In Defense of Daydreaming

Vacation. Vey-KAY-shun. Am I the only person to whom this word seems like an endangered species? During the months leading up to the end of term or summer “vacations,” I often find myself pondering whether the promise of a vacation anytime after grade school is a rude and crooked sham.

Having spent too many months feeling critically overworked and chronically behind on readings and projects, the idea of vacating my mind for joyful and unintellectual stupidity is as welcome as the rippling image of an oasis would be to a desert traveler. Somehow, though, any time off from an organized commitment becomes an opportunity for (and I loathe this term) Professional Development. And just like that, the oasis that made your mouth water is a mirage that fooled you into believing that it was really okay to finally take a break.

Photo by Mommamia

I should say now that I hold myself entirely responsible for repeatedly bypassing the oasis. As the moment the onslaught of work deadlines abets, I begin to think: How can I spend this windfall of free time wisely? What are my weaknesses, how can I improve upon them? How can I turn this summer into a stepping stone to make back-to-work/school easier? This of course, is in addition to the ”just for pleasure” reading list, the academic enrichment reading list, the driving lessons, community service, and the fact that now is probably the perfect time to enroll in intensive Mandarin.

All these good-intentioned, prudent goals conspire to make summer – that mythical time for lying in the grass, playing in the sand and curling up with books – seem a lot like the frenzied juggling of the rest of the year. I have squandered many a summer in this way, running like a headless chicken from one “productive” activity to the next, full of guilt for never doing as much as I had planned.

Summer guilt! The thought is absurd. So I have decided to turn my life around this summer by reclaiming the following (un)productive activities: reading fantasy novels, watching inane comedy shows, baking an elaborate birthday cake at least once, watching all the shows on the Food Network and deciding on my favourites, going ice skating, drawing pictures of seasides, lions and trains, taking leisurely walks in flip flops, stretching and falling asleep on the couch.

Some Need No Instruction for Lazing About - Photo by tanakwho

I have also decided that the above (not) to-do list is subject to whimsy and that no party is to blame if one or more of the items listed gets left behind or done to glorious excess.

I would dearly love to hear that I am not alone in planning days of summer indulgence. Advice from expert frolickers would be greatly appreciated. Tell me what you imagine for your days ahead, especially if you, like me, have decided to give dogged industriousness a swift kick in the shins. I’d like to think that there are many of us out there, digging our toes into the sand and sprawled uselessly in the sunshine, collectively reclaiming our right to daydream and to lazy summers of yore.

Thank Goodness for the Party Crashers (or Tales of Trans-Women)

I have wanted to tell this story for a long time, but there really never seems to be a good segue into it in the innocuous world of everyday conversation. Today being a drab and drizzly Wednesday, (with you, my captive audience), seems as good a time as there will ever be.

It begins with a painfully dull wedding party in a backwater suburb of Karachi, Pakistan. Weddings in Pakistan have many events besides the actual wedding which sometimes lasts for weeks; the party in question was one such para-wedding event. I remember sitting in a lamely furnished TV lounge wearing uncomfortable silks with my sister, the room bare apart from the following underwhelming details: a child playing with a television remote control, inciting an older woman trying to nap on the couch (also in uncomfortable silks) to reprimand him screechily every now and then.

“When are we going to the wedding?” I naively asked my sister beside me.

She watched my face with some amusement when she replied “This is the wedding.” Then, mercifully, she added: “There are others coming.” I learned that most of the party was held up at a mosque ceremony we were too young to attend.

Soon a motley crew of parents, older cousins and stern-faced aunts arrived and there was a flurry to get dinner ready. I had the impression it would all have gone faster if host and guest had not viciously been competing for Most Industrious Kitchen-Hand of the Evening award in a cramped and overheated kitchen.

Ceremonial Wedding Decorations - Photo by Aamer Javed

Dinner over, soon we were back in the insipid TV lounge, albeit with a few changes: a great many women were cramped into the tiny room, while the younger ones – including my sister, cousins and I – sat in a tight row on the floor. “Finally!”, I thought, when I saw a long wooden drum (tabla) being passed down the room over heads like a beloved rockstar, and a young woman (to whom I must be vaguely related) began to play it with alacrity. Soon the room was filled with the familiar discord of imperfectly remembered and improvised wedding songs.

I would have been satisfied if the height of our revelry peaked at my (usually meek) grandmother having a go at the tabla, belting out a song I might remember today if she had not collapsed, red-faced, in giggles halfway through the first line.

I noticed unfamiliar voices at the room’s entrance and turned to see two ladies that looked unmistakably like men under their heavy makeup and coiffed hair. They were leaning at the threshold looking playfully offended. The elder of the two spoke:

“Rather mean of you to have a party and not invite us,” she scoffed as she pushed through the room with a tabla much bigger than ours and found a seat on her haunches. “Lucky for you my lovely daughter here has a heart as pure as spring water, and she convinced me to come here and congratulate you.”

Playing the tabla - Photo by Jasleen Kaur

The matronly woman put her fleshy hand on her bosom and looked at her “daughter” with a sigh of affection. I noticed that her hand was decidedly brown against the thickly-powdered white of her face and neck. Then she looked around the room, and said: “This is my daughter, you know.” I thought that her eyes were challenging someone to point out the obvious. When no response came, she told the room that her daughter was a spectacular dancer, and wouldn’t she show us, darling?

The following show was delightfully bizarre. Her daughter was indeed a spectacular dancer, though her moves were nothing I had seen before. A few times she lifted her foot up to her thigh and broke into a throaty song about how she was a very special peacock, and then threw herself dramatically onto the floor – what I believe was meant to be semi-erotic lurching. I noticed that the crowd in the room had considerably thinned.

Now this was a party beyond anything I could have hoped for. To have a troupe of fun-loving transwomen offer us a special performance, and visit us “just because,” pleasantly broadened my idea of what wedding parties – usually a chore to attend – could be. It seems probable that they entertained us expecting to be paid; but whether they were paid, or paid to leave, I’ll never know, as I was tugged out of the room after the dancer startled me by throwing her head into my lap for the second time during one of her full-body floor throws.

After some hasty goodbyes, I was on my way home. I’ve never been to another wedding party like it, or one half as much fun. I think I enjoyed it so much because it was a breath of fresh air to be spoken to so kindly by strangers who were unafraid of that formidable jury of the tight-lipped aunties against the wall – they let loose, caused a scandal, brought the unexpected, and, from the looks of it, thoroughly enjoyed themselves. I love the vertigo of being in a new and strange world. On that evening, thanks to the party crashers, I was thus blessedly transported.

A Kitty Scholarship

There is a kitty-shaped hole in my heart. I’ve lived kittilessly for years now, four years to be exact, ever since Van city became my home for school. Van city is one happening place, with fun streets and shiny water and cafes of every sort, but the need for a kitty is sometimes overpowering, and the cuddly little beasts on youtube can only do so much for this cuddle-lorn kitty piner. In fact, those painfully cute videos actually make it worse, for to think of kitty is to feel absence of kitty, n’est pas?

Not too long ago I took a stand and demanded that my kitty needs be addressed. As at the time my mother-and-provider was visiting, it was to her that I made my solemn entreaty. I was immediately and unceremoniously shot down as mother’s co-worker’s kitties had just run up an impressive doctor’s bill and left the co-worker pretty down and out. That’s right. A couple of hypochondriac kitties threw a wrench into my plans and now I’m back at square one.

Having waded through student loan and bursary forms and tax returns and tried my best to understand the intricacies of this bureaucracy, I decided I had grounds to apply for a kitty scholarship: awarded once a year to person(s) with a demonstrated need for a kitty. The winning applicant can claim their kitty by waiting for a kindly government official to arrive at my (er… I mean his/her) door step with a basket of mewling infants of which he/she may choose the companion (or two) he/she fancies best. If I pitch the idea seriously enough, I’m sure someone up there among the powers that be will take notice. Right?

Long Lost Kitty Companion (You'd be Pining Too)