I found my country's every corner and every street painted with such loud political color, that indifference became an impossibility.
I became then what almost every thinking Pakistani became: angry about poverty and illiteracy; critical about corruption; sad about the loss of innocent lives, and hopeless about the future. Moving away from Pakistan did nothing to change these sentiments, other than adding to them a dimension of helplessness.
Today, on the eve of election day, I am feeling something-may be it's just a flicker in the dark, may be it's merely a pin drop in the silence-perhaps it's only the beginning of a long, uneven road-but I can't help clinging on to it-an emerging hope within me that when I wake up tomorrow, there will be born a new country-Aik Naya Pakistan.

"It's going to rain all day?" I thought with displeasure, when I heard the first hint of thunder the morning of my first book signing. The bookstore was part of a strip of outdoor shops, where the warmth of the sun walks with the people and carries them along. Sunshine meant more passersby, more joy, more potential for contemplation over the cover of a book.

What if nobody showed up? That would be disappointing, but then I could just blame it on the rain.
I set my table, chair, books, an old fancy pen, and my unsure self at the entrance of the store.

A group of shoppers who bought the first book, said it was for their friends who were to be married that week. Another lady smiled at the mention of Freemont, because five generations of her family had lived there. Yet another young lady appeared intrigued but unsure, promised to return with her husband, but never did. I will remember two best friends who had the 12 year old sparkle in their eyes, the anticipation of what would surprise them about a new book. Then there was the grumpy man, drenched, and accompanied by his dog, who said,"Fiction? Why would I read that?", leaving me surprised and feeling sorry for him.

The faces of these versatile readers will blur over time, but the memory that will stay sharpest, is of the man who walked past me and then returned. He didn't have the money on him to pay. He read the back cover, and I saw his eyes fill up with tears. "That will be my daughter. She won't realize the value of things I say until after I'm gone." I had the sense that there was a lot more hiding behind those tears. I assured him that the store would hold his copy, and I would sign it with his daughter's name. "It's Neveah," he said. "Her mother chose it," he answered when I inquired about the spelling."It's Heaven spelled backwards." He walked away with his book and his umbrella, without knowing that he may have given me the beginning of my next book.

I think a reviewer has done his job well if he has alluded to the plot without giving the story away, has described the main characters and their relationships to some extent, and what, if any, emotions the book evoked in him.
Was it real? Was it moving? Could one relate to some aspect of it? Some readers underestimate themselves in feeling that they cannot do justice to a book in a few lines, while others feel that they can take out their wrath of a bad day on a writer, who is a stranger they will never see.
Personally, I write short reviews because I think more people are likely to read them, but long reviews are good if they cover the relevant aspects without superfluous details.
Readers:If giving a 5 star review, it should be backed up by what you liked about the book, even if it was just a feeling that this was a true story, and similarly a 2 star review should explain the negative aspects rather than calling something pathetic or a waste of time.
Writers: it is never recommended to react to negative reviews, even if they seem grossly unfair, and it is important to brace for criticism. Your book is out in the brutal world, and no longer in the protective womb of your imagination. There will be opinions, and good or bad, an opinion means something. Many best-sellers and critically acclaimed novels have a long list of negative reviews. Would someone spend time writing a review of something they truly disliked? Maybe, although I would not.
There is no perfect review, just as their is no perfect book. Reviews do count. If not for the sales, certainly for the writer's morale. So don't shy away from writing them.

Readers often question the workings of a writer's mind and if they feel that a fictional story is based on a true experience despite disclaimers, it is a victory for the writer.
In The Lost Pearl, there is a tiny part of me in Sana, the protagonist. On the whole, I am very different from her, I think. Her character is shaped by her misfortunes in her early life, an experience that is luckily vastly different from mine. She is an emotional truth seeker who has a strong bond with her family and culture; there we are similar. She is rebellious, blunt and courageous; there we are different. There is a little of me in Sana, but there is more of me perhaps in her mother, who is a conformist, her aunt who is a nurturer, and her brother who decides early in his life to pursue the path of medicine.
Regardless of the differences between us, Sana Shah has, during this journey become real for me and I do think of her almost as if she were my sister.

5 women, 3 of them teenagers, were killed in Pakistan yesterday. What was their sin? They were angels delivering polio drops to innocent children, so that they may be spared a life of handicap. Pakistan is among three countries in the world where Polio is still a reality, 56 cases have been diagnosed in 2012. If no action is taken, it may soon become the only nation on the globe where a preventable cause of paralysis is permitted to prevail.

This post is dedicated to Mamoon Sahab who was afflicted with Polio in his childhood and lived his life with utmost dignity and resilience.