Hot Air Balloon

Today I feel like hopping onto a hot air balloon and flying up, up and away; through soft clouds against a blue, blue sky armed with the Harry Potter series for light reading and a flask of black tea for restful sipping as I sit back in a recliner (it’s a deluxe grade balloon), breathing in the chilly air. As you may have correctly surmised, I have never actually seen a hot air balloon. But it is of no consequence whether you have or have not when you are in the right temperament for imagining up just this kind of a break. When you feel like you’re lying down on soft, green grass looking up through the dappled shade of a gigantic tree, surrounded by this quiet, serene stillness. It comes to mind that having lived all my life in the desert, I have never actually done this but that feeling is so warm and familiar; from hazy, quiet mornings in my childhood watching the sun beams dance on the ceiling as the traffic hums along on the streets below. This quiet contentment that sneaks up on you and hugs you from the inside; you are taken so unawares that you could smile a thousand smiles. Sometimes you meet it when you’re flying in your deluxe hot air balloon and so many more times its when your little ones show you how to love, so simply and happily. And still more beautiful are those rare occasions when you pray Salah and are aware of Whom you are praying to and your heart just fills with the assurance that He is going to take care of you and everything will be alright.

And everything will be alright.



About five years ago when I first moved here I remember looking out the window, past the low, almost derelict building next to ours, and away at the brown, old mountains that are a calm constant everywhere here. During those early days of homesickness, the streets seemed too narrow, the alleyways too winding and I missed the sounds of salah and familiar faces. And subhanAllah, it is amazing how Allah subhanahu wa ta’aala has, over time made this home, my home, beloved to me, and how He is always bettering my situation and opening my heart to appreciate beauty. How I can now look out those same windows and see the kind, old mountains looking ever the same without feeling distress over what I have to see past. How Allah has blessed me with friendships and warmth and good experiences πŸ™‚ Alhumdulillah!

I love that things are simple and quiet and green and blue and brown πŸ˜€ Basically you need to visit us S and I think that inspite of a lack of fanciness, you will agree. B does. πŸ˜€


A and A


This post is long overdue and in spite of several prompts from the Ssister, I found it so taxing to get myself to sit and type; partly because I was so hard-pressed for time enough to relax and blog and partly because it felt so overwhelming, at this stage personally, to find something to write about that will interest someone outside of my little home universe. Subsequently I thought about my audience (S and Z) and realized I was worrying about pleasing an audience type that doesn’t exist around here. :E

So without further preambling, I introduce to you, Ali! Those who have seen him have seen him and those who have not, have not. πŸ˜€ He’s a little more than a month old now alhumdulillah and as soon as he was born I was struck with how little I remember of Asma’s new born days. I think back and can recall the baths, the feeds and things we’d done together but I don’t remember looking down into bright, baby eyes and holding tiny, heartwarming little hands and the pouts and how you feel when your little pumpkin is nestled so peacefully in your arms that you are washed over with calming gratefulness. Alhumdulillah for such gigantinormous blessings! So I’m typing this down to remember when I forget; how two year old Asma is so curious, and talkative and how she loves playing with poli peet and especially for me, how abruptly she’s grown into a big girl. To remember that she is still my tiny laddoo when I become impatient with her two year old-isms. To remember that these days are busy, and sometimes, frazzled days but it’s okay considering it takes such a short while to forget them.

May Allah grant my children righteousness and beautiful characters and manners and good hearts and good health and may He protect them from every kind of harm. Ameen!



I am waiting for my parents to fly in to Oman. I am waiting to get some furniture rearrangement done. I am waiting for the crayon marks to lighten as I scrub them off the walls. I am waiting for the rugs to dry so I can put them back in place. I am waiting for September to end and October to start. I am waiting for the milk to heat up for Asma so I can go lie down again. I am waiting for Saad ji to get some pizza and waiting for me to stop feeling too full to have a second bite. I am waiting for the house-help to come so I can tell him to sweep under that table and behind that door. I am waiting for people to push heavy things and bend and clean as the third trimester nesting instincts rush in full force. I don’t think they appreciate my impatience and meticulousness with regards their work. πŸ˜€

And I am waiting for the realization when that familiar pain will mean, “It’s time now!” and Asmu the Laddoo becomes a big sister, inshaAllah!

May Allah grant us righteous offspring and may He prefect their characters!



Have you ever realized how you can sometimes catch a reader amongst a group of people. Maybe it is their humour or how they listen or how they give opinions that is the tell-tale sign but a good reader is fairly easy to spot; like Asma, who is an excellent reader of the letter A and informs all fellow passengers of the fact as she shrieks out every A on passing signboards and billboards and shop boards and license boards during drives. πŸ˜€ This fairly obvious fact has been noted before , but it makes for a good blog post so I’ll say it too: I’ve always felt a reader of good, insightful books will make for a more considerate, compassionate person. Sometimes you see such blatant cues of anger, or hurt, or embarrassment not being registered by people and it always makes me wonder about the wonders reading could do for a person for whom it is not natural to empathize. How many instances have passed when unsuspecting plebeians have not bought me that oh-so-moist looking chocolate cake based on the arch of my eyebrow or the ruffling of my sleeves. πŸ˜€

Or it might all be nonsense on my part, and my predilection for reading is biasing me against everyone, in which case, just buy everyone moist-looking chocolate cakes.

The end.

Lion Cubs


Once upon my childhood, I was a biter. Unwitting siblings would only too often cross the threshold from the usual teasing to, what was evidently in my opinion, unbearable insinuations against my 5 year old* intellect/strength; and with a blind, uncontrollable rage I would unleash my jaws onto the offender’s arm/leg/face. That taught them not to mess with the lion cub. I think my heart still remembers the consequent shunning from the civilized society of my brethren and sistren. πŸ˜€

So today when Asma bit her cousin again after he had been refusing to share what he was building, I recognized that helpless, angry frustration before she became the lion cub’s cub and bit out her anger. HerΒ lashing out was much milder than what Β I remember mine used to be and there was also the comforting fact that she is much younger than I was in my biting phase. Then again it has been a good many years since I have felt the anger that urged me to bite my siblings into yelping submission so I suppose we do grow out of it. πŸ˜€

May Allah ease our tempers and bless us with patience and guide us and our children to the best of manners. Ameen!

* I am only supposing I was five and I really do not remember except that I wasn’t too small nor such a big child either.


Assalamalaikum In a few months from now, inshaAllah, I will have been married for four years and it is startling to realize that. Though the schoolgirl part of my life doesn’t seem so long ago in my head, I discern a feeling of finality about that particular period being done with and put away. May Allah place barakah in our time and make our lives rich in goodness in every part and forgive us our shortcomings. This blog began at the transition stage and it is evident from the evolution in the writing that I am slowly turning into an aunty. *horror of horrors!* Some little time ago I would have described myself as a beginner in the field of aunty-ing but now it has only become too clear from the apparent ease with which tweens and teens call me Hafsa aunty that they feel no pricks of conscience when they address me with such imposing titles. It is true that some of them have often been made aware of the not so great disparity in our ages by their mothers but the blow has been given. And, what with my fourth wedding anniversary coming up and girls still studying in seventh grade, the gulf between our ages grows wider, pushing me most uncouthly into the Bay of Aunty. πŸ˜€ In times such as these, I comfort myself with the thought that S ji will always be more of an uncle than me and then things start looking young and rosy again. The end. If you thought this post was about to be a serious bit of thinking, then trust me, I was fooled too. SubhanAllah, the turns that life takes! πŸ˜€