The first good-bye...

I came back today to a very silent home. The little slippers reminded me of the happy feet that travelled from room to room, leaving their curious marks.

The tricycle that whizzed through the open doors, was left on its own. I sat in the living room, where life began each morning. The television channels offered me all the freedom to choose what I wanted to see, but the eyes remained dreamy with mornings from yesterday in mind.

“ Today I want to eat egg and toast mama,” was his little request. Each morning, it was something different. We would sit in front of the T.V and it was a struggle to focus on the news that I so wanted to follow, first thing in the morning. “Will you please eat quietly!” I often wondered when I’ll have that magical time to myself without any interruptions. Well, today I sat all alone, without my little companion, wishing for a little sound to break my silence.

I decided to get up and walked to the washroom to collect the laundry. As I cleared the basket, my eyes fell upon the little bath toys that lay motionless on the bath tub. The floor was dry with no carefree splashes of water, screams of joy or un-necessary calls to mum. My eyes felt wet and I hurried to the kitchen to load the washing machine. I pictured his little hands opening the cabinets. “I want to cook in this pot mum.” And he would play sitting on the floor while I cooked the food. The endless conversations that exhausted my energies had left the house.

I looked at my watch. It had only been an hour. The thought of him crying, looking for me drowned my heart. He loved being with friends. But it was a new place, new people and a new language. The thoughts began to suffocate me, so I decided to get to work. I entered the kids’ room to put it in order. Toys everywhere.  The pyjamas on the floor and the blankets hanging from the beds. Everyday I would complain about their carelessness but not today. Today I felt nostalgic. My sons had grown up. The older ones had their own distinct manners.

The eldest was dreaming of having his own room. He needed his space to be the man he wanted to be. He had shared enough. The middle one had the most questions. He was abstract in thoughts and was happiest when recognized for his individuality. They both had moved on in life. And there was no looking back for them.

And so today as I folded their clothes away, I realized that I really had them for just those three years. It was a period of uninterrupted togetherness and companionship. No other time could compare to that which I shared with my toddlers, who gave me a kiss anytime, sat on my lap for a hug, followed me around like my shadows and loved me back for always being there. My youngest one had left my hand and brought with it the realization of missing the older two as well who seemed to have forgotten the breakfast fuss and the infinite hugs that once marked my days.

The pain in the first good bye that you wave to your child while leaving him on his own in a nursery, is one that really defines the end of a beautiful and dependent existence that filled your life. And while it’s a joy to see them become independent, the aroma of the baby lotion, the perfume of the sprinkled powder and the skipping of the happy feet, just never leave the house.

Rides to remember...for my elder brother...

In our life, we embark upon so many journeys. The reasons for these trips are various. Some expeditions are self- initiated while some are forced upon us. Being human, we enjoy some, dread some, look forward to some and sometimes hold on to some.


My article today is a special one. It is a commute to my childhood and teenage years. Thankfully, I’m not alone in these rides but have a special companion. Someone who often got scolded for stumbling as a toddler! Who believed in only the truth and nothing but the truth, and so got everyone in trouble! Who played the organ and made me believe we’d rock the world one day! Someone who still enjoys being at the steering wheel and go on voyages! That is of-course my elder brother Farid.


Farid is only two years older than me but when I was younger that seemed a lot. He was adventurous as ever and the day he got his bicycle, there was no sitting at home. I always looked up to him as someone who would be able to come out glorious no matter what. Even when mum forbid him to play outside in the afternoon, he had the nerve to sneak out with my younger brother, who was always ready to follow! I was however, left in the house to guard the secret and manage any misfortune! I did that gladly as the reward was delicious. In the evening, when my mum would ask Farid to get her bread and usual breakfast necessities from the near-by stores, I would get a free ride. It was thrilling to sit on the carrier of a “Sohrab” bicycle and endure the bumpy ride. Faraz, my younger brother would join us as well and normally the ride to the store would be fun. But as soon as the cycles turned around, I would get a dreadful feeling in my stomach. The speed, turns and road humps, nothing was in their control. Only the desire to be the first at the house gate. I would constantly scream at him to stop, cursing and finally hitting him on the back. To this day I remember his giggles and care-free manner ignoring all my requests. Very cleverly, he would press the brakes at the gate saying, “ok yaar, lets stop. She’s getting frightened!” And every time he stopped, I would fall off the carrier! It annoyed him. “How can you fall off a standing bicycle yaar?” It was a funny climax to a chaotic ride!


And then he became sixteen and learning to drive the car became an obsession. Again my intelligence services were activated. We were in Karachi and the closest market was a 5 minute drive. His first few rides were solo. But then I threw a tantrum like all sisters do! He obliged happily as by then he had gained good control and wanted to show-off his skills. And so, the adventure began. We rode off slowly and he kept on telling me to take it easy. My expressions were making him loose his confidence! He was careful with the car and gradually, I too began to observe the commotion outside the window. We drove to the market and he offered to buy me a cassette from the music store. That’s when I got my first ‘Ali Haider” cassette which had “Love Ali” printed on it, for which he teases me to this day saying I had a crush on him! It took us twenty minutes to get back home. But the exhilarating feeling to have gone on an independent excursion has lingered on with us since then. It was a happy beginning to many such rides.


He then got married and joined us in Dubai. I had grown up and was teaching. He being a Banker found a job near my school and so, once again, we were in his car! The mornings were quite scenic. We would get up leisurely. Nobody could guess that we were actually racing against time. We would sit at the kitchen table and he would enjoy his breakfast, sipping tea, reading the paper. I would suddenly declare the emergency and it was all hell after that! We would get in the car and the first thing I would do is play the cassette. And the ride would begin. We would be engrossed with the music and often he would ride over pavements and I would not react at all. He would look at me and we would blurt out laughing!


And then one fine morning, while listening to the thumping beat of A.R Rahman’s “hamma”, we slammed into a car which was happily waiting for the signal to open. All the while we had been enjoying the awesome music and with the windows down, and a feeling of happy togetherness, we completely forgot to look ahead! It was a wake-up call to a somewhat careless ride. Again it’s in my memory for those mornings had a flavour of their own and the rides had a special bonding with roots attached to my childhood.


Today, he thrives on rides. He wakes up earlier than the birds and rides off into the desert in his four-wheel drive. Sometimes we plan long drives with our families and yes, life seems to have moved on for both of us. But like I said, some rides are just unforgettable.


Wishing my darling brother “A Very Happy Birthday!”

Having a funeral

I believe the very first funeral that I hold memory of was that of my grand-father. My Nana was a tall, sturdy man with broad shoulders and heavy feet. He was a man of few words as I remember him, being probably just 8 years old. I couldn’t just jump onto his lap or throw a tantrum as he came across as a serious man.




We were living at Asghar Mall in Rawalpindi which used to be my grandparents or my mum’s home. I remember worried discussions happening around me, related to his failing health. I found it very pressurizing and wanted to just travel back to Karachi where no bad news ever reached the ear. Yes, that was Karachi at one time when people could walk out of their houses at late hours feeling no fear.


The night was quiet and I heard some commotion in the room. My mum was preparing to go to the hospital as Nana was not so well. I saw the panic in her eyes. My dad was composed as always and the ambulance was on its way. I sat up in my bed not knowing what to say. She left the room and I did not dare to walk out to witness the event. There was noise as Nana was a heavy man and carrying him to the ambulance was a task.


They all left and sadly returned empty handed with few words to share. There was crying in the middle of the night. We all woke up and people started to pour in the house to share the grief. The children were limited to a bedroom in the supervision of older cousins. It was a long night and each time I heard a loud cry of pain, I felt sad for my mother and her loss. Of course at that time, it was impossible to pin down emotions but what I remember distinctly is the desire to get out of that room and the event to pass quickly.


In the morning, we were called by our mum who eventually could not place a veil on her emotions and said, “Come and see Nana for the last time. He is leaving us now.” I remember being dragged to the drawing room where his body lay still. I felt fear and my senses just could not accept the need to witness such a ritual. My brothers and sister stood with me near him for a minute and all the while I stared at someone who used to cough really loudly and tease my grandma to annoy her lovingly. There was no motion what so ever. What appeared as a dreadful thought was that they were going to bury him under the soil. Graveyards were scary and I was so panicked that I quietly left the room. And the funeral procession left the house in screams and disbelief on part of some whilst for some it was a release of anguish held inside for a long time. People came in day and night in the following days to offer their sympathies, appearing as just words that were framed carefully to match the occasion.


The images were printed on my mind and I believe I carried them with me for a long time. Each time there was a funeral, I would feel the dreadful ending. With age, it became more acceptable but with my mum passing away, it all came back with agonizing force. The difference was that this time, I wanted to be a part of every ritual and imbibe every moment left with her soothing image.


The rituals happened as usual. Condolences were offered and life took its usual course. I would get flashes of the funeral every single night as the impact was huge. Often I looked at the far horizon and see the birds gliding through the open sky. I wondered if she had turned into a bird flying freely, watching over me. It was a silly thought but gave me solace.


I was still in the frame of the body being carried away, when the most disastrous Earthquake happened in North Pakistan. It was less than two months since my mum’s funeral. The news came in and we made worried calls to my father, sister and in-laws to ensure their safety. Allah had been kind and we were grateful to learn about their well-being.


The magnitude of the earthquake left people around the country speechless. There was complete disruption of life and soon the appeal to help and contribute for the sustenance of the survivors became the driving force for each and every Pakistani around the globe.


As I watched the coverage on television, stories of families lost and victims found dead began to circulate viciously. The images I saw were of wrecked houses, destroyed schools and complete localities plundered to non-existence. It was tearing to hear stories of families searching for their loved ones. I distinctly remember one such story about a young girl they tried to rescue from under the wreckage, who eventually could not fight the odds.


All this time, my mind was on a journey to discover the reality of death. The necessity of a funeral. The authenticity in a condolence. And as sad as this daunting calamity was, it left my heart in peace. I was grateful to Allah for blessing my grandpa with a funeral. For allowing us time to grasp the reality of my mother leaving, for people who walked in numbers to help us talk about the loss. Having a funeral is indeed a blessing. It’s something to be thankful for.

The algebra of a joint family

My entire childhood was spent in my parents’ home. It’s what we call a single unit family. Dad, mum, myself and my siblings. Interaction with the extended families on both my mum and my dad’s side happened only in the school holidays. They were fun, memorable and problem free.


I got married and as my husband was working here in the UAE, I quite naturally shifted to yet another independent unit. My in-laws were in Pakistan so again, interaction was limited to visits off and on.


We had our children and both of us fell into a completely comfortable zone. Life was tough with its challenges everyday but we were facing them knowing no other face of life.


And then the recession happened. I believe everybody’s life turned topsy-turvy. We too suffered a huge blow and it narrowed down to the decision of me travelling to Pakistan for about two years with the children. My husband had his job thankfully and that area was not to be touched at all. I had never experienced living in a joint family and was petrified inside. That too without the physical presence of my husband. My friends thought I was crazy but honestly, I had no choice.


As always, I entered the household without any presumptions. I needed all the support I could get with three sons of which the youngest was just forty days old.


I was welcomed with smiles and a few insecurities. I was someone, who had been living abroad since the past twenty-five years. My presence in the family had been exactly ten years but with two visits a year. My children were born in the UAE and for them too, it was suddenly a new land.


The first few days, all I could do was observe the working of the house and its occupants. It was very meticulous and organized. From sunrise to sunset, there were chores to be completed and children to be attended.


The first joy that I encountered being in the company of so many people was being ‘told’ what to cook! I didn’t have to think about it and the decision was always taken by someone else. The idea of letting go small powers was enthralling. I enjoyed following routines.


I had a driving licence but had never tried a hand at it in Pakistan. My sister-in-law often came to me with the car keys to ‘at-least drive to the neighbourhood market’. We would drive there cracking jokes and buying vegetables to be cooked that day. It was a daily ritual and everyone from father-in-law to the servants had to be kept in mind. The car keys gave me that little freedom which I enjoyed immensely. And the first time I reversed the car out of the garage, I asked my father-in-law who came out to open the gate passing on a gesture of approval on his part.


Food was the driving force of the day. Two curries were a must, chapattis had to be cooked, the rice had to measured well for there was no concept of extra. Lesson two for me was based on that concept. I learnt how important it is to cook food in the right quantity. It was miraculous to see that not a bite went into the garbage. Even the corners of the bread were fed to the birds which came in hoards to their home. It was a blessed house.


Children were priority. Mornings couldn’t be lazy with children walking down without washing their faces or brushing the hair. Clothes had to be changed. The breakfast had to be creative each day. Repetition of a meal could prove a long day of nagging. Living alone, the motivation to ensure perfection in everything is considered quite ridiculous. For me, the most difficult habit to adopt was changing from my pyjamas into something ‘appropriate’. But whatever the pains, I was more active and involved.


Joint family system is most applicable to people who enjoy the company of people. The special occasions of Eid, birthdays and even mourning of a death, were a time to hold each other and share. The mind was constantly engaged in sorting out people and trying to understand their behaviours.


What I found difficult to accept was giving up a few rights that become a way of life if you have enjoyed being a single unit family. It was very difficult for me to entertain my children in the presence of so many relationships. If I had to order food for them, I was expected to keep everyone in mind which obviously was not a possibility too often. At such times, the selfish mother inside me always assured me of being right and I would follow my instincts. It was a little hurtful to see strong reactions to that especially after having given up practically an entire lifestyle to say. Acceptance of an individual was there but very little space for individuality.


Thankfully, communication was open and allowed at all times. Everyone had their favourites of-course. I would open my heart to my sister-in-law who became a great friend.


Relationships are important but their maintenance is a challenging job. Living together makes it somehow more demanding and so a lot of people advocate that distance helps maintain respect. It may be true, but the personal growth that happens amidst a crowd is only possible in a Joint Family System.


A year of separation for us as a family, resulted in appreciating the true spirit of ‘being a family’. Joint families are a complete education in relationship management and communication skills.


Even the most painful moments in life can enrich you with such joys and fulfilling experiences provided you are prepared to ‘learn’.

Happy Birthday Mum....

The aroma of your food, the fragrance of your clothes, the sunshine from your smile and the shelter of your wisdom have positively nourished my life and helped me move forward.


The roads we walked together to the paths that divided us, I hold such dear memories of you. For it was you who brought me into this world, nurtured all my needs to become the woman that I am today.


There are special images of you that fill up my senses to match my moods. When I’m happy, I picture you swinging on the garden swing, when sad, I see you on the corner sofa with the lights out, when thrilled, I see you dining out, when anxious, I can witness you gazing out of the window.


I am a reminder to people of your presence. It takes them back to a time when you laughed with them, shared secrets, planned the holidays and made decisions about life’s priorities.


Your mention alone brings to life a sky full of colourful moments. The sky that I used to look up to after you left me in the pouring rain. It was your favourite weather. Black clouds, cool winds and a reason to wrap yourself with a warm shawl. It rained the day they lowered you in your grave. And I stood alone in the garden all the while wondering if I would ever be able to enjoy this rain again.


It’s been six years now and yet each year when the first rain comes, I run to the window to capture its magic. It falls on my fingers and I picture myself on the garden swing. A sprinkle on the brow and we all go dining out. But as the clouds move to farther lands, I switch off the lights to find my corner sofa. It just never rains long enough to kill my anxiety. I stand at the window, hoping for the rain to come again. Why?


I suppose I get so busy with life that I simply place you on the book shelf, on my bedside table or the drawing room wall. I feel that’s all that I can do to make you a part of my life. It’s what everyone does. But it doesn’t compensate for the absence. Therefore, when the clouds set in, I prepare for your arrival. The cool winds give me a reason to wrap myself in your love and the very first drop is like an awakening to your presence in my life. Nothing reminds me more of you than the blessed rain.
And I enjoy it while it lasts….

Jailed?

A dreadful end! That's what newspapers, newsrooms and the media reported after the verdict on the three Pakistani cricketers came in. "These offences, regardless of pleas, are so serious that only a sentence of imprisonment will suffice," Judge Jeremy Cooke told at London's Southwark Crown Court.


To my knowledge, this must be the harshest of punishments imposed in any Sport history, unless of course we consider ourselves to be in Gladiator times.


Indeed, the game of Cricket has suffered numerous blows to its authenticity in the past few years. For instance, when Pakistan lost the Cricket World Cup semi-final to India last year, there was huge speculation on a "match-fixing" looking at Pakistan's lazy performance which otherwise had been doing extremely well defeating stalwarts like Australia quite tactfully.


Scandals that have made news over the years have brought to light many legitimate and dignified players. Sometimes with proof, sometimes without. Each time, there was a buzz and then it was all forgotten. However, this time the situation was inherently different. The motive was "greed."And like all trials in court, the motive is the primary consideration for the jury to declare a verdict.


Greed has many interpretations in the dictionary and some of them are listed below.


In religious terms, greed is a sin wherein the culprit condemns eternity for temporary worldly power. In psychology, it is a desire to acquire or possess more than one needs or deserves. "Avarice" is the term used to describe greedy behaviour such as disloyalty, treason, or deliberate betrayal,  especially for personal gain for example through bribery. Philosophers have sometimes defended greed as being good as in greed for life, knowledge, wealth, love etc. It is restlessness of the heart, craving for power and possessions for fulfillment of desires.


The chief expressions of greed are related to the "emotional" part of man.
Therefore, a vice we all possess in relatively different portions.
This vice can become a virtue if we have the ability to contain our emotions, feel the satisfaction in our possessions and are able to direct this intense energy towards positive actions.
In reality, its just silencing your conscience which at all times is active and audible.


Its difficult to comment upon "being human" but we live in a world which to me has never been black or white. Maybe, barring them from the game and making them pay a fine would have been the right punishment. Placing them behind bars seems a little unjust.
Sentencing the sporting agent, the mastermind to this whole scam, to jail was just the right thing to do. 


Today, we are in a place where damage to a game can place people behind bars...to imagine the damage done to the lives of these young men, who were all outstanding players, probably deserved a lot many years in prison. Exploitation of young minds for money, fame and power should indeed hold harsh consequences.