The Power in a Prayer

 

A bad dream. And I wake up to the Fajr prayer. So many times. And I’m forced to wonder if these are signs to warn me. To think. To become more reflective. They could also just be my fears playing on me. The silence in that moment when the dark night is about to die, drowned in the disturbing images from the dream push me to spread out the prayer mat and turn to Allah. And a strange peace follows as I get back to bed. As if I didn’t disappoint the opportunity that Allah gave me in that small window of time to reach out and ask for help. That’s my faith.

I believe when my heart is prompted to say a prayer for every passing airplane, I am being heard. I am connected to all those boarded on those random flights and my reaching out to Allah for them might turn out to ease my journey beyond the skies one day. Missing out on the opportunity almost feels like a huge curse or failure.

Driving on the road, watching the delivery boys scoot on their motor bikes, a prayer for their safety pops up almost instantly. I see struggle, effort, hope. A child, no matter how grown up deserves a prayer while leaving home. Saying a prayer as I drive past the young soul, a strong sense of safety wraps up my own child somewhere on the road and I feel peace.

Prayers are fueled by faith.

If you don’t feel your prayer makes a difference, it will not.

If your prayers are selfish, they will be buried with you.

If your prayers are for display, know that your truth will unfold in this world.

A Prayer offers connection.

It isn’t about you, your child, your home, your community, your country or your religion.

It is about your child and their children, your home and their homes, your community and their communities, your country and their countries, your religion and their religions.

It is about us.

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.

Reading Silence...

I looked up. The ladder was a steep hike. It looked like an old room. The fan was in motion and right below the fan sat my father who had brought me in for the interview. I stood at the bottom of the stairs a little anxious at the awaited climb. The gentleman sitting at the old desk opposite my dad motioned me to go up. I was to meet with someone to probably decide upon my job profile.

As I climbed, I could sense my struggle to reach the next level. I could not be distracted or lose my focus as that would probably result in my missing a fine step and come hurdling down with disappointment and shame.

I would look down every now or then to find the silent eyes of my father and the gentleman following me up the ladder. As I stepped onto the first floor, I felt a sense of relief but the corridor appeared old and grey. I didn’t feel too comfortable but the thought of going down the dreaded ladder was not an option at all.

I strolled down the corridor with many doors and windows. I peeped into many rooms as I wandered looking for some sign of life. The quest was to end with my dying hope understanding that I was probably alone with no one to speak to me or interview my abilities. Just when I was about to turn around and leave the abandoned and creaking floor, I heard the opening of a closet in the room close by.

I entered the room cautiously. The fan was in full speed and I saw a familiar blue school uniform with a black cape. The cape flew up and down with the strong impact of the fan air. The hair was short and the lady had her back to me. She was busy trying to reach out to a stack of books at the top shelf of the closet. I walked up to her to help out. She felt my presence and turned to me.

Our eyes glistened with tears. My face lit up with love and it was a surprise beyond my expectations. “Mum! What are you doing here?” I asked her still in genuine shock. She smiled at me but her calm was in strange contrast to my hyped reaction. She opened her arms inviting me for a hug. I ran into her arms. “Where have you been mom? I just didn’t know where to find you. Is everything okay with you?” She spoke softly and slowly. “I’m fine Shama. I’m happy where I am. I have my own space and its nice and quiet.” I felt a little desperate sensing her decisive tone, “But at least tell me where to come and meet you? How will I find you?” I wanted her to understand my fear of losing her again. She pulled me back a little to look into my eyes.

“Here, take these books,” she handed me the stack of books from the old closet. I took them remembering the reason for my visit. I looked into her eyes trying to read her mind. And then it struck me. She was leaving me for good now. This was our last meeting. She knew that we would never be able to come across such accidental confrontations. I held her tightly and we cried understanding the evident separation that awakened me to the reality of it being just a dream.

As I sat up in my bed, I felt a heaviness in my heart. My mum had passed away almost a year ago. We had been making a connection through my dreams since her death at certain intervals through the year. This dream was special in many ways. It indicated her loving presence, deep messages related to my life and her final good-bye.

My heart had held the deep silence of my mum during her last stages of cancer. I had sensed her fear of sudden death but more importantly the lack of time to accept the evident end. She had a lot to say but the fear and finality of losing her children and partner had crushed her desire to express herself. She was still in her jumbled thoughts when she left us. I felt her strong presence in my life through my dreams and each one left a significant message to interpret.

It’s been almost seven years now. I dream a lot still but that final good-bye was not a part of my fantasy. She never strolled into my dreams again or hugged me tightly sensing my fears. And today I was reminded of her and the stack of books that she offered me while embarking on her final journey. She knew, I would lose all purpose in life upon losing her and would probably resort to walking down the same familiar surroundings, losing all heart to discovering new possibilities and challenges.

And so, she made me climb the steep and frightening ladder. I got through an empty and grey corridor with no signs of life. I reached another level to find my purpose. She had been a teacher herself. The books she passed onto me guaranteed my salvation and means to get through life without wasting the possibilities that she saw in her daughter.

I teach with a passion. I believe without a doubt that my passion will bring about a change. I do this, to make my mother proud and to let her know that even though she left without saying much, I understood her silence!

The Best Years...

The class was in absolute chaos. The girls were chasing one another in circles while the ones who didn’t dare join in the moment, sat smiling at the reckless picture. There was no evident reason for such mad conduct except the thrill of enjoying that short switch over of lessons that came with the ringing of the bell. The screams echoed in the classroom and the athletic ones jumped over chairs and tables!

Our Math teacher was a handsome young man whose daughter happened to be our classmate. The presence of her father had never become a hurdle in her innocent plans to try out every possible crime! We understood each other very well on those grounds. My mother was a teacher as well and news travelled at lightning speed to her.

The chair was raised in the air and I was about to bang it onto the floor when the Math sir entered! “What in god’s name are you doing?” The class went silent. “Are you girls mad?” He looked at us in amazement. “Just what were you trying to do?” His voice was heavy and when it got really loud, it started to shake. The answer was quite simple, but no one dared open their mouths. “Just get out! I don’t want to see you girls in my class for a whole week! You will go to the Physics Lab and complete all the assignments that I will give you, but don’t dare enter this class before you have a reasonable answer for me!”

We left the class in shame but as soon as we entered the lab, we realized the incredibly generous deal that our silence had bought us! We couldn’t believe our good fortune! The window in the lab opened towards the school canteen and it had a small space that could squeeze in a few colas and some sandwiches! Each day, one of us would stand at the door guarding our cool plan, while the others whistled at the young girls sitting on the benches near the window. We shared the assignments and merrily ate our treats. 

In a matter of three days, our teacher realized his huge mistake, probably smelling the addictive food, and asked us to come back to class the next day! “But Sir, we still have three more days! This is not fair!” He looked at us with hopelessness! We left the room in memorable laughter.

The Biology Lab assistant was a bit of a sissy! We always instigated him to get him to exhibit his ‘Angry Profile!’ And while he would be scolding a few of us for our silly questions, the rest of the class would fall into a viral fit! For our class picnic, we had boarded the bus and were waiting for the driver to come on board. The teachers stood in the parking area enjoying a break from their mundane routines. The Lab assistant stood with them. As usual, we couldn’t sit still for too long! The bus had all its windows closed. We started to yell his name! As soon as he turned around to follow the sound, we became quiet. This confusion continued till our driver came and some teachers identified us and simply smiled away.

There are so many other incidents related to those few years we spent in school together as friends and companions. The smuggling of Biryani in the classroom on Valentine Day! A really bad idea with the instant aroma! Then smuggling it out again to the bushes in the school lawn to gulp the entire pot in Nano seconds! 

There was a girl who was our junior. She had offended one of our classmates using some really foul language! Of course we had to make her pay for it! So we gathered all the remaining bones from our biryani and wrapped them up in a beautiful red wrapping paper! A love note was attached on top and I was assigned with the X project to deliver the package in all secrecy to the victim.

The fun part was that my friends decorated me with a cap to help me get the feel of being a secret agent! I had to be careful! The corridor was long and exposed. The class was in progress and our own class teacher was busy delivering her lesson to them. The door was closed. I ducked down and crawled to the door. I placed the package on the floor and gave a loud knock! The sprint that followed has been the fastest ever to date in my life! 

We obviously could not witness those cherishing moments of receiving a Valentine gift. The pride that placed her above the rest of the crowd! At home time, we saw our teachers outside the Principal’s office with a whole lot of girls confused with the issue. Our Pakistan Studies teacher gave us a meaningful look knowing the Biryani we had enjoyed that day!

The home-economics lessons were just as memorable! We sat in a group enjoying the free time just before the class was to end. I was feeling really thirsty and needed 2 dirhams to buy a Dixi Cola! My friends were having a gala time refusing me the amount. Then one of them said, “Ok, I will give you the 2 dirhams, if you dare to drink these two raw eggs from this glass!” The teacher looked up as the whole group clapped at her genius idea! 

“So, if I do that, you will give me the money?” Some of them could not believe the seriousness in my tone. “Yuk! How could you even think that?” I took on the challenge. The Teacher kept her books down and watched from her table smiling at the desperate act. I closed my eyes and gulped the two raw eggs in a jiffy! They all screamed in disgust and awe! I got my 2 dirhams and that heroic win still amazes me!

I was a table-tennis player but had participated in badminton as well. It was important to try out everything. It was a preliminary match and the girl that I was playing against was a good one. It was a set of three games and I had lost the first one miserably. The spectators were just two teachers, our coach and some classmates. The second game was in progress and quite shamefully, it was game point 0. I being the 0! Just one more hit, and she would have won the game. 

The crowd was quite disinterested. I thought for a while, “Why am I giving up? If I am to lose, it should at least be a dignified one!” And it is one game, I can never forget. I started with my 0, to get the score to a tie and eventually I won the game! It was an unforgettable win! The coach shook my hand and even though, it was not a significant match in the entire competition, the game was one of the most thrilling ones.

For each scolding we got, we reacted with some prank. The evil walk to the teachers car park! The joy to discover an unlocked car! That was some thrill! Half of us would climb onto the car bonnet while one would sit inside and release the hand brake on the slope! The ride frightened the wits out of us, but it was still fun!

The School had special quarters built for the men who worked and lived in the school campus. Often we marched to the extreme end of the campus and sat in the open space to sing songs. One day, I and my friend decided to explore the quarters a little just out of foolish curiosity. We entered the enclosure with our hearts leaping out. The moment our eyes fell upon a pair of red polka dot socks, we fell to the floor in giggles. I ran to wear the huge slippers lying outside the rooms and my friend posed holding the socks in her hands! It was absolutely stupid, but gave us the thrill of having done something different through the day!

Today, when I look back at that time when we were young and filled with hope, I realize that we were complete rebels. The norms and laws bothered us. We did not want to meet any barriers that stopped us from exercising our likes and dislikes. We were confident about our goals and were ready to take on any dare to carve our own niche. We were not afraid to appear as fools to the world and enjoyed each other’s individuality.

Experimenting new ideas, fighting the odds in hopeless situations and living with a spirit like there is no tomorrow are the defining parameters of Our School Life! 

The laughter which needs no reason, support that comes without expectation and the passion that rules all emotions somehow gets lost in the journey through life!

(Dedicated to all my classmates through the Years 1989-94)  

The First Criticism

There is a poem I wrote at the age of 20. The events that lead my heart to pen down a plea to Allah were indeed monumental disasters and left deep impressions with me.

That year had seen many natural disasters. From drought to floods, hurricanes to tornadoes and eventually the PIA crash near Kathmandu Nepal on 28th September 1992 which took all 167 lives on board. I sat in my room, devastated by the news on television. The heart that was filled with anguish became a cluster of thoughts. These thoughts, drowned in tears gave birth to a thoughtful poem:

“Don’t Let Our Faith Be Shattered God”

29-09-92

Oh God I’m forced to wonder

A thought is born in me

I can’t help but to tell you

My heart is full of grief!

There’s land that craves for water

A single drop there be

But You have none to offer

Their crying destiny!

Enough is there however

To eradicate a town

The innocent helpless people

Their fate was but to drown!

Satanic powers rule this world

Their roots are getting strong

They murder truth and all that’s good

Unharmed they all live on!

We need you God to ease our pain

We need a shelter from this rain

If not You then who is their Lord?

To save us from the evil sword!

There’s so much pain and poverty

The dark night is so long

Tell me oh God should we keep hope

For the rise of another dawn!

Let justice once again prevail

This ordeal of suffering be gone

Don’t let our faith be shattered God

You’re all we can hold on!

I was a Literature student and submitted my poem for the school magazine. A few days later, my poem was returned to me with the statement, “It displays weakness of faith and therefore cannot be published at all!” 

The comment left me confused. “But it’s more of a plea than a statement of my faith,” I argued my English teacher who clearly agreed with the decision. “What do you mean by that? You are clearly questioning God for something you have created in this world!” My friends shared a smile, highlighting ‘my’ ill contributions to the world!

She spoke passionately, “People don’t look at themselves! The world is a horrible place because we have contributed horribly. And then we question God!”

I listened to her argument and when she was done I quietly placed my poem in my bag. "If you don't like it, it's fine. But I really don't think it's been understood too well." She glared at me for answering! 

The poem had instigated a dialogue in the staff room and had clearly divided the teachers in their stance upon the decision ‘not to publish’ the poem.

The Pakistan Studies teacher was from Peshawar and her logic encouraged me to think and continue to write whatever came to my mind. “Allah has His ways. Surely man does not hold the capacity to understand everything. But He Himself allows his most loved creation to question, investigate and discover the realities of this life. No one has the right to stop the other from asking a question!”

A similar response came to me from my language teacher who said, “The criticism and division of thoughts indicates a successful and worthwhile piece of literature from you! Don’t let anyone take that spirit and belief in your abilities from you!”

The volcano had erupted and since I had not expected any heat from a simple magazine contribution, it had pushed me to start thinking.

Yes, I did have the right to express my thoughts and ask as many questions as I liked. It was also a fair deal to expect some form of criticism since the world holds such diversity. My connection with God had allowed me to place my thoughts on paper and therefore it was not fair to stamp me as faithless! However, my English teacher did feel quite strongly about my inability to accept our negligence to acknowledge our own self-created problems. 

Of all the responses I received for my poem, hers mattered the most to me. Not just because she had come down on me quite violently, but because she thought differently. In a manner that I did not!

I came home quite dejected. The news had travelled to my mother as well as she taught in the Boys Section. She asked me how I felt about the whole argument. "I don't know Ammi. I don't know if it was wrong on my part to write something that holds religious sensitivity, though the intention was seeking refuge and not pointing a finger!" She knew I was mentally drained with the negativity and was not being able to focus on the positives. 

"I don't think that you have offended any religious sentiments what so ever. Your poem reflects your pain on the sad events that disturbed you emotionally. It's infact a beautiful and real depiction of our world today!" My father came home and when he read it, he loved it as well. "Criticism can be positive and negative. But it should remind you of your individuality and ability to think differently. And you will never be able to please all with your ideas. There will always be a crowd who shall voice their anger and dislike for the view expressed. Do not fear their presence or bend to their rules. Someone's opinion of you does not have to become your reality!"

I began to understand. I had not been able to please everyone and that was bothering me inside. My work had been misinterpreted and I had not put up a fight to defend my ideas.  

Today when I’m much older, I express myself with much more confidence. As expected, I get a variety of ideas as a feedback. As long as I don’t get questioned about my right to hold an opinion, I quite enjoy the chain of thought that rightfully glorifies the artistry of a Creator who did not clone one for the other. 

My faith lies in my belief that He, who created me, reads my thoughts far better than any in the world and I’m grateful to Him for this blessing. My feelings, my emotions and my writing do not depict my weak faith but rather are a means to communicate with the One who eventually opens windows of learning for me right here in this complex world!

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.

Hate and Democracy

Today I celebrate democracy. The right to choose.  The privilege to make a decision. The freedom to express myself. The responsibility that comes as a result to meet the challenges with a brave heart along the way. I recognize the need to allow other’s the space to breathe and the importance of a dialogue to come to some mutual understanding. I choose democracy not just for myself but for others as well.

I am quite tired of living in a culture that is run by hate. We hate the government for taking away our right to sleep peacefully at night. We hate the fact that our lives hold not much worth today than ever before. We hate the terrorists for constantly interrupting our educational programmes. We detest the CNG prices going up. Oh the annoyance that sets in when there is no gas to light our ovens and no electricity to follow the news. The news aggravates us further with stories that give us no hope and solutions. We need our ID cards to buy sugar!

This hatred has overcome our ability to think positively or believe in the possibilities that are plentiful. We spend hours cursing our unfortunate lives. We shake our heads in hopelessness the minute the power is shut-off. I have even heard people wish death for the poor chap who sits following orders to shut-off the power from 2pm to 4pm!

It frightens me to see this anger that can actually destroy our capacity to make logic and accept realities. We must take a minute to analyse our thoughts. We will be shocked to discover that they are filled with animosity.

“If you are overwhelmed with problems, take some time out to reflect and distance yourself from your pain. It’s not easy, but persistence with it will pay off. (Anonymous)

We must take a moment to realize the damage that we transfer to our children every day. This negative energy does get transmitted to our children. They are our future. But we forget their role and relevance in the long run. We feel no problem in stating our hopelessness or sharing our desires to shoot the damn losers running our country. I honestly feel that we must protect our children from this hatred. We don’t want them to grow up in this pitiful environment that resonates spite and revenge.

I remember accompanying my parents to a gathering of their friends. I was about 14 years old and was a silent observer. The discussion that alarmed me was on our Father of the Nation, Mohammad Ali Jinnah. There was a section of people who found no charm in him and considered him to be a complete failure. I was a student and Jinnah was a historical legend to me. He was a National Hero in our Pakistan Studies. I was quite angered by their casual remarks. The hatred with which they expressed their views was shameful. I thought to myself, they find him to be a failure, I wonder how achieved they feel in their own lives. 

The ability to derive the best from a situation or concentrate on the positives of a Human, are skills that need to be inculcated in our children. The ability to see the glass as half full and not half empty.

“We do not inherit the world from our parents, we borrow it from our children!” (Anonymous)

Today we forget our surroundings. We don’t feel the need to reserve our comments. We vomit our emotions anywhere, becoming completely oblivious of how others might perceive our state of well-being. Anger has destroyed our competence to differentiate between petty and grave issues. We have forgotten the lesson to choose our battles. The venom has penetrated our senses to the point that we fail to look beyond the obvious.

We desire for a democratic set up, but fail to reform ourselves to manage it well. Our plan of action at not having electricity or water is mostly uprooting the electrical poles or burning effigies. We incite the more vulnerable groups to go on rampage igniting the hatred further. We can’t bear to listen to the other side of the argument. And blindly follow trends. Any questions from our children that require reason or logical explanation anger us and we label them as ill-mannered and over inquisitive. We aren’t prepared to take to the Witness Stand and face the facts.

Democracy demands patience. It is a complete processing unit. The view or opinion enters the system. It goes through the procedure of digestion where various other opinions are added on to soften the edges and make it easier to absorb. The positives are separated from the negatives which are eventually disposed off from the machinery. What remains are the effects of a civil and peaceful dialogue that is a reflection of the various flavours of a common concern.

We are a nation who has been subjected to so many political upsets that the sound democratic programme just could not be followed through. As an educationist today, I strongly feel that ‘Democracy’ should be introduced as a core subject in Pakistan. Our children need to absorb its principles fully to be able to handle it when blessed with its power in all entirety. ‘Effective Communication Skills’ must also be introduced as a subject at an early stage so that the young minds can be moulded to encourage an even better democratic set-up.

In a democratic state, individuals are free to view their opinions, but a culture of hatred almost never allows those views to bring any rewards.

Nevertheless, once we are ready to acknowledge our own shortcomings, we do have hope to resolve our issues. Let’s try to prepare ourselves for an Effective Democracy with a little more focus and insight.

“All our problems, all our disputes, all our disagreements can be resolved quickly to mutual satisfaction if we address the question.” (Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto Shaheed)

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!

The Winning Ticket

The Dubai Shopping Festival brought with it the opportunity to win a Lexus car everyday! I remember the cars parked outside petrol stations purchasing their lucky tickets. Since the ticket itself was quite expensive, often friends or colleagues at work would contribute to the cost hoping to share the win! 

The belief was strong. Intuitions were adamant upon a victory. And all the while, I would wonder, what lead people to play this gamble, with the precious money that they would never otherwise spend on anything else.

I was at school and the biggest optimist declared in the staff room, “ I’ve got about 400 now. Who else would like to contribute?” She looked at me. “ What about you Shama? Come on, give it a try. Imagine when they announce our winning ticket number!” And everyone laughed. 

I didn’t have the least bit of winning sensation. “Why do you feel that your ticket will be the lucky one?” I asked out of curiosity. “If you ask me, I will win it because it’s about time we started building our own house. I don’t want to go back to India and live in a rented house. What’s the point of being here so many years and return empty handed?”

She looked at the next contributor who acknowledged her thoughts. “Very true. For me, I have no plans to go back to Pakistan. My husband and myself have applied for Canadian Immigration. It’s quite an expensive venture. I would definitely fly away with that money!” There was more laughter. 

The Arabic teacher sat on the other end of the room enjoying the dry fruit. “What silly plans! If I have that kind of money, I will disappear!” The staff turned towards her, applauding her sense of humour. 

“Thank god we don’t have her name in this ticket!” exclaimed the young lady with a pretty smile. “This money holds promises of a secure and happy future for me. It will be nice to start life with some comfort. Getting married here, is quite expensive. Do you know the cost of a banquet hall alone is such a ridiculous price?” Her eyes were wide open in amazement.

“Why do you worry? With the money we WILL WIN, you can have a grand wedding with a long honey moon in Europe!” The old lady from Kenya added on! The recess was about to get over. I looked at the dark complexioned woman whom everyone had a lot of respect for. “Ms. K, What would you do with so much money?” I wanted to investigate her thoughts as she had married children and apparently had wrapped up most of her pertinent responsibilities. Why did she want to win a lottery?

“It’s strange to you that I wish to win this amount. But really, I feel I deserve some comfort at the end of my journey. I can’t even remember, when I got old. The years just slipped through worrying about the education of my children and the need to always have a job. Now, I would like to enjoy a Moroccan bath and have a house with a big pool in the backyard! Live my life like a First Lady!”

Quite a lot of dreams had been invested in those 400 dirhams. I thought to myself, if I contribute to this rosy picture, how would I get to celebrate the sweep?

My mind could not picture much. I was afraid to own that kind of money. It would trigger the mind to shift focus from what is real to something that does not exist. It would dissolve the ability to appreciate the smaller things in life. It’s intoxicating presence in life would allude me from the circle of real friends. I would disappear in a big villa and just lose the compulsion of ending a fight with my husband, with no where to hide in a two bedroom apartment. The treasure of enjoying the simple outings in long drives would get replaced by formalities of a five star hotel. 

The bell rang and the recess was over.

No! I was the queen of my land and was just not ready to give away my kingdom for such a small price.

We buy lottery tickets thinking that they hold the very spirit of our dreams and joys. We believe, we have not yet encountered our greatest achievements or met with our much deserved luck. We look forward to tomorrow oblivious of the opportunities that surround us today. 

The winning ticket does not come as a serial number. It requires a sound functioning of our five senses. Success is truly defined as the ability to acknowledge the present in all its grandeur. 

  

It's a man's world

When I was growing up, the concept of men and women having equal rights was often a topic of debate in my mind. By nature, I was quite compromising and hated getting into conflicts. Therefore, many times, even after identifying the injustice, I ignored the matter, escaping the long arguments.

Despite the presence of progressive minds in the house, I always seemed to meet up with some dead end. I could do mostly everything, but always sensed my parents reservations when it came to making individual decisions. Anything that placed me outside their comfort zone, created panic and re-evaluation of set expectations. And though I followed the rule book with honesty, there were moments that angered me and I started to develop a rebel inside of me.

I remember, when it came to going to college, I had a deep love to join Kinnaird in Pakistan. The lush green lawns, an ambience of learning and growing together with friends. I had heard wondrous stories about it and the idea of being independent was pre-dominant at that age. It was obvious that I would have to live in the hostel as I was with my parents in Dubai. When I floated the thought in the air, my parents told me, “We have no problem sending you but living in a hostel is out of the question. Girls aren’t safe alone Shama. They get caught up in problems. There are so many other stories that you haven’t heard that we know of. We can’t close our eyes to the reality. We trust you, but not this world.”

I would carry the sad story to my friends and most would join me having received a similar response at home. “It’s a man’s world!” one of my friend’s exclaimed annoyingly. “ They can do everything, while we have to plead and present our case to the jury first.” Another one blurted out, “My brother gets to make all the decisions. His studies are more important. While I have to manage with whatever’s available in the neighbourhood! It’s not fair!”

The phrase, “It’s a man’s world,” lingered in my mind as the years went by. I got married and was blessed with three sons. And the world had not changed much. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I am always concerned about my daughter. Daughters are quite a responsibility.” Or, “ You will know, when you’ll have a daughter of your own. I fail to understand where this world is going to. There is no safety or peace of mind left.”

And the more people stressed on the need to take care of their daughters, the more it made me think.

It’s quite evident from experience and wisdom of observation that “it is a man’s world”. Whether she’ll go to school or not, will be decided by the capacity of the bread-winner, the father. Would the crowd at the park or cinema understand the need to silence their remarks? The men in the bus, will make her so uncomfortable with their stares. And what if the prospective husband dislikes the idea of a working woman? She can do whatever she likes, once she gets married. Therefore, shifting the burden of decisions to the next man in command.

Ofcourse these events aren’t always as brash or literal as I express them to be. But, at the very core, lies the reality of a society that has its entire focus on the role of a woman. Her character is judged by her dressing up, her loud manners reflect her bold ideas and thinking for herself makes her undoubtedly selfish. And who comes to all of these conclusions?

The situation is not that simple. If we study history, whether of the Sub-Continent, Europe or even England, we realize that in every scenario, the woman was a picture of plea. She was deprived of her basic rights and was not allowed to think for herself. Since long, she has been fighting for the recognition of her presence and acknowledgement of her abilities.

And so the woman decided to build herself a fort. She made the walls out of stone and nobody could see inside. The world became invisible to her. The man was also facing a period of change. He was becoming more civilized and religion too became a strong factor in helping him distinguish between false practices and unjust beliefs. The mind was opening up to the idea of a woman sharing equal responsibility with him. It was a slow transition and had its flaws. Yet the table was set up for negotiation.

Now the woman, who had been subjected to so much humiliation could not trust that handshake that simply. She now refused to be just ‘anybody’. The fire that had been burning her soul so cruelly pushed her to prove her existence. In her fight to let down the man, she started to cling to the idea that unless she was out and about, the man would always have the opportunity to tie her down and take away her identity. In all reality, she did sacrifice many emotions to hold her head high and win herself a name. But is it necessary to make this process such an ordeal? What is it, that needs to be changed to create a balance in this situation?

I would think, that as a society, we need to shift our focus from the woman to the man. We should stop worrying about our daughters and seriously begin to evaluate our sons. Are we sending across the right messages? Do we practice discrimination at home? Is there an equality of power in our homes for our sons to witness? 

When I look at my life, I don’t just visualize it as a calendar of events. Each and every moment spend was a spark of energy transferred to my existence. I speak the truth, because it was the norm of my house. I trust easily, because I believe in the goodness of people. I love unconditionally, as that’s how I valued relationships. I accept people with their differences because that’s how we co-existed in our homes. Our sons need to imbibe these qualities at home. They need to witness such equalities to practice them as a way of life. These are powers that contribute to the existence of a fair and tolerant world.

If it is a man’s world, then what are we waiting for? A good man, will make a better world. I keep that in mind when I look at my sons. I desire for them to grow up to become men who can shoulder responsibilities. Men who would enjoy the comfort of having life partners who could stand up tall with them in the hour of need without having to sacrifice the emotions of being mothers, daughters, sisters or wives.

A woman balances ugliness with beauty, vulgarity with sobriety, harshness with kindness, revenge with forgiveness and tears with laughter. Anything, that is incomplete appears ugly and unattractive. A woman completes a man.