How was your day?

The single most important question that I've been asked almost every day of my life, sitting around the dinner table, and more recently over whatsapp or a well placed voice chat with one of my parents, is 'how was your day?'
There is no measure for what that question conveys, how loaded it is with concern, care and the potential that it holds for sometimes mundane sharing and often some fantastic self realization and gratitude to spill forth. The question holds promise for a safe sharing of your own stuff, but it's also accompanied by a few nuggets from the askers' day in the life. My dad usually has a range of quick bytes from work and development stuff, to a current read and some reflective philosophy on his mind. Mum will update me on a phone call from one of her aunts, or gran or my aunt, and the latest on the two grand kids scuttling around at her feet or in her lap. Everyday things that add to wholeness and being part of each others' lives. A world of love resides in that sentence of many things, many years, many ways of saying thanks.

How was your day?

Gratitude, Love and Life

On May 5, 1928 a baby girl was born to Muhammad Osman Ghoor and his young wife Mariam Tayob out in the sleepy Transvaal town of Potgietersrus. Born as second to an older brother, she would grow up to be the eldest of five more sisters and five more brothers. Today, 84 years later, I revere her influence and inspiration in my life. She is my beloved grandmother, restfully living her reflective days in Durban, SA. This is why the east coast city holds just so much fantasy for me, I admire and envy it for the job it has to have my granny living there.

Ma calls us the cream of her life, because she says, children are the milk of life, and so grandchildren are the 'malaai', i.e the cream of the milk; the delicacy, the luxury as it were. I last visited her in Durban in mid-Feb, and so a visit is long overdue, and she shared with me that she had begun writing down her thoughts about her life, not so much memories or autobiographical accounts, but rather reflections on the journey. And then she sent me to the drawer where I would find the notebook and bits of card on which notes had been scribbled in her signature, classic scrawl. She asked me to read them out loud, and I did, stopping every so often to ask a question or to listen when she prompted me to, so as to give her a chance to add or annotate her notes.

I'm thinking about those notes now, and wondering how much more she has gotten to pen in the last few weeks. It's such a thrill to know that she's actually writing! I hope the muse will allow me the luxury to do so for the next 50 years :)

Happy Birthday, to my darling grandmother. May the Beauty we love in you always inspire us to generate more of it in the work that we do, in the love that we share, in the life that we live.

Gulbaden

I am never thirsty when I'm in my mother's presence...

Beautiful, passive, active, living Light.

Mother of my being and of my soul.

I am eternally quenched knowing,

That from His Divine harvest,

I came through you,

I came to you.

That I can be you.

Hope. Purpose. Grace. Light.

Roundabout 2011

This is the best time of the year, even though it's not quite over, it's nearing completion and so there's plenty inspiration for reflection of what's happened, the promise for the year ahead to take a leap off this one, and the current that carries me through the few weeks to the end. The waterfall of writing that awaits come December/January. It's also the first week of Zil Haj. There are incredibly powerful, wistful memories tied to these days of the trip I made with my parents and siblings in 2005.

Hajj was Rumi-esque, reflective, soulful, cohesive for us and a wholesome, contemplative experience.
Hajj was an expansion of soul, heart, spirit, mind.
Hajj is as no other journey has ever been.

And every year seems to have it's own set of trumps, triumphs and setbacks for whatever reason. But the progress is always undeniably forward and upward with faces touched by sunshine.

It's been a roundabout year all-in-all, but what an exhilarating one indeed!

Madeeha on Writing...

My niece, Madeeha will be four next month.
Yesterday she asked me, 'So, masi, why did you go to Cape Town?'
'I went to a writer's convention,' I said, watching her in wait for what was certainly to be a volley of questions.
'What's a con-ven-shun?' she asked carefully.
'A place where writers get together and talk about their work. So, I talk about my work, and other writers talk about their work. And we sit around looking at these beautiful mountains surrounding us, and then we feel like writing some more, and so we write!' I said with a big smile, thinking that's probably the best way to describe it to a toddler-type.
'Oh,' she said. A serious look adorned her face. 'Well, you should tell them that I'm a writer, too!' she exclaimed. 'And so I should come to Cape Town with you, the next time they all go there, so I can talk about my work!'
'Uh-huh!' I said. 'You're right. You should!'
And then she smiled. It's a deal. A done deal by the look and sound of it.

I wanted to go to the library when I was four, and so Mum took me. I had my first encounter with Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit, there. Madeeha, wants to go to a writer's convention so that she can talk about her work ;)
I love this little girl!

xoxo

key: masi - aunt (mother's sister)

Mustafa

How insane is this passage of time?
About a year ago, my sister and I were running around getting 'last minute things' done; visiting a friend who we'd intended to visit as she had been widowed after a car crash, packed my bags as I was leaving for Cape Town before the end of week, and done other basic errands; we'd even managed to get a lunch outing in along with some shopping. Later that night, she went into labour and in the early hours of the next morning, 25 May 2010, my nephew, Mustafa Ebrahim/Gaba was born.

I'd had a dream about him just that evening. I dreamt that I was in a meeting and that I was introducing a tall suited man beside me as my nephew :)

And today, just past his first birthday (amid a week long celebration between grandparents and the rest of us), I'm sitting here wondering, where did this year go to?

All I can be certain of is the greatness of life, love and precious moments. And full appreciation for the gifts that come our way.

Peace, Freedom and other wild fantasies

I've dreamed of peace and freedom ever since I was a little girl. That one day, things would change, and I would finally grow wings. It never happened.
But then, one day, I woke up and realised, that the thing I wanted more than anything, was to fly, and that that was never on the cards for a reason: I'm a human being, and not a bird or a unicorn or some ill-placed-in-time flying dinosaur. I'm a person.

And I learned that freedom isn't a different kind of mobility; it's a different way of being, a mind free of conditioning that's so lavishly lathered onto you from a very young age, and it's a demeanor of your own choosing. Freedom is peace. And peace, in and of yourself, is freedom.
I stopped dreaming of wings, and changed my focus.
I got wings, and dropped those ego boundaries.
I became one with Us.
You became Me.
Love became eternal.
The world reached the clouds.
Sky melted into the earth.
Life taught us Oneness. We experienced Peace. Love seeped into us.
We inherited a new legacy. We discovered anew: Freedom is.

On Visiting Newclare Cemetery

I had just one wish on my birthday in February this year, and that was to visit the grave of my maternal grandfather. Perhaps it was a frivolous wish and so the universe put to the test just how much I wanted to go there. And maybe to figure out why...
And so a whole month later, on the 13 March, I finally made my way to the Newclare cemetery in Johannesburg, with my brother and a friend.
The experience was probably more profound than I had the humility to anticipate.
I think we'd been there as kids. I had only vague recollection. But it all didn't make much sense back then.
Here was a man we had never known, but heard of in so many anecdotal references along the years. And so we had over the years, pieced together a character with likes and tastes and moods. The stories overlapped from the lips of my mom, my dad (who knew him because, as it happens, my maternal and paternal grandfathers were cousins somehow) and from other family members.
My grandmother rarely speaks of him. In our shared moments, on occasion and when probed, she has said to me that losing him felt as though a light went out in her life. But the metaphor was rather literal as well. She said it was just as quickly as that. You flip the switch on a light and it's gone! Wrapped in this narrative of reverance and deep sense of loss, that was all I've had to work with over the years. Needless to say, there's always been the unspoken 'what-if' of what life would have been like if he really had been around today. But I'm understand that the passage of time here is finite. And so the wonderings dissolve.

In this very same cemetery, an old and peaceful stretch of land that has long been filled to it's capacity, is to be found a section of child graves. A few paces apart are each of my grandmother's sons: one born in May 1954, and having passed away in Dec 1956 and Baby M born/died in 1961. Little is known about their medical conditions. Or maybe just little spoken about their demise. And my mom was too little to remember much.
A simple green and white board over my grandfather's grave indicates a timeline for his life 1928-1969. Emotion overwhelms me. Not an inherent sadness, but a peaceful joy. It's as though the physical manifestation of years of stories is made apparent right then and there. It's as though time has drawn a line for me from all the many images that brought into existence lifetime's before I came into being, and that will continue to dot between our generational paths long after my time on this earth has passed. And perspective flashes as lightning; my view is transformed at once. There is no devastation at present; rather we are measured in the way we are able to intercept and transcend the challenges placed before us.

Peace is a place inside.
It is also a sense of belonging to ones self.
Knowing that we're just one dot on that line. That a thread exists before us and that it moves effortlessly, inevitably ahead.

My birthday wish is complete.

S

Huda - Rightly Guided

I'm not sure that we truly take into account the wonders of birthing until a child is cradled in our arms. Tiny perfection exists in quite that way: in the form of a newborn. Huda, my newest niece, was born after much contemplation at 16h51 pm on Thursday, 24 Feb. A daughter for Sarfaraaz and Amina, and a baby cousin sister for Madeeha and Mustafa, the reason I say 'after much contemplation' is because Amina carried to full term (40 weeks) and experienced a long 16 hour labour with immense effort from brave mum and extremely courageous baby girl. Also, it did seem as though baby was contemplating her entry into the world.
And so she finally made her arrival amid two sets of thrilled grandparents, and of course parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family members all in all.

She's beautiful What else can I say? Or need I even?
God is Great.

And another fabulous February person has arrived! :D

xoxo

For Rabiya: Becoming

The face in the mirror is haggard.
Restless. Not myself.
It needs a shift. I know.

I want to learn to be more like me,
and less like him...

Him, who turns me into a ball of foil
and uncreases me,
and crumples me;
he does this a few times
before throwing me into the distance.

I want to learn to be less like that,
and more like this.

This inside. This promise of a new dawn.

That is me.

Blessed Showers

It's raining beautiful sheets of silver on my last day here in Polokwane. Just last night, I sat looking at the blank tissues of this screen and pondered the many things that have infiltrated my mind of late. I tend to do this. Usually on my last day at my parents home. Especially, at the close of yet another year.

There's something beautiful, replenishing about a rainy day like today. Like it's not an ending but a beginning, yet again. The scent of promise lingers. An announcement echoes from the heavens. There is yet much to look forward to, of that I am sure. And home will always be right here for when I need to return into it's embrace.

'Reflection' and 'Contemplation' are twins of course. And 'Appreciation' is a far-related, but necessary cousin. She's always invited to the party :)

Love and Light,
S

Happy 60th Birthday, Dad!

It's my dad's 60th birthday.

There was a time when I thought that 60 was the furthest thing.
Life has a way of affording us a change in perspective. I now fraternize with people in the age category 70 - 90. People of sound mental capacity. People who once trained as military cadres, spent time in the damp wasteland of prisons and roamed the globe in exile from the place they called home, for daring to stand up to the apartheid regime.

All this, and the general notion of relativity, make my dad turning 60 seem not really as age-relevant as a celebration of milestones, once again. Sixty is no doubt a defining and momentous occasion. It is also a reason to look back and reflect, something that I am certain he does a lot of on his own; often sharing those musings with our often impressionable ears.
But it is also a time for me to reflect on the journey that both our relationship as father and daughter, and our friendship as two not dissimilar beings has taken.

I've written and reflected on this before; a post called Driving Dad Crazy is among my favourite.
I've also had some opportunities for example, to publicly, albeit spontaneously, honour him when he walked in on a session at the Limpopo Legislature, where I directed the programme for the YCAwards and I happened to be speaking about the role of educators and parents in a child's development. My parents have played a significant and indelible role in my development, in the dynamic of who I am. And so there he was, sitting at the top of the indoor arena, smiling, suited in his classic well-groomed way. Smiling, that warm, encouraging smile. I have basked in this paternal glow of pride and love that is cast over me on every other day.

We're different and yet the same; knowing each other especially because of that sameness in the balance. It's true that fathers are the ordinary seeming heroes in our lives; at first purely because they're our fathers, and later precisely because of being only human, and real to us in every way.

I owe many stages of development to him who is my one and only Dad.
Happy 60th to this 'little girls' forever hero.

With a heart filled with love and appreciation,
Shafinaaz Sikander Hassim

Beautiful things; precious moments...

I've been back in Durban almost a fortnight, counting the beauty, the days of good and wondrous encounters, the love of life and the blessing of being around my maternal grandmother. I bask in the sunlight of her spirit. Sitting in her presence is a quenching for my soul. I drink on, satiated.

And then I drink more of her loveliness.

There's a varied peace in this...

I measure my life in milestones. Not timelines, but in connectivity with loved ones, proximity to them. Haji'ani Ma, my maternal grandmother, is my measure for all these things.

I have noted various stages along her life path. A strong and resolute woman, but also a fragile and lovely being. She brought up her two daughters after being widowed at the age of 39. And I was born before her 50th birthday; to her eldest daughter, her first grandchild.

The cream over her milk, as she likes to say of us grandchildren.

She will be 82 this week.

Holding her delicate body in my arms, feels like I'm hugging a dream.

I already know that a part of her is looking onward to higher places.

And a part of her remains here, with us. Counting our successes, sharing our smiles. A haze of the fantastical forever lingers. Reality beeps to the beat of our hearts. Mortality of the body overshadows immortality of spirit, being, a lifetime of dreams realised, hopes dashed, joys shared, loss made visible.

Instead of counting the days, I want to celebrate the precious moments. One at a time.

Imagined differences

Something fascinating happened this weekend. I met someone for dinner, had a chat, and a whole new world opened in my experience of life.

This is how it happens. Every once in a while you meet someone who affects a shift in your thinking. Or provides the answers to some of the questions you've been mulling over. Or erases some of the doubts you have been holding onto regarding something or the other.

Something. sOmething. SomeThing. There's always something that someone does, says or implies that causes something to stir in you. Realisation, joy, fear, anger, doubt, reassurance. Something.

For the most part, I think its that if we allow ourselves to open our hearts and minds to the world view of yet another person, a new learning happens for us.
Why some of us choose to close off this option is beyond me. But then, ignorance is a dreaded bliss; an empty bliss for most.

Everyday, we are as a vessel, filled and emptied. And in the ebb and flow of the life force, we are a moving energy, merging, engaging, being super-imposed with the energies of others. If you are a vat of positive, dynamic energy, you will find some people gravitating towards you in order to quench a thirst in themselves. Or they will resent your ability to drink from the ocean of life.
Life affords us opportunities to replenish ourselves or to cleanse ourselves so that we're not drained by the flow of energy. Being self aware is about finding equilibrium as often as possible. And self realisation is necessary for real growth.

Its really left up to us to identify these moments and to absorb them; to make them a part of the journey of awareness.

These moments reinforce the idea that the stories we live are the blueprint for a collage of universal living. And that we need to write these. That we need them to become part of something larger. Human biography is not just about documenting the art of life. Sharing them is a way of celebrating our humanity, rather than concentrating on our imagined differences.

Intense familiarity

Sometime, I think during day two of the Literature Festival that I attended in Jaipur, I looked up from a bench that I was seated on to see a woman coming towards me with a look of immense glee adorning her face. A moment of intense recognition passed between us, and I all but bounced off my seat to hug and greet her, all the while doing the math in my head as to how I might actually know her and more so, searching the files in my head for a name. The mind is a soldier, and will quickly look to reasoning the name, place, event or some or other marker that will explain the familiarity.
The intense familiarity, as I said before.
And when that moment had passed, and we enquired after each others names, we discovered to both our surprise, that we had not ever met before. Emma is from the UK, and now lives in Delhi with her family. I thought I'd met her back home in South Africa. I was wrong. But then, she too, was oddly caught off guard that I wasn't really known to her. We chatted on for a bit, she introduced me to her companion, and then we became friends. We bumped into each other a few times more over the remaining days at the festival.

On day three, I met Deepika. Also by chance; as I think she was friendly enough to strike up a casual conversation when we were seated together, also outside the Dharbar Hall at Diggi Palace (I just realised that it was the same place that I had met Emma). And we proceeded to some of the sessions together, and chatted on for a while. I was struck by the familiarity in our exchange, and I must say that the magneticism of some people will always leave an indelible impression.

Or perhaps its just India. The space of mystery around the heritage site that was host to the celebration of the art of writing, as opposed to the commercialisation of the sacred space. And the energy of the people who converged on the space almost like pilgrims, intent on being nurtured and sharing the magic of the bookish events there.

I think its just India.
And whatever it is about being in an ancient, flowing mass of energy that millions of people call 'Mother Land' that draws people to it, as well as it being the space within which people, souls rather, are drawn to each other, almost as though they are known to each other all along.

Emma and Deepika really seemed to know me a long time in the space of a few minutes. I did wonder if they would recall their encounter with me. And then I got mail from Deepika, confirming just that.

So. I think its something to do with the air in India.
I think, its just India.

the lure of the desert

Sometime early December, I made my way to Dubai for a wedding. The reason was festive, a wedding in the extended family, and the meeting of many known faces for the same reason. We loved the energy there, and it was a great way to end the year.

Two weeks later, the father of the bride drowned in a jet ski accident in Lake Malawi.

Life and death are cyclical. Of course, we know this. But the proximity of these events in dimensions of time, space and relativity make for a surreal mosaic: What a way to begin the year!

Time is a treadmill at high speed.
Another trip to Dubai this evening, feels like the spiral draws and engulfs, the wheel turns and the hamster runs it.

Not a wedding, this time, but festive all the same, considering the oasis in the desert born of stories beyond the 1001 Arabian Nights.

There's certainly something to be said about the lure of the Arabian sands and the passage of time.

2010

There are many ways to anticipate the advent of good things. It takes more than belief. It takes a certain amount of knowing, at that extended level. Beyond the place of reason and reasonable doubt, even.

2009 need be celebrated for the many gifts it placed at my feet.
2010 will be celebrated for its own reasons. But more so, is that alongside this wonder of the mystery, this anticipation of what is to come, is the firm knowledge that I am blessed with an entourage of angels, my loved ones, my friends, my cluster of souls that alight in the same space within which my life is made manifest.

The inspired choices are endless. The life ahead is pregnant with the promise of more delights, impending potential to be realised, dreams to be met along the way, and doors of greatness waiting to be opened.

One thing is certain, as we begin this new year: We will have our spotlight in the sun. And this is the year for it!

Happy New Year 2010 :)

Different, and the same...

Silence is barely empty when you punctuate it with so many things that can mean more than all those thousand worded delusions that I have been chasing all my life.

It is, full. And it is empty.

I think I have all the answers to that one question.

I think I know.

I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.

I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.

I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.

And the running thread will always be that place of Silence on the
piece of green mat; my earth. My knees stuck there; different, and yet, the same.

I know that certainty will falter, and be sturdy in its affirmations;
that it will give birth to new confidence,
and bludgeon some assurance to an unnatural death.

And after all is said and done,
I know,
that I will be
as I have been;
And you will be
as you have been.

Different. And then, too, the very same.

Voices

There are many ways in which thoughts, emotions and the experience of life that flows through us may be expressed or even shared with those around us. Facial expressiveness, and the use of varied tones of voice are perhaps the most obvious forms. Some people paint, or write poetry, prose or stories; while other's create masterworks of cullinary genius, fashion sculptures in the form of fabulous architecture or perform daredevil acts in full view of an awestruck audience.

I write.

I am no poker face, and that is something that I have come to terms with. I dabble in oil colours and do various other things like firewalking and the like. But if I had to really draw that dotted line along my path, then the realisation of who I am is linked by the need, love and joy of writing. I have journals going as far back as those primary school scribble notes in perfumed diaries with delicate locks. I dare not read those for fear of throwing them out. Or something.

These years of journals are housed in a little metal chest that used to be my toy box as a child; and while the journals carry traits of their evolutionary nature over time, the metal trunk lays claim to a history of its own: it began as a carrier for cinema reels that came from the subcontinent back in the 60's, was discovered at some point by my maternal grandfather at the cinema house that belonged to a friend of his, and brought home for mom to use as a storage box for her teenage magazine and music collection. And so I came to inherit it some twenty years later, and it remains with me still, now repainted and revived, albeit almost half a century old.

Hinges of history hold its tinkering walls together to carry the evolution of me; the years of growth in my voice. Aside from the layers of paper dreams, hopes, fears and songs of lament and joy, are to be found those early floppy disks and stiffys of my first soiree into the world of digital media. The only signs of my earlier girly journals on these computer disks of memory, are the glittery name stickers that leave tinsel on my fingertips, and declare just the year of their imprint: "Shafs Ramblings, 2001"

And then, these memoirs were born. For kimya, and for me. Sometime in 2005, when I emerged from years of sociology and more time spent discovering a life of corporate surrealism that I may have been unwittingly groomed for, and found myself to be flourishing in, against my every expectation. It is quite amazing how we might exceed our self-judged limitations.

Memoirs For Kimya evolved in its own right. It started off as a canvas of silence, made noisy only by the echo of thoughts in my head.

Now a trumpet blares. No. Make that, a vuvuzela.

It called to me, once. Now it rages outwardly, to those who will hear with understanding; those who will engage it's ramblings, shared spewing forth of words and all things manifest therein.

And this great sea of voice occurred to me most profoundly when, at the Cape Town launch, my guest speaker, fellow writer and dear friend, Nazia Peer, read two of my newest works out aloud to the booklaunch audience.

I was mesmerized. No, don't get me wrong. Not as if to think, Oh my word, I wrote that! The spark of a soul moment was the realisation that all this time, the voice in my head gave life to these words, and for the first time ever, a reflective post like Revelatory Moments, or an emotive piece like Cut was being read in a voice of someone else, but more so by someone I have had the opportunity to know dearly, and who has been the source of inspiration and soul-coolness to me. Another voice. A loaded moment. A celebration, in more ways than my humble soul can count.

And yes, it all makes sense. This now and where. The why and how.
It all makes perfect sense.

Cape Town: Fiddunya hassanatau (The beauty of this world)

Being in Cape Town taught me a few good things. One, that writing should never be taken for granted, and two, that the low literacy levels in our country will always mean that the work of a wordsmith will always be driven by the need to engage readers. To really create in them a thirst for reading. And to make these readables available and accessible in more ways than one; so its not only about learning how to read, but about creating a culture of reading. And so that reading is also an affordable pass-time. A new initiative by Zukiswa Wanner of 'Madams' fame, called ReadSA is engrossed in this project in many ways.

The nose to grindstone image refers.

Cape Town was also a time of rejuvenation for me. I was happy to be plugged into all that the city had to offer me: the smell of the ocean, the embrace of glorious Table Mountain, which served as a backdrop to the launch of M4K, and the throng of people that I had the delight of coming into contact with over the three days that I was there. It started off on flight. I left Johannesburg at 6:55am Saturday morning. I arrived in Cape Town to meet a group of amazing ladies for breakfast at Origins cafe.
Nielfa, Ayesha, Saarah, Nisrien, Saberah, Haseena and Maryam were my coffee companions; a superb start to a riveting weekend.

With this lovely lot, I got to see the District Six Museum, and the Planetarium. Also got to see the Gardens. Walked by the National Library, and planted myself outside the Slave Lodge until I was whisked away to do some bookish things, and to check out the launch venue for the very first time (I went on a limb with this one! in tandum to my advisory team: Nielfa, Yaseen and Nazia for the most part) But to my absolute delight, this venue turned out to be the most incredible of venues I have used for any previous launches or other social engagements.

Meeting my darling friend Nazia Peer was a highlight for me. The fleeting time we had together was enough to tear at me for some time; the quality of which always makes up for the luxury of 'more' in life. Saturday night also turned out to be the dinner and musical in honour of a cousin whose engagement we were there to attend. Boys side party that lasted well into the late hours or early hours; whichever way you need to look at it. Needless to say, I met friends and family that I have not seen in a good while from as far as small towns around Polokwane, Nelspruit, etc. All colliding at this one festive spot in Cape Town or Rondebosch to be more precise.

And so it came to be that Sunday took us from the Waterfront, where we were staying, to the Athlone Civic Hall in attendance of the grand engagement celebrations. Speeches started at 11am and went on until about 1ish in time for grumbling bellies to be filled to satisfaction. Speakers included Ebrahim Rassool, MP and Mr A.Kays, whose work is cited in Daughters are Diamonds. Thanks to a feisty guest who recognised me as the author of DaD at some point, I was introduced to a friendly Kays saheb. Kays speech was short and sweet and bordered on the quest for Layla (girls name) to finding her Majnun (because he hadnt been told that my cousins name is Muaaz) Rather innovative of him in any event. And at first, I thought he might be named Qais, seeing as the original Majnun in the persian tale is called Qais.

And so I met Qais. Or rather, Mr.A.Kays. A wonderful gentleman. And a writer, of course. I also met Judge Siraj Desai and his lovely wife in that fuss of a moment. Desai declined the invitation to the launch due to prior arrangements to meet with Che Geuvara's daughter. Should that be censored information? He didnt say, and so here you go.

And almost time for the launch. I'm meeting people, still. Friends like Luq and more family... People who know me because of whose daughter I am. People who last saw me when I was just that tall (A wavering show of hands somewhere near my navel to show how diminished I may have been back then)

Brother wants to take a drive up to Micassa. Stepping out of the city for a bit. To subdued realness. A little bit of time travel, to visit Shaikh Yusuf. The views are breathtaking. I may have left a few breathes behind. A dirt road leads up the incline, and looking back in view of raised fortified walls, a curving road and some canons not-in-use, balancing still... the feeling overtakes me, that this is a moment in time that may not be measured by the date on my calendar, or on the blackberry in my bag. I relinquish the offending mechanism to the boot of our car and walk a little faster so as to catch up with the rest of the family.

The launch was nothing short of amazing. My noteworthy surprises were not over. Lubna, another of my dearest friends, stopped over between her delegatory role at the IPSA conference and on her way to her flight back home to Durban. She is officially the first purchaser of pre-launch Memoirs For Kimya at the Jozi Book Fair, and managed to make an appearance at the CT one too. The Bo-Kaap was an apt placement for the bookish event. I loved the energy generated there, the people I met, the quality of engagement, the view of Cape Town that twinkled below our feet in that raised glass box that was Bo-Kaap Kombuis... and the embrace of the mountain in the background. It is very difficult not to be affected by the incredulous flow of inspiration that fills this city. It is incredibly difficult not to fall in love with this place. I feel blessed to be able to visit again, with the launch of my new work, my celebration of soulful writing, and to plant the seed of writing inspiration in others, as I hope I have.


Monday held more for me; a call from Exclusives, Wordsworth books and a visit to District Six for books, books and more books. Also got to lunch with family, make serendipitous stops in town and outside a strangely familiar place called Bingo, before finding my way to a pretentious pavement coffee shop in wannabe bo-kaap to say my goodbyes to Nielfa, Yaseen, Nazia and Muhammad H, my charismatic programme director for Sunday's launch.

*Deep Breath required here for these goodbyes that Im never good with*

Here's to the joy of blessed moments, and knowing that life makes perfect sense being exactly where we are. Here's to Cape Town, until we meet again.