The New Generation of Pakistani Architects

To Hammad:

I am not an architect, my opinion is purely a layman`s....having said that i would like to say that Pakistani architecture as you enquired.....would actually be in essence what Pakistanis have made.....Pakistan as such has only come into existence since 50 years....i don think thats sufficient to build up an identity. The region was ruled by the british for 200 years, so whatever was built those days is very conveniently called British architecture (And IndoPak labour if u may)......The only claimable architectural master piece which Pakistan can claim wast the Taj...but then thats one Muslim building which the Indians would secularize on...not to mention the amount of tourism it flocks.....so basically the bottom line is.....we have very less to beat the drums about in architecture.....lest India decides to hand over the Taj :-)


welcome to chowk...may i ask you one question?...is there any utilitarian value in >pakistani architecture that sets its apart... ...ok make it two queries...in what way are the >aesthetes in pakistani architecture different from others?

Thank you everyone for an interesting discussion. I think not much has been written on architecture before, on this forum. I hope to write here regularly - though it will only be on architecture and our built environment!

Best Regards,

Hammad Husain

temp:
wouldn`t they be the extra-ordianary intraordinaries?

Shandana:

I feel I must apologize, not just to you but to all the other people who interact here as well. I was insensitive and wrong. I may not be smart, but I`m not stupid enough to be not able to see when I`m not right, not to mention that Ralph`s ``Else, beat it`` threat made me almost (but not quite) lose bladder control with fear. Therefore, duly rebuked, rebuffed and reprimanded, I bow out of this discussion thread/board. Being a new member I did not know there was an etiquette of not abusing a board (a word of thanks Shandana, for extending the constricted boundaries of my knowledge of how things work here), therefore, apologies to you as well Hammad.

PS (Ralph): Anonymity and the absence of the threat of reprisal really does wonders for one`s bravado does it not? By the way, you do a nice impression of the knight in shining armour.

A fond farewell to one and all,
Irfan.

irfanhamid

There is something called doing your little bit, according to your interests, and your abilities, at your place, one person at your time. Nobody has to turn into a saint. Neither does one have to give up, unless that`s what makes the person happy.

If you have any ideas about how Chowkies can add to the `value` as you define the term, share your wisdom with us. Else, beat it.

that`s a very good analogy shandana -- life of the mind and body -- btw there`s an article in there !

shandy

...almost overlooked the extra ordinary pakistanis living in pakistan (in #28) while elaborating on ``masses`...that was my fault...

...you and others with a live conscience who are working and living there to make a difference are perhaps more extra-ordinary pakistanis...

lve,

t


PM

have responded to the msg elsewhere...mail responded

hammad,

sorry but i`m about to abuse your board.

ifran...

two thoughts...

one...if i must run with a pack, i think i`d like to run with this one, if thats all right with you of course.

two...whenever i read about the masses, i always wonder why the fact that i read/write/speak predominantly english means (to some) that i`m not part of them. i live in karachi, have lived here for 25 of my 27 years. i drink the water, i eat the food, use the electricity, the roads, have a vote, hate the city nazim, get upset when i don`t get the things i pay taxes for...strange that others with guilt or self esteem issues project them onto me. should i consider myself less worthy of help or solace or even water (which i get for about an hour a day, much like the residents of the katchi abadi that are my neighbours) than those who are worse of than me? the way i see it, there is a life of the mind and there is the life of the body. i am privileged in that my body has it better than most others (three square meals plus snacks, a nice ac car, some lovin when i really need it etc), but when it comes to the life of the mind mine is just as subject to the ravages of pakistani life as my cleaning woman, and yes i mean that in all seriousness. so guess my point here is, the value of discussion on chowk is pretty much what you make it, and for me its been a way to keep the life of the mind toodling along. most days its wasted time, but some days its enlightening, reflective, cathartic, or just plain funny. and if PTV and ARY and INDUS can`t give it to me, and i don`t have enough bangles to clink together at an NGO meeting, then i`ll just take it anyway i can get it.

temp and echo: read this somewhere today and couldn`t help see its relevance to your situation.
``To the debacle of modern science can be traced the moral schisms of the modern world which so tragically divides enlightened men.`` --Walter Lippman

Shandana:
Thankyou for demonstrating that most basic instinct of our animal heritage, pack psychology. My basic question was, and is, what value IS discussion on chowk?

1) Do we enlighten the masses? NO, because we can`t reach the masses through a medium like chowk. For one thing, they don`t have a net connection. Even if they did, they don`t read english.

2) Do we influence policy? I won`t even dignify that with a reply.

So what do we (you, me and they) actually DO? Not much, I can assure you. I`ll give you an example, when I was young and idealistic, I joined an NGO (they should be called No Gain Organizations) which was supposed to help women who are targets of domestic abuse. Imbued with a sense of ``do-gooding``, I thought why not give back to society. Only it turned out that that particular NGO`s idea of helping abused women was to sit around in a non-descript house and talk. Like us, they discussed ``issues``. I attended a few of their meetings, eagerly waiting to go out into the field and make a difference; haggle the police, get reporters involved, get a lawyer to take a case pro-bono etc etc. Slowly, it dawned on me, that they didn`t want to do anything, their meetings were an excuse to flirt among themselves and present ``ideas``, and their fundraising campaigns were an opportunity for the not-so-terribly-rich and not-so-famous to mingle with each other. Disenchanted, I quit. But that NGO still gets alot of coverage, alot of gratitude and more than a few slaps on the back, because they know PR.

Another example, totally different. My alma-mater is located in a remote northern area. Next to the campus, there is a poor village, with a school which doesn`t even have adequate teachers. One day, a classmate of mine came up with a brilliant idea, it was simple, effective, and practical. What he did was he organized a group of his classmates, and they started providing free evening tuition classes to all the 9th and 10th class students of that village for science subjects. My classmates took turns each day teaching those children, they put their hearts and souls into that project. The first day there were 2 students, in 2 weeks the whole bunch of 40-50 students were attending. They didn`t stop there, they set up a scholarship program, they collected money from everyone on campus, and they started sending the top student each year to Gordon College in Pindi for F.Sc. As far as I know, the program is still going strong. Nobody except us knows who they were, they got no acknowledgment like Saima did for ``keeping chowk alive``, yet they DID something too, and I respect and admire them for that. This is not a boast, I didn`t work with them, I did not have the decency or common sense to devote even one hour of time per week, I regret that.

Hope you get my point this time.

HH:
I hope you gave them a discount.

Chowkies in general:
Talk is good, but actions speak louder than words.

ATTN temporal:
No response from your chowk addy.
Will be in Islington area Sun night. Please email if interested. youkowmyaddy@yahoo :)

rafay
you write…I am not really concerned about how tall buildings are in Lahore….But I`m talking bye-laws here…The law and architecture may be different. But they are similar to the extent that they can make environments safer and happier (less pollution - more health). What I am interested in is how these two areas can work together…PS: Temporal, point taken.

…no you did not…at least it is not apparent from above…while fire-safety, traffic and waste removal etc. maybe practical considerations that limit the height of the building one must never ignore the aesthetes…a skyscraper in the shadows of badshahi mosque would be incongruous and out of place…by limiting the heights of buildings in certain zones…as I mentione wrf to Washington dc…a city can retain some of its character and flavour…

…khair…the irony of two non-architects discussing this is not lost on me;)

semi

…thanks…yeah read that piece sometime back…think i might have posted it on my cyber baithak too at some point…

...t

echoboom
Are we among the /masses , then why not write just /us . Why do we consider ourselves so grand to call people by a category.

…chowk is the right place to come and agree, disagree, resent, endorse…it is an intersection…for the population or inhabitants of a certain geographical entity one can use denizens, citizens, populace, public, masses, people, multitudes…the urdu word I would use is awaam…if you resent my use of ‘masses’ feel free to sub it with any other word you are comfortable with…yes am of the masses too…as is everyone else…never have denied it… i just differentiate for purposes of his discussion…the people who are there and those who are abroad…the extra-oridinary for me…

…in pakistan-centric discussions the masses usually refers to the awaam there…imho they are ordinary folks…

…for me the extra-ordinary Pakistanis would be those who have left Pakistan and work legally or illegally all over …from middle east to Europe to north America … most of these who have escaped or migrated from Pakistan carry a deeper love for homeland…and sooner rather than later they are able to contribute positively…also…regardless of where they land…they have ironically greater access to law and order than in their own homeland…

…(the above excludes those who infiltrate another nation and cause violence and mayhem under some defunct dogma or ideology…am against loss of a single innocent civilian life at the hands of individuals, organizations or states…)

…my experience of these extra-ordinary Pakistanis is limited to NA…it matters the least if they flip burghers, are insurance dalals, small time entrepreneurs, executives or big businessmen or professionals…it matters the least if they got educated in madrassa, peeli school or private school, urdu or English medium….what matters for me is if education broadened their horizon or not…that is the ultimate testfor me…even the bigoted mullahs claim to be educated..but if their inner eyes still remain close they are nothing but jaahils of the same variety as a jaahils out of english or udru medium schools…jaahils of the first order…

…these extra ordinary Pakistanis display an affection and love of their former homeland and compatriots in their own way and they prove to be an asset…and if as a result of this love with their homeland their actions results in some alleviation of the miseries of the masses there…be it their support of edhi’s causes, or burney’s, or imran’s or abrar`s or orphanages and schools and other projects in their cities, villages…then so much the better...that is why for me they are extra ordinary

…as for the musings…develop it as a theme or article for chowk…there are some angles that need to be widely discussed…

..t

HH,

I am not really concerned about how tall buildings are in Lahore. If utilities can cater to a high rise, then build it and they will come. I am interested if the law can change the way a city looks, and to what effect.

I read somewhere about the ``Memory Map`` of a city being vital to its character. If this is so, then Lahore has been destroyed. Several hundred trees next to where I live have been chopped down to make way for the new Mall Road underpass. But the Mosque on Mall Road (one of two, the Masjid-e-Shahuda is opposite Beadon Road), which is an encroachment, is still standing.

Closer to the Cantonment, the first thing that greets a visitor to Lahore making his way onto the Mall is, apart from an ugly you-are-leaving-the-cantonment poster, a Polo, the mint with a hole, clock.

But I`m talking bye-laws here.

Did you know that, in Cantonment areas, it is an offence to build a bathroom within four feet of a kitchen. And that, if any one burns a corpse without the permission of the Cantonment Executive Officer, he is liable to a fine (the law was made in 1924, when there were still sizeable numbers of Hindu`s living in the city).

Two years ago, the Building Association of Karachi offered the Karachi Building Control Authority a reported Rs. 10 million for each building it would regularize (they had all been built in violation of bye-laws).

The point here is this: The law and architecture may be different. But they are similar to the extent that they can make environments safer and happier (less pollution - more health). What I am interested in is how these two areas can work together.

Rafay Alam

PS: Temporal, point taken.

#24 echo: Gee, we do learn something new every day! Who`s to say the term `ordianry folks` won`t be politically incorrect tomorrow for its implication that Average Joe is just `ordinary`.
just a thought. :-)

...irfan/temporal, having grown up/lived in both east and west i can so understand where both of you are coming from...i guess it`s the place where you make your memories that takes place of honor in your heart...rat-infested, corrupt, misogynist dump aside...here`s an article sent to me by a chowkie...a bit long but def. worth the read....


The Pathos of Exile - Mohsin Hamid - Time Magazine - Asia Edition

I am dancing with my cousin Omer. my hands and feet are on the ground; my
rump is in the air. It is that kind of party?the kind all other parties are
measured against. Around us are many of our childhood loves: Ajoo and O.H.,
Saad and A.T., Shahid and Nippy and Booboo. These are the boys we grew up
with. The girls, our sisters and cousins and wives and fiancés, are
standing back for a moment, letting us go at it. Our grins are infectious.
Some of us are dancing with our eyes shut. Some of us are barely moving,
just shaking a shoulder or arching an eyebrow to the beat. I am utterly
happy.
Omer`s mother was my mother`s friend before she married my uncle. When our
mothers were pregnant, my mother had a series of dreams. She dreamed she
had two mangoes, then two apples, then two oranges. In all of her dreams,
my mother gave the larger fruit to Omer`s mother. ``I know this,`` my mother
told Omer`s. ``Whatever you have, boy or girl, I will have the same. Only
mine will be smaller.``
Omer was born a week before me. As a baby, he drank two bottles of milk and
cried for more while I struggled to finish half a bottle. We grew up
together, cousin-brothers, in a family with nine aunts and uncles and
innumerable cousins. He turned out six inches taller, many, many pounds
heavier and several shades darker than I. He held onto his hair better. We
shared friends and many nights on rooftops, picking up bad habits from one
another, smoking, talking. We left for college in the U.S. around the same
time and returned to Pakistan when we were done.
Then I went to the U.S. again, to law school, and Omer stayed behind. I
became a management consultant, living first in New York and then in
London. Our lives followed different courses. And now, nine years after we
ceased sharing continents, we are back together for his wedding in Lahore,
his home and the city he lives in, my home and the city I left behind. We
are dancing for the last time as single men. In two days, Omer will marry.
I leave the dance floor and step outside. A tent covers the garden, and a
log fire burns in the night. I walk away, around my uncle`s house, a house
built when we were teenagers, and into the great lawn that curves around
what was my grandfather`s house. My body steams in the cold air. We played
here as children, we cousins. There were more than enough of us at Friday
family lunches for any sport that came to mind.
It is February, not long after the kite-fighting festival of Basant.
Lahore`s winter fogs have given way to the clear nights of spring, but
there is still a chill in the air. I sit down on a bench, stroke the wet
nose of a dog that comes to me and shut my eyes. This is the passage of
time. I am a grown man now, 31, and I am in a place that will always be
sacred to me as the place of my childhood. I feel an allegiance to this
house, this family, this city, this country. It makes my eyes burn. I do
not want to leave. But I know I am a wanderer, and I have no more choice
but to drift than does a dandelion seed in the wind. It is my nature. It is
in my soul, in my eyes.
Still, Lahore touches me. I am doing well in my career abroad, and I am
able to visit often. But there is something about Lahore, something that
makes me want to be part of this city`s story. Even though I have moved
away, this is where I evolved, where my basic notions of love and
friendship were formed. A snow leopard can be taken to zoos in other
places; it can perhaps even be well fed and content, but it will always
wear a coat designed for the Himalayas. I see Lahore when I look in the
mirror, and I feel the strength of my attachment at this moment, as my
cousin prepares to marry.
My sister and I had arrived on a flight from London that morning. She
busied herself with the many errands of the wedding: flower arrangements,
tent and lighting designs, food preparations. I, typically and lazily,
claimed exhaustion and jet lag as an excuse to go straight to bed. When I
woke it was evening. My father was on the telephone from Islamabad, his
voice full of excitement at the prospect of seeing me soon. I climbed up
onto the roof of my parents` house to watch the sun set and to look out
upon my city.
Lahore had changed and was changing. From this rooftop, where I spent many
hours struggling to get kites aloft, one used to see only trees and the
rooftops of other houses. Now bald patches had emerged where trees had
died, and tall office buildings had risen up not far away, almost uniformly
hideous in their architecture but robust and healthy signs of life, of
growth. I watched them warily and wondered what my house would one day
become. A shop perhaps. Or maybe a small museum.
I went down to my room, showered and shaved, slipped on a well-worn pair of
brown cords and a brown shirt and a secondhand blazer, and headed out to
the party with my sister, who asked me what I had been up to.
``Just thinking,`` I said.
``Yeah,`` she replied with a grin. ``As usual. While the rest of us were
working.``
At 3 in the morning, after half an hour of sitting on the bench by myself,
I rise up and return to the party. It is still going strong, but people
have begun to leave. I linger until there are just a few of us remaining,
the boys, standing around the speakers with our eyes shut, hardly able to
move. Then even the boys disperse, and I head back to Omer`s room for a
chat and a cousin sleepover, an old tradition between us.
The lights are off, and we`re under the sheets. Omer`s fiancé, Natasha, is
a warm, lovely woman, with a doctorate in microbiology and a ready smile.
Still, I ask Omer if he`s nervous about getting married. I imagine I`d be
terrified. But he tells me that it doesn`t feel like a big deal, that it
just seems natural, what was meant to be. ``I`m calm,`` he says, ``calm and
happy.`` Ah, I think, calmness and happiness. Signs of home. Very welcome to
a transcontinental mongrel like myself, soothing me as I drift into sleep.
We`re woken by my aunt banging on the door. ``Omer! Mohsin! Do you know what
time it is?`` We could be 10 years old again. Omer covers his face with his
pillow. I yell that we`re already up. She opens the door and turns on the
lights. ``Up? You`re never up. It`s 1 o`clock. There are a million things to
be done.`` And the preparations continue.
My father arrives from Islamabad that afternoon, and I meet him at the
airport. He gives me a hug, I pick up his bags and we make our way to the
car. He is an economist, and on our drive home our talk turns, as usual, to
economics. Things in Pakistan are improving, he tells me. Reserves are up.
Property and stocks are soaring. But people are still holding back from
investing in new industries. There`s a lot of uncertainty and people don`t
know what`s going to happen, so they`re waiting and seeing. And while they
wait and see, millions of young men and women are trying to enter the
workforce every year.
My father takes off his glasses and cleans them with a white handkerchief.
His eyes are soft and unfocused, but he seems pleased, perhaps because my
sister and I are here. ``You know,`` he tells me. ``A year ago, you could see
troops passing through the city, heading for the border. Trucks would go by
during the day, full of equipment and supplies. And they would come back at
night, empty. Our driver used to drive tanks. He was mobilized with the
reserves. It was a frightening time.`` He puts on his glasses. ``But things
are better now. Let`s hope they stay that way. Peace is a blessing.``
Later that day, my cousin Omer comes by for tea at our place, grabbing a
quick break from the hectic preparations. Omer designs and manufactures
furniture. With population growth, he tells me, comes housing growth, and
with housing growth comes furniture growth; so he is sitting on many more
orders than he can handle. ``You know one thing I really like about what I
do?`` he says, dipping a samosa in ketchup. ``I get to meet all kinds of
people. I mean, everything from types like us to families that do full
purdah, where you can`t even see the women. Sometimes I`ll be talking to
some guy about furniture he needs and he`ll be so nervous, because he`s
trying to get exactly what his wife wants and she won`t come to the
showroom and he`s terrified of making a mistake.``
``What happens if he buys something and she isn`t satisfied?`` I ask.
``I let him return it. Customer service, bro. You have to keep the clients
happy.``
I think about this, about families with husbands who are terrified of wives
who don`t go out in public, and I try to imagine the sight of Omer, in his
shorts and T shirt, reassuring earnest young men with beards.
Lahore has had a difficult decade and a half since I graduated from high
school. Many of those who could leave have left, like O.H. and Nippy and I,
who have flown in for the wedding from jobs far away. Most of the gang who
used to go every summer to the mountains, where we went to flee heat and
parental supervision, now live abroad. But we are a tiny minority. And many
of those who could not leave have struggled to find work. Some of them now
wear the physical uniforms and hard expressions of religious intolerance. I
see them on the streets, in the markets, in front of the mosques. They
worry me. They are frown lines of disappointment on the face of the city.
I think about why so many of my friends left Lahore and why so few of us
returned. None of us seemed to think, at the time, that we were going away
for good. The universities were in bad shape, and we went abroad for a
better education. But as the economy stagnated and as law and order
declined, we delayed our homecomings. We began to work. We began to settle
into new lives. And as the years passed, it became harder and harder for us
to think of what we would do if we went back to Lahore. The city changed
and we changed, and somehow we became voluntary exiles. But at least in my
case, the homesickness that resulted from exile, although not fatal, has
remained uncured.
As I dash from one friend`s house to the next, avoiding wedding chores
while catching up with people I haven`t seen in a long time, I can`t help
thinking of Lahore as the girl I first fell in love with. I have fallen in
love with other cities since: with New York, the girl I will always lust
for but who left me exhausted; and with London, the girl who bored me at
first but whose company I have come to savor. But my heart will always have
a special place for my first love, for Lahore, the love of my childhood and
teens and early 20s.
She has hardened, become more cynical, angrier. She has lost some of her
looks. She is less complacent than she was then, less sure of her enduring
centrality in her universe. But Lahore is still a charmer, and she is more
urbane and cosmopolitan than she was in the days when the opening of a new
ice-cream parlor was enough to get her excited for months. Lahore is
speckled with Internet cafés, with billboards offering broadband
connections, with advertisements for health clubs featuring personal
trainers. The students of the National College of Arts have helped restore
parts of Anarkali market and a bit of the old city now called ``Food
Street``?they look like glamorous backdrops for a period film. The
restoration of the palace in the Lahore Fort is also nearing completion, as
is the construction of the rather chic new airport, done in a style someone
described to me as ``modern Mughal.``
No, Lahore is no longer the same girl she was when we parted ways. And I am
no longer the same boy. But even after all these years, even with the scars
and frown lines she has acquired, she still makes my heart race, and I
can`t help wondering what would have happened if we hadn`t broken up, what
would have happened if I had stayed.
I get a glimpse of it that night. The boys agree to gather after the
dancing and ornamental henna-painting activities of the mahndi for a late
session at my place. I arrive home with my parents, who begin to play cards
in the living room while I work with Rahman, a servant I have known for
most of my life, to set up the study. We carry cushions up the stairs, move
the old boom box in from my bedroom, fetch ashtrays and glasses and ice. I
put on a Joe Satriani CD we listened to on our first big trip to the
mountains. Then I sit down in the gentle light, surrounded by books and
wood paneling, and wait for my friends to arrive.
They come one by one, stopping to chat for a while with my parents and then
clumping up the staircase. The study fills. Shahid and Nippy and I discuss
women woes, or more specifically my women woes, and the most recent
disaster in my romantic life. Booboo and Saad argue about Pakistan`s role
in the so-called war on terror. Ajoo tells O.H. about his latest hunting
outing. A.T. gets on his mobile to his wife. The room grows smoky. The
music switches to Neil Young. I settle back into my cushion and relax.
This is the magic of Lahore. Maybe because of the heat or the big families
or the social restrictions or the relative lack of money, Lahore is a place
where bands of friends tend to form and hold together. I would not trade
this evening in my long-disused study for a party in the coolest nightclub
in SoHo or on the swankiest yacht off Portofino. There is far more pleasure
and sustenance to be had here, and I gorge myself on it tonight.
The next day I wander around the city, dropping in on places I once visited
often. I buy a pack of cigarettes from the paan shop in Main Market, and
I`m recognized by Saleem, the kid who used to take my orders and let me run
a tab when I was a teenager. He comes over to say hello and ask how London
is treating me. ``How did you know I was in London now?`` I ask him. He
shrugs. From my cousins, he tells me, from my friends, you know, word moves
around.
The shopkeeper at the bookstore in the corner of Liberty Market recognizes
me, too, and he tells me that my novel is still selling well. ``Yeah, but
all your copies are pirated,`` I say. He assures me, smiling, that this
isn`t true, and he also points out that being read is more valuable a
reward than being paid.
That evening, I turn on the water in my shower, but the pressure is low
because my sister is taking a shower in her bathroom and my mother is
taking a shower in hers. I turn off the water and wait. This is what life
would have been like if I had stayed, I think: less convenient, perhaps,
but more connected to the people I love.
After we have dressed, we meet in the living room, my mother and sister in
saris, my father and I in suits. A cousin appears just in time to take our
photo, and then we are off to Omer`s house, where some of the boys have
gathered in a corner of the veranda, smoking. I join their circle. Omer
makes his appearance, looking nervous at last and sweating slightly even
though the weather is cool.
Then the order is given, everyone disperses to their cars, and we form a
massive convoy with the groom`s flower-bedecked vehicle in front. We drive
slowly, hazard lights flashing, and we block traffic at busy intersections
for many minutes at a time. No one honks at us. In Lahore, no one would.
Weddings are sacred in this place of bonds, moments for the city to bind
itself together even more strongly.
We arrive and pass through a reception line of flowers. Some of the
cheekier, and unmarried, girls on their side flick their flowers at some of
the cheekier, and unmarried, boys on ours. Then we are inside the tent,
which is holding up well against the light rain that is falling. I wander
about saying my hellos and thinking how strange it is that just a few
nights ago I was working on a PowerPoint presentation in my office in
Piccadilly.
The bride and groom sit on a stage, surrounded by family and friends. I
stand with my parents and my aunt and uncle. My uncle looks at me, and we
share a moment of silent understanding. His son and my cousin, the closest
person I will ever have to a twin, is marrying. My uncle`s face is full of
emotion, and I wink at him to hide the moistness in my eyes.
When I watch Omer walk out of the tent with his wife, I smile, happy for
him and for his life, a life much like one I could, perhaps, have led. A
wave of nostalgia rises up in me but I wait for it to subside, and I focus
on savoring the moment.
I am a wanderer. Soon I will again have left Lahore. There will be time
enough then to think about the past. For now, I accept the blessing of the
present. This is the gift my city has always given me, a sense of home to
sustain me on my travels.