My Journey: From Desi ‘Ghee(butter)’ to a Desi ‘Me’

A glimpse into the mind of a Desi immigrant in Canada.


‘Eweeeee What’s that smell?!’ An all too familiar outrage when our mothers or grandmothers cooked something in Desi ghee (clarified butter). Those were fleeting interactions with the word ‘desi’ in my childhood. As I grew older, doctors began piping the benefits of eating pure, unadulterated food, so Desi (organic) chickens and eggs were now the rave.

After moving to Canada, I realized that Desi wasn’t just about food. Desi could have as many interpretations as the fight against terrorism. Chickens were not the only ones upholding the prestigious title. I was a desi too.

Desi (Brown-skinned) – anthesis of the word Gora (white-skinned)

When you look up Desi in the dictionary it says: South Asian, esp. Indian. People from the Pakistani, Indian, Sri-Lankan and Bangladeshi descent have simultaneously been whipped into a multi-layer Desi cake. Our accents and languages, skin color, food, clothes,culture and beliefs are conveniently defined…

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Short-story: Guardians of the valley

Hi fellow covey-ers! This is my first post here. A short story inspired by a writing challenge and my love for a beautiful city called Kalaam, back home in my country, Pakistan. The heavenly beauty there is difficult to capture and this was probably a futile attempt. But I hope you’ll get a small idea of what I am talking about. Happy reading:)


credits: isaf media  - - isaf media (

I came back for one last visit. I had to. After all those years of wonder and regret, I stepped foot in the magical valley again.

credits - Usman bokhari - flickr Kalaam

credits: Usman Bokhari - flickr

The air was cool and peaceful. Yet I felt drops of cold sweat slide down my face. I didn’t think I’d remember the timeless beauty of Kalaam after so many years. But there it was, untouched by haunting cries. Nature had wiped everything clean. Thick, green blankets covered the sleeping giants; too high and mighty to bother with surrounding life.  The roads like flying dragons raced along the wondrous Swat river to an endless finish line. Gigantic trees lined the valley, joined together as if in solemn prayer. I couldn’t breath. All that beauty choked me. I stepped out of my jeep for the oxygen I couldn’t find inside my worn out mobile home.

credits: express tribune

Lively teashops and restaurants lines the road. Stacked on…

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