Tag Archives: home


The land


Betrayal is the worst sort of offense when committed against friend, or family. It strikes one suddenly, and unknowingly, and one never expects it to happen. It recently happened to me when stbil (step brother in law) laid claim to my home, and land in the village. He took over the property, and money left by my late husband’s younger brother who died in last November. Not satisfied by that he turned in my direction. I looked an easy prey to him.

I have aged considerably in the aftermath, and now wear perpetually a haunted look. I don’t want stbil to take over my home in my absence from home country. I’m trying to sell, but whoever comes forward offers very low, which is unacceptable.

Fearing he might enter my home forcibly, I removed my most cherished possessions to my city home. I had to enlarge, and enclose my upstairs verandah to accommodate my belongings. I gave away most things with my own hands, because I didn’t want stbil, or his wife to use them.

There is irrefutable evidence in the form of property papers, and land record as to whom it rightly belongs, but stbil adamantly refuses to acknowledge. I have heard he has now drawn bogus papers to prove validity to his claim.

I have left it to God. I hope stbil is punished in this life, and the afterlife too.

The outside


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Maybe I’m prejudiced, but I’ve stopped believing that good people (saintly) exist.

Maybe they are there, but I haven’t come across them.

I feel I’m in a quagmire with the death of my brother in law. I feel I’m orphaned once again. Someone has pulled the covering from my head, and left it bare.

My step brother in law, his wife and his demised brother’s two sons are trying to grab my home, and land in the village. They tell me that it’s not mine. Their treacherous, and ignomious behavior is terribly upsetting.

At the moment it’s in my possession, but the minute I’m gone from here they ‘re likely to do their mischief. The administration in Charsadda has assured me it won’t happen, but I won’t be here. 

I’m wondering at extending my stay, and actively looking for buyers. No one has come forward. For the villagers it’s fun watching the live drama in their midst. A widow (that’s me) on one side, and the the land grabbing mafia consisting of dear step brother, his wife, and two sons of his brother.

I just wonder with which face they face Allah now. Have they forgotten the Hereafter? We all are going to meet our Creator one day, or they think with their prayers on one side they will brazen it out.



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I used to keep a bunch of rubber elastics handy in a drawer in the kitchen, and another one in my vanity drawer. They were useful in tying up the open ends of spice bags once they were opened. Another use was round the currency notes to keep them in order. Then another use was (and is) tying electric cords. When I was keeping long hair, and hair ties were missing, I would use the rubber bands for tying my hair. I definitely have no use for them this way, as I keep my hair now really short.
In October 2015 I visited home country after a gap of two, and a half years. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t. There was a sickening delay in getting my Resident Card, and If I had left, I could never come back. My children stood guard over me, so I couldn’t leave. Anytime I wanted to leave they would give me an earful, reminding me of the reality in my situation. In those days I had turned into a very sad person. Thank God those times are over.

I was overjoyed when I got back to home country for a couple of months stay. Besides the mountains of dust covering everything inside and outside was finding detoriated bunches of the elastic bands in the drawers. They had melted in the closed confines of my home, and the nasty mess adhered to other things in the drawers, and to the drawers itself. It was difficult indeed to clear, and get rid of the gooey material.

That taught me a lesson. I only keep now just a few of them to use in time of need.



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Would like to find a way

Till I’ve means to get a home

For son, and me to live

For a new place to stay

He isn’t as committed as me

Time seems to run away

Never at home, busy as a bee

While I try to find a way




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The Mosque at San Jacinto, Galveston, Texas. You can see inside the Praying area.

My son and two grandsons praying


My earlier sanctuary for a long time was my home in Peshawar. Entering it brought peace of mind. After moving here permanently in 2013, I was far away from home, and would feel lost. I felt insecure, and wondered often (how I chafed at myself), at the decision I took at the insistence of my children that I should move here.

When I bought my small apartment in Virginia in February this year, it became my inner source of peace. I lived there for a short while. I felt extremely sad at leaving it last month to live with my son in Houston.

How long I last here, I have no inkling. At present when I enter my room, I feel happy. It’s where I say my prayers, and go to sleep— it’s my sanctuary.




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Misplaced Keys

My (late) husband R and I were off to the village home for a night stay. Our village home remained close most of the time, cause we lived in our city home. When we planned to stay, I would cook beforehand the food we needed. That way I only had to reheat. I had more time to clean the house, which accumulated dust like a magnet behind closed doors and windows.

Food and other items of necessity had already been loaded into the car. R was impatiently waiting for me to lock the front door, so that we could leave.

When R was alive, I never carried my set of keys, since his were readily available. It was a source of irritation for him. The thing was:  I was fond of matching purses with my clothes. I could never remember which purse had the keys. At the last moment to search for keys was a waste of time. I would ask for his keys, lock the door, and give him back the keys.

As I came out, one of the kids followed me, to see us off. We eased out of the driveway, and finally we were on our way.

We reached the village in good time. R parked the car, and asked for the keys. I told him that I didn’t have them, and he must have misplaced them. He said, “You didn’t give them back”.

No keys— No entry.

We turned back to Peshawar.

We were back, and the keys were hanging in the lock on the front door. When our child had come out after me, I forgot to take out the keys from the door. The child went back inside, and closed the door without glancing at the hanging keys outside.




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I have things to occupy myself for not going over the edge with frustration and worries, and one is making my own strawberry jam. At breakfast time I would remind myself to make it. Every time I went to the store I would bring strawberries home, and forget lemons. Lemon juice is an important ingredient in making strawberry jam.

Lemon or no lemon I finally took the plunge. I made it without the lemon juice. With it the taste is exquisite. See the color difference between the two. The almost empty jar is the store brought variety, and the other one is made by me. Probably the store one doesn’t even have strawberries in it— just a name on the bottle.


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