So grocery in times of #covid19 has been well…interesting. Though I’m forever grateful to be living here in Canada 🇨🇦 with easy access to food. We haven’t stocked up per se, but yes we’ve got essentials most of us brown people can’t survive without. You know it’s not toilet paper.Then with kids, you’re always running out of something. So isolation/social distancing is a tough nut to crack. It also doesn’t help when you have a buzzing Desi Store behind your home. And yes in Canada. I think that I am a responsible citizen. But with a store that’s so close in proximity, the concept kind of muddles up in my brain. It’s just an extension of my backyard, I convince myself. I put on my gloves, wear a longer jacket (thinking it would protect me more somehow), pass a wistful glance at the family I’m leaving behind and walk out.
It’s also interesting when you’re cautiously practising the 6 feet distance between other people, that too at a Desi store.
And then… you accidentally put your coriander bag in the cart of the person standing behind you. Let’s just say those were extremely awkward 3 minutes of my life.
You also learn to be slick with your movements. Taking off the glove, to reach for your wallet and make payment and then putting it back on to reach for the bags. You can’t take too much time. And you can’t itch your nose or eyes during any of it because you haven’t jumped on the mask wagon yet. So that thought consumes you throughout, “Don’t touch your face, woman!!!” So I go back home with tons of bags, my upper body working overtime. I enter with one leg sliding open the kitchen door and the other leg left hanging outside. These acrobatics saved me the day’s workout. I place the bags on the floor.
Normally I take my time putting everything away. But now it‘s me racing against time whilst ticking away a mental checklist.
Wash hands.
Rewash hands. (Because mom. And paranoia. And scarcity of hand sanitizers)
Put away the food.
Quickly hide imli-ki-chatni and other such extras that don’t qualify for urgent groceries.
I finally sit down to catch my breath. I almost smile. And then it hits me.
I forgot to buy the salt.

“My name is Nida Bab —- ur” My voice went MIA midway as I nervously introduced myself . It was 1999. I was 16 and conducting Tambola at Lahore’s Services Club for the first time. I remember one of the ‘uncles’ asking if anyone was interested in conducting one of the houses. We had played Tambola as a family before too. Even in cities like Quetta. Or at least my brother and I’d be there even if we weren’t old enough to play. My parents always took me for a confident, brave girl. I still, to this day, don’t know why. They nudged me and there I was. The object of many stares. I was the new kid on the block. A block that monopolized in mostly older men from The Armed Forces and their families.
So every Saturday evening, I voraciously learned about life. About war, love, marriage, infidelity, racism, language, sports, natural disasters, history. I’d like to attribute a chunk of my life’s knowledge to these grandiose evenings.
6 and 5… Indo Pak war.. 65, Arab-Israel 67
All the wives… 55
Flirty, dirty , 30… Naughty at the age of 40 unlucky for some – a baker’s dozen – 13

Devastating earthquake, 35

Over the ropes, 6

Roman Gangsters – 27

Tony Blair’s den – 10

Heinz varieties.. 57. (I appreciated this fact decades later as I voraciously shopped for Heinz ketchup on my monthly grocery rampages. ).

Sweet 16 – call for whistles.. (yes I too was 16)

Fat lady in a fix – 86
That summer of—- a love story that never completed… 42
You get the picture?

And then I was advised by parents and other grownups to come up with more creative ways to announce numbers. So I did my bit. I thought about numbers. I thought about words. And tried to put them all together and hoped everyone noticed what the new kid had done. I used fancy words like midnight and haunting when talking about 12. Grandpa with a son -81. I was all for equal gender representation and I didn’t want the grandpas to feel left out. Or replace Bhaati Gate with Golden Gate – 48 . After all I was bringing a little San Francisco into Lahore. I want to Break Free at 23. This I suspect was a subconscious release of pent up emotions of a hormonal teenager. And no. I didn’t end up breaking free. But back then, with my chic new Tambola lingo, I thought I was doing great service to my country and its honourable defenders. I took my part-time fame seriously.

I’d even ask some of my friends to come and see me in action. I’d dress up. And pay particular attention to my otherwise mediocre wardrobe. I’d try to subdue the galloping horses in my heart as Saturday approached, as an attempt to hide my bloating enthusiasm. I worked on my English accent so it didn’t sound too English.. or too Urdu-ish. Something in between that would leave a good impression. “Oh, she speaks good English.” Or “who does she think she is anyway? Shakespeare?” It was either of the two or maybe something barely acceptable in between. But at least on my face all the uncles and aunties were polite and rather amused. Or bemused. I remember sometimes going without the parents and instead taking my younger brother and a couple of friends. We’d laugh, act as if it wasn’t a big deal when I rose from the commoners table and stepped on to the Majestic throne of the ‘Caller.’ And we’d eat the famous BBQ chicken, kabab, chicken Handi, and sesame seed naan. And then I’d sign on my father’s membership card. Because this was the ‘when-you-have-no-money- way to go about it. This was me bursting at the seams of cool-hood. While doing my job with a rather non-chalant attitude, I vowed to defend my numbers and words with all the courageous valour I had learnt as the daughter of an Army Officer. I would have paraded down to the caller table and saluted to my loyal audience if I could’ve. Like I said. It was serious business for me.

Over the years, my tambola adventures led me to conduct at Defence Club and then Lahore Gymkhana. Gymkhana was like the Beethoven of Clubs and tambolas. But by then it was just something I did over the week. A double identity. Whenever I wasn’t studying for an exam or working on an important project. Or later on not busy with work. I’d tag along with my doting parents and conduct my concert of numbers. After I got married, I even dragged my poor husband to witness my secret double life. I still, to the day don’t know if he was impressed. Or if he had second thoughts that day. I fear I won’t have the stomach to ask him. And well after kids and then moving to Canada it all came to an abrupt stop.

Almost after 2 decades since the day it all began I got the chance again when I visited Pakistan a few months ago. Lahore Gymkhana Club. Time stood still within those walls. The same words. The same numbers. The same witty exchanges between veteran Tambola goers (with exceptions of a few faces that had sadly departed to their higher calling). Numbered sheets, neon highlighters, clipboards, fried fish, chicken chops, club sandwich, servers, polite salaams and eye-waves from afar, claps, cheering over winning money, booing over loosing, rapt attention and bathroom and phone breaks midway, post-game frustrations over not winning a single penny. I didn’t exactly feel the uncontrollable excitement the 16 year old once felt . But I felt welcome. I felt at home. I saw my parents sitting with me like they once did. I saw what a long way we’d all come. And I also saw how nothing had really changed. Like riding, or swimming, or driving.. tambola also sinks into your bones. And whether you come as a 16 year old, a 36 year old or a 56 year old, it’s like you never left.

P.s; for those who may mistake this for an addiction. Please do so by all means ☺️. I have seen how Bingo is played. So it’s pretty similar. But we like announcing our numbers with fun descriptions that lend meaning to otherwise ordinary numbers. You have to experience the whole Pakistani Tambola / Army culture in real life to understand it. Also, there are no in-betweens here. You either love it. Or you don’t. You obviously know my side.

Image credits: Cintia Freitas

Summer of 2019.

36 (and a half) year old me, grass and dirt fields, 27 ounce end-loaded Louisville, cleats, gloves, SPN balls, and softball friends. That about sums it all up. Well at least on the face of it.

I don’t know if I can put words to it all. Words that dig deep and show what it means to me.

When you’re as old as you are.. have a family… work… commitments…you get the drift. When you’re desperately counting on your beloved support system in the form of your husband, parents, relatives, babysitters just so you can make it to the game.

When you’re bubble-wrapped with labels : Muslim Pakistani Canadian Immigrant Woman who isn’t expected to play sports at this age….let alone feel so passionate about a sport that is quite unknown in her culture.

It’s especially harder because it’s always been there. I first learned how to play Softball at school in Quetta(God Bless our principal for introducing the game to us)… more than 2 decades ago. A city where this was as alien as well.. aliens themselves. And then I caught a few glimpses of it in the hot and eager Lahori summers of grades 9 and 10. And that was that. I’d thought this chapter was closed forever. Until it wasn’t.

It’s especially harder when there is always the possibility of injury on the field.. and a mom of 3 can’t really afford that now can she ? A bruised eye.. a broken thumb…a twisted ankle or worse. Or when on some days your post-game body seeks mercy and tons of Tylenol because it hurts everywhere. But you get back up on your life-horse and trot on.

It’s especially harder to explain it to those bewildered and amused looks you sometimes get when you say you play in a softball league.

“Wow really?! The super excited ones.

Or “Oh.. softball?!” The taunting ones.

Or just the silent observers.

Now don’t worry. That’s as hard as it gets.

Because from there on it’s all soul-bursting happy. From there on it’s about exuberant butterflies in the stomach and a galloping heartbeat as I run towards home plate or hear the whip of my bat. From there on it’s all about those liberating and self-defining moments spent playing ball.

And then it’s the women I play with. It’s a LOT about them you know. This passion resurfaced because of them and Sisterhood Softball League (SSL) I am here playing softball, because of SSL. The acceptance. The love. The sisterhood. The motivation. The encouragement. The will. My summers are all about this inspirational juice.

Growing up, I loved sports movies. The underdogs beating the odds at the end and what not! The skills, the training.. the perseverance….oh I savoured every scene. I don’t know if we truly fall under the category. But I do know that we’ve all grown immensely. From Act One of the scene till now… it’s a new ballgame for many of us! Patience. Skills. Getting a hold of anxiety and nerves. Determination. Not giving up even if it feels physically impossible. Learning from defeats and the wins. Keeping your head held high, but with humility. This 90 minute crash course is as real as it gets.

I see that a lot of us are on the same boats. Boats that are bursting on the seams with life. Boats that are sometimes hard to maneuver because docking on a shore for some downtime seems impossible. But still… we manage to sail on by. Every Sunday morning.. or every other nightly game… we steer our boats away from the noise and dock at this safe place … our safe place…on the softball field.

So yes. I still don’t think I can explain it. But as I keep playing every season there will come a day when I won’t find the need to explain it anymore. Even to myself.

Because at that point I might(or might not) have subdued those raised eyebrows , the bewilderment, those self-doubts. But that won’t matter. Because I might have made a difference where it does matter.

My children.

For them to see me taking time out for practice and strategy. To see me anxiously gearing up on Sunday mornings and tip-toeing out the door at 7 am. Or to see me coming back sweaty, dirty, sore but ecstatic. For them to see my eyes light up just at the mention of softball.

For them it will be a norm. Something that mama has to do. And eventually they’ll realize the urgency of it all.

There will be things in life that they must do. While those actions may be hard to define, these same actions will define them. Actions , though within the boundaries of their religion and faith, may still be unacceptable.

And at any point if they stumble. I hope that they will remember how and why their mama played ball.