This is a Map… hover over the words.. Name and Tea..

About the Author

Born and raised in the US—with my parents having lived here since the 1970s (at the time of this writing—in 2023, having been five decades)— I’ve not only faced the dilemma of figuring out how or where I fit in as many us do with immigrant parents but have had difficulty understanding or trying to trying to piece for myself where I belong in the world, and in truth, the larger universe. It’s a quest—as it has been so for millenia; the yearning of a human to discover what a self and reality actually is—which happens to be the tagline of Inter-Routes: Self, Dimension and Reality.

And so to explain a little more behind the purpose of Inter-Routes—of this attempt at cracking this universal puzzle, I’ll begin with a story…as stories are potent depictions of reality..

When I was a little girl, I rushed downstairs to the pleasant wafts of a Sunday breakfast.

I caught sight of my mother at the stove, stirring up ingredients for one of her magical breakfasts, which we still joke about always being, “a feast fit for sultans…” except this time her ingredients were more modest by comparison than what she usually made/makes—though were still appetizing—at least as indicated by their scent.

“Good Morning, my baby! did you sleep well?” , she said, turning around with a mug in her hand, and carrying a teapot in the other. As if hatching a conspiracy, she playfully whispered, “I have a treat for you this morning…”  through her use of the spell-binding word, “treat”, I was summoned to the table, my feet scurrying.

She poured tea into a ceramic mug. Clearly, it wasn’t for herself—as she prefers drinking from a glass cup in order to see how dark the brew of her tea is; I was surprised as the only time I got any sip of black tea is when she poured it into a porridge, called “tuzlik sut” in Uzbek, or salted milk—a dish served at breakfast.

She reached for the milk and begun pouring it atop the tea in the mug instead of a bowl—which to my mind seemed scandelous! In my child’s mind, concepts were still forming as well as the linkages of what right and wrong were along with the formulaic way of how things were done.

Now, as an adult I know that psychologists or neuroscientists label these patterns of thinking and behavior that we use to interpret the world

as schemas—and for my four year old self, this was simply not how we drank tea at home!

It was not our usual way—for we the Turks or Turkic peoples were always accustomed to plain black or green tea in a cup— and if tea were to be mixed with milk—well that better be in a bowl, with bread and salt..…or in other words, in the form of tuzlik sut..so what was my mother doing this morning by mixing milk with tea… let alone in a cup?

I crossed my puny arms and shook my head; the ends of my black bob brushing my cheeks. 

”When your grandmother was a little girl, just like you, she would drink this tea in Pakistan where she and her parents escaped…”

My mom was alluding to the migration of many Turkic peoples and other nationalities affected by the communist invasion by Russia, then the USSR, in the 1930s. Thousands fled to different countries, among them my maternal grandmother who escaped with her parents to Pakistan. Pakistan wasn’t formally recognized as such at the time..as it was then still Hindustan or India—though, it was on the verge of adopting its new name.

With a sprinkle of sugar and a final stir, my mother pushed the mug forward,…”have a taste…”

I reached for the mug and took a sip; with wide eyes and a sweet taste bursting in my mouth—images lit up in my mind of past stories my mother had narrated, through her penchant for story-telling, regarding her mother’s childhood. These stories were about how my grandmother would jump on the branches of tree tops amid fluttering parrots; be seated in rooms with carved settees and colorful mats; learn to sew gorgeous fabrics splayed in whimsical colors, like magenta, pink and blue; engage in pre-pubescent rebellion by piercing her nose; mastering the playing of the harmonica; then more tragically—of how my grandmother became an orphan by losing her mother—my great grandmother—at the onset of a big war… the war that would indeed split India (Hindustan) and Pakistan into two countries; around this time my grandmother would migrate again—leaving behind her mother’s grave—in this land to which she’d never return.. 

Despite this great sadness, the mix of milk, sugar and tea, combined into a magical potion from a faraway place, delighting my taste buds—.. I clapped and squealed in approval..”Pakistani tea— Pakistani tea!” This simple formula comprised of simple household ingredients —paired with an air of exotic mystery and family history made it all the more special for me though comparatively less elaborate than my mother’s usual morning feasts; however, through the power of story she’d spun the unremarkable into gold; and for the standards of my 4 year old self, still qualified as being a breakfast “fit for a sultan..”

With good humor, my loving mom went to the stove, transferring the nutritious yet comparitively modest offering she had whipped up for me onto a plate—amused at having sprinkled a bit of magic on lazy Sunday morning. 

Through that episode and many others—I’m forever learning the transformative power of stories— a cliche I haven’t yet figured out but whose truth I’m continuously seeking, specifically through my life work…being Inter-Routes.com which I hope..will combine each other’s stories..to intertwine like threads—or paths— to be woven like a web.. and comprise a shared human myth.

To know what that last line above even means..one will have to undergo the greater journey… of exploring this website—which I view as truly being a book—and which I assume will be a challenging read… yet believe will result in the transformation of reality on the following basis:

Stories.. comprise ingredients—characters—plots—words—sometimes images—which convey meaning as my mother had done so—in transforming a simple morning breakfast into a memorable moment for me. Stories are at their essence a compilation of meaning—and meaning is the very basis through which we interpret life. We could even refer to meanings as schemas.

Thus, by creating this work, I am hoping we’ll learn how to find the right ingredients to reframe our lives into powerful stories— much like in the way the changing of one word or punctuation in a sentence can alter that sentence’s larger meaning.

Imagine if altering of an ingredient or two—(or piece of data forming the lens through which we perceive reality), could radically shift the way we see ourselves, the universe and our place in it.

We could encounter a transformed reality (which is the main objective of Inter-Routes) where the lines of imagination and reality are blurred yet crisp— to get there is a long journey/mission—a quest in which I hope you will join me in unraveling; discovering that reality is more magical.. with a dash of added sweetness.

As the author, I’ll let the rest of this confusing website—or my life long book—explain the rest, through the use of characters, parts of my memoir and the voice of “Inter-Routes” itself. I earnestly hope you will find parts of yourself as I do, having our threads intertwine.

Lastly, I could not create this world which I aspire will transcend the perceived limits of reality without the following individuals, selves or stars, you’ll see featured on this starchart…… some of whose stories you will read about and some I’ll have share with you themselves…… nonetheless, each of us collectively undergoing the journey of finding out what it means to be human—and our place in the universe.

Lastly, there is a unifying line between the two countries—Pakistan and India— in the context of Inter-Routes….—through Inter-Routes descending into this dimension technologically via the coding of developers in those two countries. Pakistan is also where I found love—but to find out more on that—well, you just have to keep reading; and given there is more on the way, assuredly among them are threads leading to your Treasure.