Reflections...."I AM"

 

Sometimes I feel empty. Unable to respond to anyone’s needs and meet any expectations. These are times when I feel completely defeated. Like I have been fighting battles with consequences that didn’t even matter. I look around seeking familiarity, but know that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. I feel I’ve been rescuing myself so long, it has become more about survival than living.

I was one, then became two and finally diverged into many. Bits and pieces scattered with no control. Invested in unsaid promises and expectedly moving on. The journey appearing meaningful one minute and completely unnecessary next.

And so, with time and age, I have learned to separate. Be a part, yet own self. It is not easy, but it has helped. Helped to understand that in the end, it will all revert to I. And so, to keep it all together, to make it meaningful, to keep it real, but most of all to live, it is important to keep oneself alive.

Losing self will never fill a void and survival isn’t happiness.

On Being Misunderstood

Growing up, I always wondered what it was about ‘being misunderstood’ that prompted people’s anxiety, anger and outcry. How it accelerated their insecurities not just mentally, but visually deformed their entire being. It pushed them to justify every word spoken, every action taken and the resolve to eliminate their innocent state of being in an attempt to face the world that probably didn’t deserve their goodness and niceness. And I would wonder why it triggered their imagination to the extent that the same surroundings, the familiar people, the regular environment would now appear a jungle of doubts, with fearsome animals on the hunt and no, absolutely no escape. Was this a loss of sanity, or could a world of their sorts exist? They got physically, mentally and emotionally engaged in ‘being understood’.
For a while, I believed that the society we lived in was so judgmental that people jumping to clarify their acts was but a compulsory evil. That being misunderstood was your greatest blow in life. It would leave you empty handed, people would never trust you again and life would come to a standstill. Therefore, it was necessary to react aggressively and strategically to get out of this web of uncertainty, dubiety and house of labels. With such deep struggle I assumed would come a sense of relief, restoration of a stronger identity, reinstatement of one’s pride and reassurance of self.  What I observed though was quite the contrary. In every case, to feel right, someone else had to be deemed wrong, to feel achieved, the other had to fail, to renew faith in self, stones of mistrust had to be hurled around and the entire process of self-validation led to a new world order that justified the casualties of war.
I saw these people change. I witnessed their loss of self. I watched them thrive on the attention, the sympathy and the social network that liked their status, enjoyed the comments and shared in the updates. And I wondered, “Do they know that in the process of being understood, they have lost their sense of self? Do they realize that this validation of self, has led to a much toxic existence? And I learned otherwise. This in no way suggests that toxic people are bad people as they experience all emotions and can be very loving. However, their existence in our lives can lead to unhappiness and hurt. And so, what explanation will now justify their exit? And which argument will leave oneself ‘understood’?

Experiencing life first hand has taught me that being understood or not isn’t the true essence of life. It is standing tall when being misunderstood. It is dealing with the empty spaces that no longer will be filled. It is carving a new path with confidence that you never knew existed, it is disconnecting with the vile and malice that could change your identity, and above all, it is trusting the silence that knows you so well.

An Expiry Date...

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.

The Lessons in Change...

It was a difficult time in my life. The protection, security and the very spirit of my existence had been left amidst an emptiness. The life that I identified with, stared in my face like a stranger. My mother had passed away, and my father had left Dubai which had been home for all of us since ages. The shelter that I thought I would possess forever, had been taken away from me.

At this difficult time, I decided to get back to work. I had my son who was just two, and had my mother been alive, she would have opened her arms to embrace him and take care of him while I started work. Much had changed. I entered school with him and somehow, everything came to me as new. The environment, people and my relation to them all. Although I had taught there before, this appeared as a new beginning.

The first few days, teachers were attending specially arranged workshops. The first workshop that I participated in was based on a book called, ‘who moved my cheese’. It was conducted by very talented twin sisters, who became really good friends later, and dealt with the idea of ‘change’.

They spoke about human beings adapting to change in different ways. Often people expect life to move with the same fervour and strive to achieve their daily goals as planned by them. They feel happy with the familiarity of the surroundings and sleep content knowing the focus would not blur in the morning. I listened to each conclusion identifying with the feelings and emotions that it gathered along the way. I too had imagined my life to always be centred around my home and my parent’s home. The carefree visits that promised gifts of selfless love and understanding were visualized as forever.

The workshop continued and the idea of change was conceived as an occasion for people to vent out their anger and frustrations. A lot of people find it hard to accept change because it challenges their beliefs and strong ideals. They struggle to get life back on track and in failing to do so, get filled with an empty sadness. It reminded me of the day I had received a phone call from my father confirming ‘lung cancer’ with my mother. I had planned my son’s first birthday with their consent to return from Pakistan to attend it for sure. I stood alone in the balcony of my apartment, feeling a heaviness in my soul. “Things will never be the same again”, was a thought that crossed my mind a thousand times that evening. I cancelled the birthday plans and the anxiety that followed through was the perfect example of a dreaded change.

Sometimes, change can be pleasant and people accept that more readily. However, change that has no human initiative can be very disturbing and frightening. A fellow colleague stood up to speak. “I feel that I can connect to this scenario of imposed change. Due to financial difficulties, my husband and I had to take up the difficult decision to separate as a family. I have come to Dubai with hope to make a better living. It’s a little frightening to start life from scratch…” and as she spoke, tears ran down her face reflecting the helplessness that filled her and the compulsion to go with the flow. I too felt her pain. Here I was, a complete stranger to life. No body knew who I was. No one recognized my face. I had no friends from yester years to laugh with or share my thoughts with. It was a complete new beginning and it was frightening to take that first step.

Change however, does carry with it, realization of the worth of everything lost. While we take our life and possessions for granted, we seldom feel grateful for their presence in our lives. The ladies continued to share their thoughts while I heard a distant phone ringing, “Hello, Shama! How are you? What is Sameer doing?” It was my mum, who called me every day to inquire about my day and my son’s meals. She spoke while I answered with a little irritation wondering what could change in 24 hours? Sometimes, she would purposely not call me to see if I would take the initiative to inquire about her absence. And I always disappointed her. Today, I understand just how special I was to her. My life and my existence held a strong meaning to her. The phone hardly ever rings anymore and sadly, I can’t pick it up to make a call either.

The workshop came to the conclusion that ‘change happens’. It is ‘unavoidable’ and the only way to accept change is to keep the mind positive and expect to learn far greater lessons. The ladies summarized the entire book review in these golden words, “Expect change to happen and adapt to change with positivity”.

Eventually, I did accept the changes in my life. It was tough and the journey was a lonely one. I drowned myself in my work and each time I raised my head up to view my life, it had moved on. 

With time, I have become quite adaptable to change. I expect it to happen any time, I plan to overcome it with a far greater inner strength and believe that it shall bring with it wisdom and far greater lessons to be learnt.

Happiness Follows

“But I feel I will be happy with him,” I went on with the argument feeling every bit agitated. “I fail to understand all your silly reasons!” My mother gave up feeling the same irritation. “Do you know how difficult your life will be? It’s only romantic in words. In reality, when you begin your life at scratch, it’s a task to get through a day!” Her logic was that of a concerned parent and I listened carefully. 

“I know that mum. We will work together and where there is a will, there is a way!” She looked at me, probably sensing a reflection in time! “Just give me a reason, why an established man does not appeal to your weird senses?” She asked me in a hopeless manner. “Mum, I don’t want to share my life with someone who has completed his struggle, acquired his status in life and does not really have any place for the enthusiasm of a new recruit! I want to build a life with someone. Understand failure, celebrate success and my presence should make a difference in his life.”

That was the logic that stated my source of happiness in life. The ability to create something out of nothing. Anyone who might have tried to plant a seed understands the joy and thrill of witnessing the first glimpses of life. And even though there are many invisible factors that lead to that achievement, the effort that underlines the success inspires you to move forward.

Happiness is a state of mind. It can make itself at home in the most unexpected scenarios. Often people toil in the hot sun looking for its shade, while it rests quietly in their shadows.

Sometimes it can be quite deceiving as well. People dwell in its deceit claiming their lives to be fulfilled and complete. And then one day, they are awakened by the sudden departure of this lie leaving an emptiness behind. This world has many faces. When you are influential and hold a position of authority, you will see people around you, following each and every word that you say and stamp it as the ultimate truth. They make you believe that your status in their lives is invincible. You thrive in that happiness feeling on top of the world. But that face of joy is indeed a lie. You realize that as soon as the rollercoaster takes the dip. The people who sang your anthems disappear and you are left alone to face the great fall. You mistake pleasure for happiness.

It is a false notion that happiness is abundant in wealth and success. I remember while teaching at a villa school in Dubai, I came across a child who was studying in Grade 4. He was much older than the other children and was mentally challenged. He used to sit in the classroom with a special assistant who managed his work. He belonged to a rich family who owned a popular Toy Chain Store. Despite the wealth and prestigious family name, the father could not afford to place his son in a recognized and reputed school as his son was not accepted there. He was blessed with all the wealth in the world, but that could not buy him the sheer joy of watching his son grow up and live a normal life.

Contentment is devoured in regrets and bad memories. Some people like to hold onto them holding no faith in their tomorrow. They blame themselves and their circumstances for taking away their precious time in life to fill it up with distress and disappointments. They can’t seem to forget those despicable people who broke their trust and left them in a state of constant complaints. The ticking of the clock holds no significance in their lives and their state of mind is a constant woe.

Happiness is indeed the most sought after emotion. It is not only abstract in grammar, but also in nature. All of us are in the journey to attain this mystery that eludes us further if we lose our focus.

If we sit back and try to remember the very first days of our journey, we always seem to reconstruct the simplest of memories that highlight the path we travelled. The times when we were all together under the same roof, in the security and love of our parents. The time when we used to build mud homes for the frogs that crowded our flower beds in the monsoon rain. The long drives that ended up near the water canal accompanied by simple dinner meals as hot chapatti with pickle. The screams of joy that filled the playground at the onset of rain. Surely, happiness lies in the simplest of our memories.

The laughter that brightens up the ambiance of a dull restaurant. A get together or reunion of a batch of old school friends. Nothing compares to the honest elation one feels at reuniting with one’s best years of life. Moments that mark a sense of togetherness and time spent in innocent future planning!

Happiness comes from putting your mind to work. It lies in constructing something new. It is important to keep the wheels turning. The more you tend to run after the illusion of paradise, the more you tend to lose sight of it. Happiness comes around to embrace those who engage themselves in development or strive to lay the foundation for something concrete. They understand that happiness does not lead, but rather follows.

Our attitudes more or less describe our state of happiness. Ill temperaments, pessimistic philosophers and complaining individuals almost never understand the prosperity that lies in a state of well-being.

Today I’m glad I made the choice to marry a man with whom I have practically encountered every possible challenge. I wake up every morning with something new to build or construct. There is no time to lose. No time to think about what could have been. The sanctity of belonging to each other and the joy of holding such meaning in somebody’s life is indeed a blessing.

The space that you opt for to create a life for yourself promises much laughter and happiness to follow.

I wish all my dear friends and blog readers, a Very Happy New Year!

Around the World in Dar-ul-Buteen

I landed on Arab soil at the age of 13. The Dubai culture was quite different from what it is today. With a lot more job opportunities, better prospects for securing your future and policies that emerged it as a welfare state.

My father had arrived in Dubai on deputation as the Project Manager representing PIA, to lend his expertise in the Engineering Department in the launch of the National Airline of Dubai. We were accommodated in an apartment in Deira, in a thriving and busy locality. Dar-ul-Buteen building holds many memories of those golden growing years.

The first few days were incredible. I could walk alone to the neighbourhood grocery and buy chocolates and delicious snacks and this pretty much educated me about the shiny currency. We were still on the summer break and it was impossible to spend the entire day inside the apartment. Coming from Pakistan, anybody could relate to the initial suffocation and sound deficiency!

“Why don’t you go down and play in the building quadrangle? Make some friends.” The solution was sensible and so I and my brothers went down every evening to play table tennis and watch the children roller blade and display their skate boarding skills. I looked around for any familiar faces. Familiar language? Dresses? Anything that would help me identify with myself.

I was given the freedom to choose my friends but none of them had anything in common with me. They looked different, dressed up in a manner that I could never imagine dressing up myself and while some accompanied their  families to the church every Sunday, others carried the aroma of Sandalwood and Pooja sweets. 

How could I play with them? I was a Muslim. I had only been taught about my religion and could only showcase my morals and values. They obviously would differ on them. It stopped me from approaching any one. That’s when I realized that my education had not at all prepared me for this cultural shock.

I often returned home bored carrying the stress about the conflict in my mind. That’s when the first Diwali came. We were in the elevator and my parents were busy discussing the menu for an upcoming party that we had planned over the weekend. The elevator stopped at the 3^rd floor. The Kapoor family walked in, all dressed in glittery ghagras. Their daughter Ekta was my age and I often saw her chatting with her friends in the building car park area. “It’s a wonderful occasion to dress up! Wishing you and your Mrs. a very happy Diwali!” My father extended his hand for a shake which was reciprocated with the same warmth and enthusiasm. I watched quietly. I wondered if he had felt the compulsion to do that or did he really find no harm in the interaction.

“I know Ekta,” I revealed to my parents, wanting to judge their stance on the burning issue. “She looks like a nice girl. The father is working for a Multi-National company.” My father was telling my mum. “That’s the same company as Mr. Masood right?” asked my mum. The Masood family was one of the few Pakistani families in the building. “Yes, that’s right. They have two daughters as well. Shama you should visit them sometimes.” The event eased the rigidity of the mind a bit and I was relieved with the thought of atleast being able to say hello.

Halloween was celebrated and children would walk up to our door asking for candies or chocolates. The festivals were many and reflected the true spirit of sharing and happiness.

Fluffy was an adorable white Drawing Room dog that roamed around the building with his 7 year old master! He was a Srilankan boy who was often seem on his skateboard, zooming around the corners. He had a sweet looking older sister whose smile was hard to dissolve. She was younger than me but her polite and friendly manner attracted me to speak to her. She was fun-loving and quite a tomboy. I admired her for the confidence and amongst all the children and communities in that building, I found her the most charming.

“The children of Dar-ul-Buteen are going to put up a programme next week for the tenants just for fun,” my mother informed me. “Are you participating as well?” she asked me. I told her I’ll speak to the children and then decide. I ran to my Srilankan friend who was thrilled with the news. “I know! We can enact Madonna!” I screamed with excitement. “But we’ll have to dress up differently,” was my immediate response. “What do you mean?” she asked me surprised. “Well, you can depict her bad girl image, you know like what she was wearing in her “Like a virgin” video. That was her look before “True Blue” came. I can showcase the more covered look.” I had said this with all innocence and honesty believing that it was the most convenient arrangement. “Why would you want me to look bad?” she responded with anger. “Because I can’t wear those clothes myself. You wear skirts and sleeveless shirts. So, what’s the problem?” The argument was becoming louder. “The problem is that I don’t want to carry that image either. Why do you think it would be okay with my parents?” I was too confused and left the argument in a sour mood.

There was less time and I couldn’t afford to delay the decision. So, to come to some compromise, I decided to go to her apartment. The door was opened by her brother. “Akka, it’s your friend.” She invited me in. The living room had a lively look and her grandpa sat on the rocking chair wearing his traditional dress. He smiled at me and just then her mum emerged from the kitchen with grandpa’s lunch tray. She greeted me loudly and happily and placed the tray carefully on his lap. She adjusted his blanket lovingly and called for the dad to come and meet me. Her dada was a tall and funny man. He cracked jokes that made us all laugh for hours. They treated me like a special guest and offered me sweets that I accepted with a little thought. “Don’t worry Shama. These aren’t made from pork or use of any alcohol. We understand.”

I ate them immediately a little ashamed at having my thoughts being read. She came from a real family. A family that believed in the goodness of people and was aware of their traditions and beliefs. The programme was celebrated with great enthusiasm and was called, “Around the World in Dar-ul-Buteen”! It was a celebration of the various communities that resided in that building and the process was eye opening.

These were just small examples depicting just how limited the thought process remains till we engage it in trying to broaden our horizons on matters of human diversity and existence. I was able to spend time with my friends in homes that carried the statues of Jesus, Buddha or Ram. I learnt that it was important to respect other religions to receive the same understanding in return. My family allowed me to gather all these experiences to be able to frame a better opinion.

Communication helped me erase preconceived notions about other communities and cultures around the world. It opened my eyes to the significant changes that need to be introduced within our Educational Programmes to create more tolerance and awareness amongst our children. Patriotism need not be a by-product of hatred and differences.

 It’s important to inculcate the need to acknowledge what is different with the same fire and passion that recognizes what remains similar and holds the key to our peaceful co-existence.

And on that note, I’d like to wish all my Christian friends a Very Merry Christmas!

Acknowledging our Shortcomings

There are two distinct memories of my school life that opened my eyes to the presence of a strong conscience within as well as what achievements can come through with voicing positive expectations.

The first recall dates back to the year 1980 in Lahore. I was then in Year 3. I remember our home had a big garden with lots of red and yellow roses. Living in the same neighbourhood was a friend of mine who also happened to be my classmate. Our friendship in school was unknown till we started to spend time at each other’s house over weekends. She was quite soft spoken and was a pampered child at home.

Slowly our friendship extended to the classroom and we were often together during the recess. I was quite challenging when it came to carrying lunch from home. Often, I disliked eating in school and carried my lunch back much to the disappointment of my mother who happened to make a lot of effort to pack my lunch.

One day, I was sitting in the playground with my friend and she opened up her meal pack. It contained a yummy kebab sandwich which appeared enormously attractive for its aroma. I asked her if I could have a bite and she agreed to make a complete swap for my omelette. We really seemed to enjoy each other’s meals and the day was a happy one. I came home with an empty lunch box which won me special applause by my mum. Her broad smile made me come to the decision of keeping the secret.

And so, every day, we exchanged our lunch packs and she carried that delicious kebab sandwich for me while I would share my biscuits, omelette or fries with her. For a few days, the change felt good. But soon, I started to feel her disagreement over the swap. Now when you are 8, you want what you want! So, despite her unwilling exchange, I had started to enjoy the sandwich as my basic right. I questioned her about it, if she would bring an apple instead! The friendship was becoming a little sour and deep down, I knew it was going to end suddenly.

There was a special awards ceremony that happened at the end of the year and all students who would score a 100% mark, were awarded a certificate of recognition in that subject or area. We were waiting for our teacher to announce the names, and when she nominated my name for ‘Science’, I could not wait to rush home and let my parents know. But the greater thrill was to carry that paper of excellence and get it signed by the Principal herself. It was a rare occasion to visit her office and when it was for such a grand moment, the feel was just incredible.

I carried my paper with such pride and climbed the stairs to her office which was on the first floor of the building. I turned to the door which was open. My eyes fell upon the familiar face of a mother. She was not happy and happened to be complaining about her daughter being harassed about her lunch. I froze and guilt marked my face. They both turned towards me at the same time. I couldn’t open my mouth and stood there like a statue.

“Come in my dear,” the Principal said softly. She happened to feel my embarrassment and asked the mother to give her a minute. “What do you have in your hand?” she asked me politely. I entered her office a little unsure and without saying a word, handed her my Science paper. She looked at it and said, “Well done! Leave it with me and I’ll sign it later. Thank you.” I was glad the conversation was short. I practically escaped the crime scene feeling every bit the criminal. There was still a half day to complete before going home. Would the Principal call my mum and complain? What will I say to my ma for telling such lies? And how bad will she feel about my dislike for the lunch she gave me every day. I could have just asked her for a kebab sandwich instead of the omelette. 

The lessons went on but these questions crowded my mind. The bell rang for home time and we travelled in a line to the gate.

Normally, teachers would be on duty to monitor the chaos. But as I wandered towards the gate, I saw the Principal standing right at the corner of the bend bidding all students farewell. I knew she would call me and scold me about my bossiness. My face flushed with anxiousness as I approached her. Every student was enjoying her unexpected presence on the field and greeted her with smiles. The dreaded moment arrived and I came face to face with her. She looked at me and smiled. “Good afternoon Ms. X”, the words shivered through my mouth. She nodded and gave me a look that completely shook my conscience. Clearly, she had not expected a 100% scorer to be a bully. My inner voice condemned my actions over the past few days and it was too heavy a price to pay for just a kebab sandwich I thought to myself. 

She never made any calls home and the matter vanished in the air from the very next day. I changed my recess pals and decided to control my bossy behaviour. Every child has a burning conscience that can easily be moulded with just a meaningful look without using much words.

To think that temptation would allude me after that was indeed a false thought. I was 16 and my mid-term exams were close. At that point of time, I was the centre of attraction with my friends who claimed that I was very funny and my popularity had elated me to a whole new level.

It was an Islamic Studies paper and my preparation was quite poor. I had been busy writing poems and making a slam book! And so, my confidence was shattered when the paper was placed in front of me with many questions that I just couldn’t follow. I looked around and found everybody scribbling answers running against time. I stared at the questions and slowly a desperation started to creep in. I turned to look at my friend who inquired through her eyes, “Why aren’t you writing?” I gave her a blank look that made her understand my status on the exam. She looked at me and motioned to exchange the question paper. I felt panicked. Would that be possible? I looked at the teachers who sat at the front of the room busy in a hushed conversation.

I wrote on my paper, “Just give me the answer for Q2 and 3.” I thought it would be less criminal to carry just the intention to pass the exam. She wrote the answers on her question paper and just when we thought it was possible, we held our papers out to each other. The interaction created a little noise and the Islamic teacher looked at us.

My world came crashing down. The teacher approached me. “Give me the paper.” I handed her the question paper with the answers written on it. My face was as red as a tomato. Tears were running like a stream and I couldn’t raise my head. She just stood next to me gazing at me a little shocked. “ I never expected this from you Shama!” 

The words slit open my heart and I began sobbing. It felt horrible to fail their expectations. I had never indulged in any negative activities before and my teachers held a good opinion about me. I had ruined that viewpoint. I happened to have a special corner in her heart and she asked me, “Did you not prepare for the exam?” I nodded unable to speak. She looked at my friend with accusing eyes that put her to shame as well. “I was just helping her because she said she found the paper hard.” Our papers were cancelled and we had to meet the humiliation of being caught cheating. My conscience led me to apologize to the teachers who placed an arm around me and said, “We all make mistakes. It should just never happen again.”

I made up my mind that day. I would rather fail, then ever adhere to an immoral or unlawful act. And I stuck to that principle while attempting my Economics Exam many years later! What is failure in an exam? It is simply being ‘unable’ to succeed the first time.

Both these experiences made me realize my shortcomings. My inclination to give in to temptation. But I’m glad to have faced these ordeals as they also opened my eyes to the positive perceptions that others held for me. It was good to learn about my weaknesses as they helped me identify with my strengths with a much greater force and acknowledgement.

Children make mistakes all the time. But their inner voice is always active and living. As adults, we can really turn that mistake into an opportunity to voice our positive expectations and help them realize their ability to make wiser and intelligent decisions.

The Power in a Steering Wheel...

I remember my first driving lesson. I reached the driving school looking for my instructor. She was a lady from the Philippines. On appearance she was short, very sturdy looking and a complete tomboy. She was enjoying a cigarette when I approached her with my papers. She looked at me and gave me a smile. She was quiet and reserved. And I found her to be a little  cold.

I was a complete beginner with just a little information on gear changing. I sat at the driving wheel. She asked me to buckle up. I followed like a good student. The car set off on a jerky ride. It was a little like getting on the stage for my first school debate. It was thrilling and a little frightful. As soon as I would come to a roundabout, my heartbeats would take leaps and jumps! To me, it was more about making a horrible mistake and looking like a fool. She always looked on the road ahead, only communicating when required. It was a one hour lesson and I was relieved when it came to an end.

The days that followed were more or less the same. She was punctual and would always be waiting for me at the same spot. Sometimes I was glad she didn’t talk too much. But there was a discipline about her that made me uncomfortable.

It was a hot summer day. We were driving towards a crowded bazaar. Normally she never smoked during a lesson but that day she looked a little irritated. I quite naturally assumed my driving skills to be the root cause and that added to my nervousness. She instructed me using short commands, ”left”, “right”, “indicator left”! I tried to comply efficiently so as to not annoy her further. We entered the crowded area. I lost my entire confidence. I became extremely cautious and reduced the speed considerably. The road was a measured rectangle and on completing a full round she lost her cool.

“Park the car!” Her face was flushing with anger. I quietly found some space and parked the car. “Come to my seat!”, she walked out of the car and came towards me. I felt a little anger at her constant bad mood and sat in the passenger seat. She buckled up and though the car could only speed up to 60 kms, it was quite a lot in a jam packed street.

She screeched off, clearly releasing her frustration. “Why are you so afraid? Why can’t you just let go of your fears? Look at me! I have the driving wheel. If I turn it right, the car goes right!” She turned the car right, using the indicator and the round was completed quite noisily. She parked the car and looked at me. “You are always driving in fear. If you will drive like that, you will not only hurt yourself but also others. When you hold this steering wheel, it’s in your control. It won’t go left on being turned right!” I listened to her a little numb. I was sure what she was telling me was something important, but the whole experience had been too unbearable. I showed her my disappointment at her sudden outburst through my body language and took to the driving wheel again.

I came home and my sour mood continued for a while. I was stressed with this lady. It was an ordeal to go for the lesson the next day. When I reached the school, I found her in a smiling mood. It made the travel a little better. I wondered if she had committed an offence in the Driving School Policy the previous day and so was putting up a good face. But somehow, there was a genuineness about her that I couldn’t deny. She was who she was. She never pretended to be polite, courteous or for that matter political. Surely I had my share of footpath rambling and poor calculation in distances. But in order to meet her level of expectation, I let go of the fear of looking foolish or making a mistake and drove with a little more confidence. She passed on a few encouraging remarks and in a matter of a month and a half, I received my driving licence.

The joy of passing the road test was just phenomenal. I was hugging and screaming with total strangers! I ran out of the result room and saw her sitting on the car. The exhilarated emotion on my face gave her the good news and she extended her arms for a celebratory hug. I thanked her and that’s actually where her services came to an end. As I walked away, she called out my name and I turned to face her. “Remember, You are in control of your car. It will follow your orders. So the power lies with you. Making timely decisions related to what you want to do, where you want to turn will make you a confident driver. Best of luck!”

Her advice has been quite inspirational. She had been a good teacher. Though her manner had been a little intimidating, she had driven the fear out of my mind.

Often I like to take my children out for a drive now. And it’s miraculous that each time I hold the steering wheel, it helps me realize my true potential to drive away in any direction, at any speed and without any anxiety. I enjoy the freedom that comes with this independence. On a road with so many cars, buses and lorries, I own my own little space and that makes me a fighter. Every day, those few moments on the road, power my confidence and accelerate my desire to achieve something.  

Still sometimes, I take sudden turns or get in the neutral mode at crossroads but nevertheless, ‘the power lies with me’ and I am ready to find my way having absolutely no fear.

If life had just been a groan...

The holiday week was a challenging one. One that questions all your loyalties and expectations. The struggle was to finally get through the airport rituals and get back home. All through the process of loading suitcases and monitoring the kids movements, the mind remained jumbled up with thoughts that were agonizing.

While I followed the trolley with the luggage, the mind was filled with questions. Why can’t people just move on in life? Why is it such a task to just accept people as they are. The children dragged themselves towards the ticket counter. “Stop running will you!” I shouted at my younger son who never sits still. He looked at me wondering what had gotten into me. My husband seemed annoyed with the crowded space and the anxiety of our Chance seats filled him up. He signalled me to find a place to sit as it would take some time.

I sat across the hall in the waiting area. Our sour moods had transferred to our children and there was continuous bickering. I scolded them off and on. The body had given in to the exhaustion of the mind. I saw some couples enjoying the waiting while some seemed hassled with the uncertainty. The events of the seven days had completely drained my energy.

Finally, we received the boarding passes. In usual circumstances, that would have been accompanied with a victory dance, but not that day. “The seats are randomly placed. So, you can sit with the youngest and I’ll manage the other two.” My husband informed me while he strapped the tags on. I was rather glad to have been detached from the scenario that demanded conversation and assistance.

We boarded the plane and separated as the seats were far apart. I settled in with my youngest son who immediately started to play with the control panel that managed the inflight entertainment. I buckled him up and allowed him that little freedom to remain busy. 

Normally I would worry about my children being placed independently without any help. But somehow, I just wanted to close my eyes and follow the departure of the plane leaving the baggage behind.

The flight took off and I opened my eyes. That’s when I heard a groaning sound. I looked to my side.

It was difficult to calculate his age. He seemed like a teenager. His mouth remained open with the groans becoming louder. He had a blanket covering his legs but I could see the deformation quite clearly. My thoughts came to a full stop. He had his parents sitting right next to him. I was looking at him intently but he seemed oblivious of that attention. The pressure in the cabin would incite him and he would begin to groan even louder showing his annoyance. The mother simply held his arm firmly and shushed him.

I placed my head to the back rest and felt deep helplessness. He could not move his arms or legs. His eyes were fixed on the table tray opposite him. They did not look around to observe the people or admire their energies. He could not stand up and take a step to feel a sense of achievement. His arms could not embrace the arrival of a new day.

The food was served. I tried to get myself busy with feeding my son who happily picked up his delicious buttered bun and started to enjoy it. 

The hostess had left a tray for the disabled boy and moved on. There was no motion. He sat gazing at the seat infront of him. His mother got closer to him. She held a towel in one hand and started to feed him. It was the most hurting spectacle that I have never been able to erase from my memory. His mouth remained open. There was no understanding of closing it with the food in. His saliva dropped along with food particles and very little went in. He didn’t know how to gulp it in and the mother kept on cleaning his mouth and filling it. She fed him everything that was on his tray. Most of it ended up on his napkin on the lap but nevertheless, she wanted him to taste it all.

By now, I had completely forgotten about my holidays. The trays were collected and lights were dimmed for people to relax for a while. I looked at the family. The parents were busy talking to each other, communicating about routine events. The boy was still staring at the seat. Then suddenly, there was a ‘chuckle’! His mother turned towards him and laughed at the sudden outburst. She placed her hand over his shoulder to give recognition to his emotion of happiness. I felt tears in my eyes. And I felt so ashamed.

My problems appeared petty in this young boy’s presence. My fears for my children suddenly felt un-necessary. My anger and frustration over a seemingly beautiful life just became meaningless. Did I even qualify to have any grudges? Life could have been just a groan or a chuckle. And then, would there have been complaints?

My life was a miracle. My children were an extension of that miraculous existence. I had enjoyed a playful childhood, discovered the pains of being a teenager, observed the determination of an achiever and had witnessed the blessings of living a worthy life. Yet I had not still learnt what it was to be alive. What it was to appreciate Allah’s creation.

The patience with which his mother fed him, the desire with which she helped him taste each and every food item, the recognition that she gave him for his groans and his chuckles, and the calm that sparkled on her face, made my forehead frowns all disappear.

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.