She turns to me. “Actually, you can save the world if you don’t cut trees.”

morning meanderings with minal

I love the early hours when I drop off Minal to school. She always has new philosophies that she’s exploring, and we manage to cover a large terrain during our 12-minute drive.

Today, she asks me, “Ammi, is there a king in China?”

I respond with my standard question to her questions: “What do you think?”

She shakes her her head. “No.”

“Why do you think?”

“Because they have a president,” she says.

I lower the windows and a cool breeze blows through the car. Together, we observe the growing numbers of cars, buses and pedestrians along West Gray Street.

She pipes up again: “Why are there more poor people in Karachi than there are in Houston?”

“Hmm. Why do you think?”

This time she does not have a handy response. “Just tell me!”

We then talk about what “poverty” means and how we can identify who’s poor and who is not.

This time she has an answer: “People who are poor have sad faces. And their faces are also long.”

We have reached her school by now, and before she hops out of the car, she reads a passage from a Magic Tree House that she’s been reading. I don’t remember the details, but there’s something about how once in China scholars were valued, and then people stopped supporting their words and their learning.

Long after I’ve dropped her off, I find myself thinking about messages that are embedded in children’s books. It makes sense that the Magic Tree House series, published and widely read in the US, would underscore mainstream US readers’ views about China.

This conversation gets me thinking about another children’s book, a Newbery Medal winner that I recently purchased for Minal, but one I gave away after re-reading: Island of the Blue Dolphins centers around a young girl abandoned by her family on an island that’s invaded by enemies in a red ship (Russians). She’s ultimately saved by sailors on a ship with white sails (no surprise: Americans from California). The book was published in 1960. As a young child reading the text in Karachi, I didn’t quite digest why an indigenous girl would be shown as being “saved” by sailors on a white ship or what the red vs white conflict meant – even though I was raised in a politically aware family. But now, I certainly do understand. I would rather Minal read this book at a time in her life when we can talk about all aspects of the text.

eid on hillcroft

This year, Minal participates in Chand Raat festivities. We meet friends at Hillcroft, and Minal gets mehndi on her palms. On Eid itself, I cook up a feast, and Minal collects both rupees and dollars for eedhi.

minal-isms

As we listen to Tina Sani’s new album, Bahar Aayi, with Faiz Ahmed Faiz lyrics, Minal says: “I’m so glad you were born in Pakistan so we can listen to this music.”

Earlier in the day, she comments: “How do squirrels know their partners if they all look the same?”

continued city closures

Before we go to bed the previous night, we learn about the Mumbai bombings, but when we wake up in the morning, we sense new tension in the air as a result of a statement made by Dr. Zulfikar Mirza. The city is once again at a standstill as shops remain closed and public transport is curbed.

Today is also the day for Minal’s last music and dance class at Neem Tree.

“It’s not far from here,” my mother says. “They won’t be closed.”

But when we arrive at the school to drop off Minal, there are no cars. As I push open the door to enter the house, I can hear music. We walk in to an improv-music session run by the teachers, who, rather than sit around informing students about class cancellation, choose to use their time to practice their craft. Minal joins in and drums her hands on a clay pot. Instead of the formal class, she receives a lesson in improvisational music.

Later on, we stop by my friend Salma’s house; with the city closed once again, we use the opportunity to catch up with each other. As we eat lunch, we receive a text message from my mother telling us that the Gizri bridge is “clogged with agitators.” Over the phone, she tells me that certain mosques are demanding that everyone walk out onto the streets to protest against Dr. Mirza.

Unable to move, we wander over to the rooftop, where Minal chooses the moment to create art.

By the evening Dr. Mirza issues an apology. Twenty-four hours in Karachi.

birds vs humans - a child's observations

Minal stands barefoot in the living room and places her foot next to a black rain-ant, the size of two of her fingernails put together. As the ant moves to one side, Minal drops to the ground to watch it closer.

As a result of pending rain, many rain ants have suddenly appeared and some have wandered into the house, along with lizards and spiders. Almost seven, Minal who has spent a good amount of time in Karachi, is experiencing the city differently this year. She is noticing details of the streets, but also, is closely watching the streams of lives—birds, insects and animals—that crawl in the garden, fly between trees, and flop along roadsides.

The other day, we googled ‘koel’, the bird that often sits outside our bedroom window. When Minal learned that koels place their eggs in crows’ nests and then fly between trees singing their rich song, she exclaimed: “But don’t they go back and get their children? I mean, can’t they be responsible parents? I don’t like them anymore.”

We engaged in a discussion about how humans have the option of changing behavior patterns, but how animals, birds and insects often cannot.

Minal said: “I don’t like the way crows look and sound—but they’re nicer than koels. They raise children other than their own….”

Without Minal, I would only be focused on the political situation around us, and I would not notice how Karachi—a teeming city of more than 18 million people from around the country—is also home to so much more.

morning songs

The summer breeze sways the flowers blooming on the lignum tree outside our bedroom window. When the house is quiet with just the ceiling fan whirring, we can hear leaves rustling outside and Minal loves to stand beside the window and wait for the koels to appear on the branches. On our third afternoon, Minal sees the female koel (speckled brown and yellow) sitting on a nearby branch and singing her song koo-oo. A little while later, a male koel (black) joins her with a berry in his beak, and they exchange a bite and something that Minal insists was a kiss.

We now start every morning waiting for the two birds with bright red eyes and an echoing song to eat outside our window. I am struck by the fact that I never knew—until now—that all koels have red eyes and that the males and females are so strikingly different and beautiful.

new lens

We were in Karachi six months ago, but Minal’s consciousness was at a different level. Now she notices—and comments on—the armed guards, why men are piled up on top of buses at the end of the day, the plastic bags flowing on desert shrub around itwaar bazaar, and street children asking for money.

the transition journey

Transitioning from one place to another is never easy, but the long journey from Houston to Karachi is particularly challenging since the trip involves a stopover in Dubai International Airport, a spot that I love to hate. I can do without the shopping mall inside an airport, sofas that look comfortable but aren’t, internet connections that come and go, sockets that don’t quite work, artificial plants, and shiny new cars that are displayed for raffle.

Every time we fly through, the airport seems to expand more and more, and Minal and I wonder how long it will take for movement between continents to be faster. I might not see many changes in my lifetime, but hopefully Minal will. One of the changes in Dubai airport—a marked improvement from just five years ago—is that flights to Pakistan now receive a chute as opposed to passengers having to take a bus and then having to climb up steep staircases to enter the airplane.

This year, as we are looking for things to do in the long layover, Minal sights a live pigeon flying between the circular glassed-in walls and she is ecstatic. She races over to one of the maintenance men (Pakistani, Indian or Bangladeshi) , and tells him that there’s a pigeon trying to break free from the glassed-in bubble.

He smiles. “Yes,” he says. “There are many pigeons here, but they cannot get out.”

Minal's first poem

Living in a Rose
A poem by Minal Saldivar

When you live in a rose
You feel so comfy
Warm and cozy
You get a nice breakfast
And a quiet morning
You can plant fruits
And vegetables
And sunflowers of course
You can relax in the rose
The tippy top of the rose
From where you can see
People, buildings, and art cars.

Minal will be performing the poem at her school’s talent show and the very next day, she will perform at the open mic on VBB art car Revolution. I am not surprised that her first poem closes with references to art cars – the weekend is around the corner…

a nighttime drive to new orleans

In previous years, whenever I’ve undertaken the road trip I’ve always had René or a travel buddy with me. Today is my first road trip with Minal; driving to Austin doesn’t count since the drive is short and we do it so often.

Before putting her down last night, I tell her that she has to nap on our drive to New Orleans the next day, and she agrees. I figure that she will be exhausted, and because the drive is long, she will be able to keep her word.

We get on to 1-10 East at about three o’ clock in the afternoon. Minal has her pillow pet, the dolphin, with her, she’s eaten solid meals and she’s tired. In my mind, the combination is perfect for a restful drive. Minal proves me wrong.

She tries hard to rest, but finally when we pass cross into the Louisiana border, she tells me: “My mind is being too difficult. It won’t listen and I just can’t sleep.”

I have taken this long drive through swamp country before, but today, the experience is different with Minal in the back seat. She stares out into the water, fascinated by the foliage and the bridges that lead us through swamps and rivers. We talk about the alligators and the frogs who reside under the swamps in the waters around us.

As we cross the tall steel bridge that cuts through Baton Rouge, we look at the rippling dark waters.

Minal says: “How did the hurricane look over here.”

I shake my head. She was two years old in 2005, when the Hurricanes Katrina and Rita hit the Gulf Coast, and we undertook a twenty-two-hour excavation drive to Austin, on a long journey with our ninety-year-old landlady—one that normally lasts only 2.5 hours.
My mind shifts to Japan. It is hard to shed those images, and there is still so much news unfolding. It will be months before we learn about the havoc that the combined effect of the earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear reactor breakdowns have wreaked there.

Minal’s voice brings my thoughts back to the moment.

“Ammi, I think the moon likes you more than it likes me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he keeps going over to your side.”

“Isn’t la luna a woman?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not when it’s that big.” She lifts herself off the carseat and glances out of the rear window. “The sun is going to bed and the moon is waking up for breakfast. Soon, the sun will be taking a nap and then she’ll wake up and arrive in Karachi, where everyone has to start their day.”

I’m listening closely.

In Karachi, the sun will eat her breakfast and then everyone will wake up. But here, it is nighttime and it is the moon’s turn. This is his kingdom for tonight.”

We both look out of our respective windows. The bright rays of the perigree moon wash the sky with a silver luster. This is definitely a moon and a drive to remember.

movement

I suppose this is why they call this month March madness. So much movement in my life over the last few weeks. First, Ammi arrives from Karachi ten days ago. Then, I take off to New York to present creative work a panel organized by my long-time friend Sandra Tarlin at Bronx Community College. The day after I leave, Ammi, who remained in Houston with René and Minal, catches a flight to New Orleans. The day after she flies out, I arrive back from NY to Houston, a few hours after my college friend Nema’s plane from DC lands in the same airport. We pick Nema up from the conference downtown and bring her over for some wine and a meal. Minal stays awake with us, making herself busy creating a drawing of Nema after which she joins us for a Mexican meal and mariachi out in the East End. By eleven o’clock at night, Minal is passing out with exhaustion and is clamoring to go to sleep. She needs her rest. She and I are heading to New Orleans tomorrow.

a busy day...

Today has been a busy day for 6-year-old Minal. I want her to know what protest and celebration feel like in this country, so we head out to west Houston to attend the gathering in front of the Egyptian Consulate. There, about 100 people assemble with drums, flags and balloons to celebrate a new start for Egypt. Children and elders are among the crowd that is mixed with Egyptians, Arabs, South Asians and Houstonians. TV cameras along with police cars are also there to mark the event. As the flags billow in the wind, drivers and passengers in passing cars, roll down their windows to beep and wave in support of changes in Egypt.

From west Houston, we turn back around and and head into town to land at the Menil Collection where Da Camera has organized a special event for families and children; musicians work with children to use their bodies to respond to the music. Needless to say, we run into many friends at the performance, including Minal’s summer school music teacher Creston.

Later at night, it’s Kids On Stage at Main Street Theater, for which Minal dresses up as a princess so she can hang out with her friends Ollin, Kalyan, and Elizabeth and watch MST’s production of King Arthur, while I head out to Barnevelder to see Shunya Theater’s latest production 1-888-DIAL-INDIA.

Another Minal-ism:

On the drive to the house, I pick up my mobile. “I need to call my friend Liz,” I say, half to myself and half to Minal in the backseat.

Always ready, she chimes in: “Liz who?”

“I only have one friend named Liz,” I respond.

“You used to have two.”

“Yes.”

But your other friend Liz died, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “So I can’t call her.”

“You could always call her in your mind?”

I put my phone down and concentrate on driving. “Yes, I could always call her in my mind.”

I've been on the other side...

I’ve been on the other side, the teacher setting up the classroom, decorating, greeting the kids, preparing for a semester. That was a long time ago. Today is my first day as a parent.

We wake up at 6:30 am, get dressed, eat breakfast and are in her classroom before the “tardy” bell. That’s already an accomplishment. I sit beside her in a newly scrubbed classroom with with clean desks and shiny wood floors. The walls have panels with Spanish words—months of the year, numbers, seasons—and on the yellow bulletin boards are the names of all the kids. Minal looks for hers and smiles when she finds it.

When the bell sounds, it’s loud and jarring. Minal’s eyes open wider. And then, the principal appears at the door and reminds the parents that it’s time for us to leave our children for the day.

oday, the first day of school, there is a special coffee gathering for new parents, and I head to the back of the building to meet and mingle for just a little bit. But by 8:20 am, I step away from the school to my parked car. I’m not sure where I’m going to go, or how I’m going to structure my day which stretches before me like a marathon that I have to run and appear on the other side, fresh and ready for the next day, week, year, lifetime. This is different from pre-school, where we could come and go as we pleased, she could dress as she wished and have unstructured play time.

This is school. There are absolutes. She must arrive at a certain time and be picked up at a certain time. She has to be in uniform, eat lunch in the cafeteria, and play recess outside. We are entering a whole new world (isn’t that a disney song?) and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

It's been many months since...

It’s been many months since I’ve posted anything on my blog. Given all the excitement at VBB, it’s been a challenge to carve out moments to be just still, let alone write. But today — as always – I’m inspired by Minal.

As we drive back to our house this evening after a day of adventures around Houston, we pass over the I-10 interpass. Minal chirps out: “Those are the presidents’ heads.”

“Yes,” I respond, knowing she’s talking about the large plaster sculptures created by David Adickes. “I don’t like them that much. Why aren’t there any women?”

“Because there’s been no women presidents. Not here.”

“Right,” I say. “Not here.”

“But in Karachi…no I mean, in Pakistan, there was. A woman president. And then she died. She was killed.”

I am silenced by Minal’s wisdom, and moved by her memory of that night in December 2007, when she was only three years old.

Minal's MLK Jr Drawing

Minal’s homework in honor of Martin Luther King Jr: “Write or draw 3 of your dreams.”

Dream #1: a magic pot so I can get whatever I want.

Dream #2: a bed decorated with flowers for Nana so Nani can smile

Dream #3: wallet for (homeless) man so he doesn’t have to clean car windows at street corners.

And on the way to school she asks: “What do dreams do in the daytime?”

It's a cool night in Houston...

It’s a cool night in Houston, and we are driving toward home. When we stop on Westheimer at a light, Minal glances out. It’s dusk, and her gaze falls on the body of a young man lying down under a tree. He is surrounded by bags.

“Maybe he needs a ride to the airport, Ammi,” Minal says.

“Why do you think he needs a ride to the airport?” I ask.

“Because he needs to take an airplane home,” she says.

“Airplane?” I ask.

“Yes, because he doesn’t have a home here. If he takes a plane, he can fly to his house.”