Everything has an expiry date and so, going by that logic everything that was, is and shall be in the future is more or less mortal in nature. Quite naturally, mortality would be associated to something alive and living with the capacity to stop existing.
In life however, I have experienced moments, places, things and even houses that came to life, grew with time and celebrated our lives till it was time for us to move on, or shall I say, it was time for them to leave.
It is silly to believe that material things could bring you any happiness or so to say guarantee a happy existence. Yet, I tend to remember some really special things in my life that simply refuse to leave my brain store. One of these things was a shell lamp that hung from the ceiling in almost all the houses we lived in while growing up. It was white with many strands studded with pearl shells that often mesmerised the atmosphere, especially on windy days. It was a soothing sight for the eyes when all lights would be turned off and the Akai reel player would play the legends as Neil Diamond and Lobo.
As my father was in the Airline Profession, we got transferred almost every three years and a new house would await our plans and ideas. And though, houses are made with people, sometimes even after people leave, the house echoes of their footsteps, leaps and jumps and eventual departure. It is silly to attach your emotions to a few walls and staircases, but if they have the power to hold your heart, it does become awfully hard to let go. Such was our Villa in Dubai almost sixteen years back. I remember standing outside the house, as my parents got to the decision of renting it, thinking it would probably change the course of my life. There was a strong warmth about it that promised happy endings. It saw my graduation, my engagement, marriage and eventually the birth of my first baby. A complete cycle of events in my life filled with varied moments of anger, triumph, happiness and love. The lush garden with the date palm tree, the noisy barbeques and the aroma of my mother who waited for me sitting on the dining room couch everyday in the afternoons.
My PAF school on Shahrah-e-Faisal in Karachi was also alive and thriving in the year 1988-89. A place that expired for me or rather I left almost twenty-three years ago. I recently visited Karachi and while driving through the busy street, I was completely taken aback by the detailed re-construction of my school mornings by bus, by my overwhelmed heart and mind. I could feel the bumpy turn of the bus onto the school road that came down as a slight slope. The sudden rush of air that always awakened me to the approaching bus stop. The stingy smell of petrol that came in fumes as we got off the school bus to eventually carry our back packs through the long and narrow road that lead to the school gates inside. There was sudden desire to stop the car and stroll down that narrow road again. To open up my senses once again to the applause in the auditorium, the anxiety at holding the baseball bat and to the panic that showed on my cheeks as a red colour on walking past a crowd of college boys.
It’s quite difficult to explain your attachments to material things in life. I for one never imagined a cooking oven or a washing machine to hold much meaning to me in my life. And as time teaches all, I learnt my lessons the hard way as well. As the recession hit the world and almost every family I’ve known, it crept quite silently through our doors as well taking away with it everything that completed my home. That included every piece of furniture and utility. My family stood by me as all families do, but I couldn’t express my emotions of loss to them. The oven was not just an oven, it was the fire that prepared my children’s meals. The yummy spinach with their favourite white rice! The washing machine promised a clean pair of uniform each day with the lingering smell of lavender. The so called things were truly the luxuries my children enjoyed every day. And even though, those empty spaces have been filled today by the grace of Allah, I do miss their familiar sounds and the corners that they filled with their promising presence.
Just before my mum passed away she and dad bought a beautiful garden swing for their home in Dubai. Each time I visited with my sons, we would enjoy the evening tea outside in the garden. I would sit on the swing with mum while dad would settle in on the easy chair. We would discuss everything happening around us enjoying the company of each other along with the relaxing back and forth strokes of the swing. I would always envision my parents sitting on that swing enjoying the companionship and planning for the future through the best phase of their lives. The swing symbolized togetherness and peace. Little did we realize that the swing would become a true life companion and an instrument of peace for us, as mum passed away leaving behind much loneliness and anxiety. I could not imagine my father living without her. They had lived an inseparable existence and as I made my first visit to his house after her departure, I was filled with hurt and extreme anticipation to find him in a state of deep loss. Indeed, he was making an effort to come to terms with the saddening event, but there was a calm that reflected upon his face as he would sit on the swing, swinging softly in the garden. I would watch him secretly from the glass window. He would smile gazing at the sky, admiring the peculiar birds that visited his garden each day.
The familiarity of the swing helped him unite with his peace of mind and gave him the emotional strength to move ahead in life. It gave him the hours to reflect upon his happy years with his wife and the desire to watch his grandchildren jump onto the swing, acknowledging its worth!
Yes, everything has an expiry date and whether we hold a funeral or not, some things just never get buried.
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