Fwoosh !! - Chronicling a Bird-Brain

My name is Fwoosh. Don’t ask me why I was named this. Ask my silly uncle Dash.

I mean, if you could find him, you could ask him. He has been overtly eccentric, Grand-aunt Hiddil says he was eccentric since he was born. His tales go to describe that he’s been far and wide, that he’s seen the hopping 2 legged deers with a pouch on their bellies in a place named Ouz-Tralya. And he’s sipped chilled water with Emperor Penguins further south. Before he was caught by a hunter and made a slave, he was pretty much a free bird….Pun Intended.

Before I proceed any further, a bit about myself.

As you’ve already noticed, my name is Fwoosh. Mom says that the initial idea was to name me Whoosh !!, but they decided against the H and prefixed an F ‘coz some shoe maker cobblers named Nike or something said that they named their trademark as Whoosh. Frankly, if you ask me though, it looks like a tick mark, and nothing like a Whoosh. Whoosh was my great grandpa. He lived much before the days of human shoes, so no one could sue him for being named so. Oh boy could I tell you tales about Granpa Whoosh. I mean, Mom rarely talks about anything else than how awesome he was.

So there you have it, Corporate Lawsuits determined me being named Fwoosh instead of Whoosh.

By the way, I’m a Falcon. Although I hate to admit that. ‘Coz I suck at being a falcon (even If I do say so myself).

Why you ask….? Well. I guess that’s because I’m Acrophobic. No no need to run for your google search-bar. Acrophobic means….ummm…well….means that I’m kinda, you know…a bit, not much….a wee bit afraid of heights. STOP GRINNING !!!!

So I’m afraid of heights, and being my species of falcon isn’t easy with having a height problem. My cousins are all high-flyers. Dad cant stop raving about how I am silly and all that. He goes on about how Peregrines are wanderers and how we should fly high, how we get closest to God up there in the sky. I mean, I agree with all of that, he’s truly right you know. But it’s not like I’ve not tried. Heck I even tried to dive that famous Silent Dive. You know, the one where we hit speeds of 300 or so killer-meters per hour or something. Oh I dove, I dove….but I didn’t do the upward twist n nosedive properly, so instead, my wings got all tangly, lost a lot of tailfeathers and more than diving, I was falling, I must confess here that I was slightly overweight by then. My entire life flashed before my eyes. I landed on a low flying pelican, and boy was he pissed. Lost more tailfeathers when Dad got his hands on me. Poor Dad, how hard he tried to teach.

Oh and my dad, he’s a very respectable falcon. Never fumbles on his dives and is very religious you see. I sometimes think he’s more a BIRD OF PRAY than a BIRD OF PREY !! (Sorry…Falcon PJ)

What can I say though, I’m learning impaired. I mean it…. I still don’t understand why B comes after A. Do you know why it is so?? If so, please teach me that.

My teachers in Flight School call me a dimwitted smart-tail (I’m sure you humans have such names too).

So you ask, What does a peregrine who fears heights do good in life. You must be thinking I’m a loser right? Ahaah….thats where you’re wrong.

I am not a loser. I’m opinionated. Contrary to what you might think, they are both NOT related. Highly Opinionated at that. And I’m a connoisseur of fine literature.

Recently a friend of mine told me that people who liked the “written word” and are opinionated, they should write.

The first thing I think I should write about….is Humans.

The scientific fraternity calls you Homo Sapiens. The humans think that is some sort of “Oh-so-awesome-legendary-latin-fancy-shmancy-name”. In reality, it’s an abbreviation.

H.O.M.O. -- S.A.P.I.E.N.S

First name defines you in simple terms, the 2^nd part of the name defines some of your attributes.

Higher Order Monkey-like Organisms – (HOMO)

Superbly Active (Mentally & Physically)

Phenomenal Imbeciles (seriously, whats with all your wars & battles)

Egoistic & Narcissistic SpingelDinks** (SAPIENS)

**(Spingeldinks is a word I cannot explain. My mom is very particular about insults. I hate the taste of soap you see)

Haah, not so proud of your scientific nomenclature now are you !!!

Oh and before you look at our scientific name to “return” the joke, I’ll tell you myself

Its FALCO PEREGRINUS.

We coined that name ourselves. Peregrin – US !!!

SEE what I mean?

So What do I think about humans?

Firstly, let me tell you what the other birds think.

The Eagles, they’re ‘Merican you see, so they think that Humans should pretty much be under their wings. The bald ones are spectacularly proud about their rarity and elegance. I think they’re major imbeciles too. Seriously, they are demented. Have you seen a bald eagle?? Its got FEATHERS ON ITS HEAD. Its not bald, who the heck named it bald?? He must’ve been a mental human as well, so I don’t blame the eagles for wanting to take over humanity.

The Owls think humans have their biological clocks fixed all wrong. Psst, between you and me, they’re pretty nutty too, they wake up in the nights, and party when the whole animal & bird kingdom is asleep. Waitaminnute, don’t you do that do humans??

Well well, if the Eagles manage to take you over, no second guesses as to who will be writing your social calendar eh?

The Pigeons and Seagulls think Humans are good for target practice. And I shall not elucidate that as I’m sure little kids will be reading this too.

The Ostriches are what happens when you don’t take your flying lessons seriously, so they being 2 legged like humans, are empathic to your kind. I personally don’t trust the emotions of a bird who hides his head in a sand. Run you overgrown duck Run ... when you have danger coming in RUN!!!

((Sorry got off the topic))

The ducks think you’re incessantly annoying with your blabber. And they take major offence that you name your incompetent doctors after their calls. Beware of them, that’s all I can tell you.

The Swans are mainly from erstwhile U.S.S.R and they’re all named Boris. And they don’t care.

The Peacocks are preparing to sue you for taking their feathers so often. They are from India. And the ladies (peahens), they just hate you all for not giving them the awesome attention their males get. There are Peahen N.G.Os which are planning a major uprising against humans for being Gender-biased.

The Sparrows are too busy to even notice you. So to them, you’re no different than trees which block their ways. They don’t stop to smell the flowers.

The Hummingbirds, they just stop to smell the flowers. More like eat 'em. They too don’t notice you. They classify objects as Flowers and Non-Flowers. You are non-flowers.

The Penguins are voting on whether they should demand royalty from you for copying their style. You know, your formal tuxedos and all that black tie jazz. They want in. They think all your fashion designers are quacks. (By the way, the ducks hate the penguins too. Main rivalry in our Olympics Swimming events)

That leaves us with the Chickens. Who are frustrated beyond all parallel. Well, there isn’t much I am allowed to speak about them. But word of caution to the wise, they are sick and tired of being eaten. **whispers** There is word of revolution in the air. Initial targets are said to include a white suited Colonel’s Army HQs who claims the chicken are finger licking good. They deem that obnoxious and there are elaborate preparations for vengeance.

Now after all this, I finally come to my opinion about Humans.

After studying the entire world history and the whole ideas and thoughts of other birds and some animals of the kingdom, I’ve reached the conclusion that on the whole, absolutely unbiased in my evaluation, And I ascertain that this is the Truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the absolute truth. So help me God, and may my wings turn pink if I’m lying. Conclusively, I think humans are Phenomenally Hopeless.

Take Wing Funny Humans...and Happy Flying !!

Of Iqbal and a legacy of greatness.

I’ll be upfront and frank about this. I find it hard, really hard to consistently hate Pakistanis. I mean, ever since the nation took birth, it has been a political thorn in my country’s neck (figuratively and geographically). But all these details of their irritating nature came to be understood by me when my age ran into double digits. That is, I learnt about Pakistan somewhere after I was 10 years old.

I had lived with Pakistanis for a long time, much before that.

Growing up in a quiet neighbourhood in Umm’Said, Qatar. I had few neighbour kids with whom I could share my age. And they were all Pakistanis. I remember Ali, Hasnain and Zeeshan. The four of us regularly played cricket or football and pretty much grew up fighting and exploring amongst ourselves. At that time, all I knew about their homeland was that Pakistan was a country near India with whom we played cricket a lot.

So I knew Pakistanis, before I knew Pakistan. This statement will explain itself in the next few minutes.

On Tuesday last week, I took a drop from a colleague somewhere on the outskirts of Sharjah’s industrial area, and hitched a taxi.

The driver who stopped had a very dignified look about him. Now I’ve seen some really fashionable drivers, some really messy ones, and quite a lot of indifferent ones. If you have read my blog before, you’ll know what I mean when I say I’ve also met some exceptionally interesting ones. This time was no different.

This man had a very neat look about him. And his face shone with a discipline which said he’d been living a principled life which wasn’t his choice, but something that had come with his birth.

I gave him directions in Urdu. And after a few minutes of silence, he asked me where I was from. I told him I was from south India. He must have had a surprised look on his face which I missed as I had sat behind with an intention of sleeping the trip off. His next sentence was ,
“Aapki Urdu badi saaf hai.” (Your Urdu is very polished)

I said, “Shurkiya, yeh hamare walid sahib ki badaulat hai.” (Thanks, I owe it to my Father)

He was pleased at that. And I told him that some of my earliest childhood friends were also from Pakistan.

I asked him, “Aap Karachi se hai?” (Are you from Karachi?)

He was surprised again and said , “Ji par aapne andaza kaise lagaya.” (Yes, how did you know?)

“Maine dekha hai Karachi walon ki urdu, baaqi pakistaniyon se kaafi shaffaf hoti hai.”

(I’ve noticed that Karachi people speak a more purer/clearer Urdu compared to other Pakistanis, [Who have an accent])

He asked for my name, I told him my name was Luqman. And his name was Tariq.
Tariq Chacha.

The conversation immediately jumped to current affairs. And he smiled and asked me if I’d heard of Shoaib Malik & Sania Mirza’s wedding announcement.

I laughed and said, “Definitely, hamari ladki aapke ghar bahu banke aane wali hai inshaAllah.” (Our Girl is coming as a daughter in law to your home)

He laughed and went on to marvel at how matches are made in heaven, without any regards for man made lines.

He expressed grief over so much we share as a race, yet how far apart we are.

I told him how our national song was written by someone who went on to be a Pakistani.

Allama Iqbal. His face shone with pride and I knew we’d found common ground.

We discussed at length about Iqbal’s poetry. I told him how Ghalib was a famous urdu poet of our nation, but how I regard Iqbal as unmatchable by anyone. He agreed.

He told me how his Father studied in Punjab University in newly formed Pakistan. And how he and his friends would run from the university to a nearby masjid for early morning prayers. They would pass by a small chalet and would hear a voice reciting the Quran with a feel of every word. The voice would sometimes even cry while reciting the Words of Allah.

Upon inquiring, the caretaker told Tariq chacha’s father that that voice belonged to none other than Sir Mohammad Iqbal.
The poet, the philosopher, the thinker of a nation as described by the masses. Who didn’t only write poetry, but lived the advices they presented.

I couldn’t help but go on about how I first heart Iqbal’s Shikwa & Jawab-e-Shikwa (two of the finest works in Urdu poetry) and he was gushing with happiness. Dad introduced me to Shikwa and Jawab-e-shikwa. In a nutshell, the 2 works are inter-related. Shikwa is the complaint of a Muslim to Allah, and Jawab-e-Shikwa is the reply Allah has to each complaint the crier has.

He began talking to me about Sir Syed Ahmad Khan, Gandhi and Jinnah, how the fathers of our nations made the mistake of partitioning one entity. Although, if Pakistan had begun its life on the teachings and guidelines of Iqbal, instead of Jinnah, I feel that there could be no better neighbours in the world today like India & Pakistan. He readily agreed with what I commented about the issue. He sighed aloud saying, if only their leaders and our leaders got to the end of their arms race, got out of all their petty differences and just ended the crying over Kashmir, then the most to benefit of this would be the common man, who is as of now the most affected by this conflict.

Conversing with Tariq Chacha was one of the most interesting and beloved talks I’ve had in a really long time. I felt like I knew him intimately. He told me how his parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents cried inconsolably when they had to leave Jalandar and move to Pakistan. How they got into the last train of the partition and saw the brutality first hand. There was a painful tone in his voice as he smiled and said that even today, a lot of his aunts are buried in India.

This is the ground reality. Take away all the nuke races we are having between our nations, the politicians on their side calling us manipulators and the politicians on our sides calling them terrorists. Take away the fact that men on either side of the border have created death and havoc in the eyes of the world. Take away the un-ending argument of who is right and who is not. And at the end of it you will get people like Tariq Chacha who are really sorry we parted ways. People who believe that we share more than we differ about. People who truly believe that once you take out the respective leaders and bureaucrats and the finger pointing, and you have 2 brothers from one mother who fight and argue but in the end just love to play cricket and tease each other about their respective performances.

He loved his motherland, I accepted that.

He respected my motherland too, and I simply admired the man for that.

I don’t ever think I’ll be able to convey the brilliance and the peace there was in our conversation. But I will share this.

Iqbal wrote the song, TARANE-E-HIND. Which is the national song of India. A song Mahatma Gandhi sung tirelessly during his days in jail. A song to which our army sets its quick march. A song which cannot stop gushing with pride on the greatness of India.

There is a stanza in that poem which doesn’t find its way into the traditional version of the song, I don’t know why. I recited that stanza for Tariq chacha,

Yunan Misr-o-ruma sab mitt gaye jahaan se

Baaqi magar hai ab tak, Naam-o-nishaan hamara

Kuch to baat hai ki hasti mitt tee nahi hamari

Sadiyon Raha hai dushman, daur-e-zamaan hamara

Greece, Egypt and Rome (empires such) were wiped from the world,

Yet stands alive even now, our name and our mark

There is something that our definition does not fade away

Even though time in all the ages has been an enemy of ours

(Rough translation, please excuse the crudeness)

When I finished that recitation, he wasn’t jealous or envious that Iqbal had written such defining words for us. He was proud, he was happy and if his hands were not on the steering wheel, I’m sure he would have applauded at the praise of my motherland.

We are 1 nation, divided by a line of lies, deceit, hate and power gamble on the part of a few people.

When a matter of the masses comes, we’re two bodies with one heartbeat.

The Most Understated Human in the World.

All praise is to the Almighty in whose hand rests my soul, and the dominion of the heavens and the Earth.

Of all of Allah’s magnificent creations, one of the most misunderstood creations is The Father.

Yup, in continuation of my last post, this one is to the Man of the house. The Captain of the ship, the Commander in chief of the Space Mission called Family life.

My dad, to begin with, is amazing. The only regret is that I realized it pretty late. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him a lot. But admiration of someone comes out of the deep thought and understanding in what that person does. You will never respect a car unless you understand how a car should behave. Similarly, you will never understand family life unless you understand how the Father behaves, and once you see a fine example of a house, look at the paternal leader and you are sure to find (8 out of 10 times), a disciplined, principled and magnanimous face lined with seriousness towards the emotion known as Love. (Feminists who are reading this chill out, Mothers play an equally important role and I understand that ;-) so put away your pitchforks.)

Fathers, unlike mothers, have a very short lived span in which they can love a child without any barriers. This lasts from the teary moment they first hold their baby in their arms, or in some cases, from the first instance when they know they will be Dads, and it culminates on the most impressive and lasting step of the child, The First Step.
That is, more often than not, the last time a Father will show his emotions of love, pride, joy and thankfulness with absolutely no barrier. Holding a child’s hand with his fingers, he’ll guide it to take its first unbalanced step, and hold up the childs entire weight so that the kid doesn’t have to balance its lard, but just move those chubby squiggly feet in a walking fashion. This is the beginning of the end so to speak.

From here on, as fast as the child learns to walk and run, the father understands the need to regulate where the learning feet wander. And slowly begins the masking of that display of love and affection which until now was filled with kisses, childish screams with the kid, hugs and night long vigilances humming songs so that the apple of his eye can fall asleep.

My Father, was out of the country while I was preparing to touch ground in Bangalore.

He spent the last few days before my birth in teary prayers for mom’s health and my safe arrival. He didn’t know what he was getting, but he prayed that it comes safe. I’ll confess that during my high school days in Mysore, I chanced upon his old collection of personal diaries. And the suspense was too much to push away. I picked up the brown one with the leather engraved numbers 1985. And turned to November. I could see the entries of 13, 14 and 15 were besought with prayers and hope and small details of his job where he probably had no focus. And then I turned to November 16…..He had written a small paragraph stating how the delivery had gone fine, and that entry ended with one line…

“I HAVE A SON.”

I could imagine his eyes welling up in tears, his dimpled cheeks in a gratitude filled smile as he bowed his head and made dua for my entire future to be blessed. To this day I pray and hope that someday, I can do the same for my kids.

Again, its sad that I have no memory of the way dad first held me in his arms, how he carried me around and sung me to sleep. I saw it all when I was 4 years old and my little bro was born. But I still missed the memory of the time he pampered me, bought toys for me without me asking them, laughed with me and tried to understand me when all I could babble from that toothless mouth was phenomenal amounts of gibberish.

If only that memory had sustained, I would probably not have cribbed the dad didn’t love me, or didn’t buy me stuff, or laugh at my jokes, or even the classical, YOU DON’T TRY TO UNDERSTAND ME DAD kind of lines.

The moment he held my hands and taught me to walk, he morphed from Mother part 2 to Father, where it became his foremost duty to make sure I didn’t run around too carelessly, didn’t speak out of turn, learnt manners of sitting and talking to people, learnt the duties of being a man in short. Mom would teach the same, but bringing the authoritative and proverbial iron fist down on our stupid little craniums is not what moms are built for.

But the entire disciplinarian deal goes pretty long way. They mask the love they wish to show to their kids at special moments. This kind of hampers the growing child in a way. At first I thought it was wrong on their part, but then, watching my dad I learnt that it wasn’t his fault, he was programmed that way.

His Father, my granddad, who fathered 10 kids (8 sons and 2 daughters) had to have a strict outlook to keep the brood contained. So all the kids grew up with a level of discipline where they have NEVER looked their father in the eye while talking. His way of showing affection was different. If ever he scolded one of the kids, that evening, that kid would be treated extra specially. Grandpa would ask him to sit next to him at dinner, a place of honour. And he would explain a simple philosophy which my dad resonates to this day, he would say, “Son, I had to correct you today and get angry at you. Because what you were doing was wrong. I had to show anger because that is how I love you. You will not understand this today, someday, when You are a Father, you will.”

In urdu it went like “…..Kisi din jab aap sahib-e-aulaad banoge, tab aap samjhoge…”

Those words are etched in my heart so deep that I understand how hard it is to be a Father.

Being strict is pretty easy, but being strict for the right reasons, with the right intensity, that requires character and a persona reeking with selflessness.

A Father will scold you, beat you, yell at you in front of others, for a reason. He wants your perfection. He knows it comes at the risk of the child losing his love and grumbling at him even though it is for the child’s own good, yet he does it unwaveringly.

This has a domino effect. The child grows up fearing things which he/she has been taught are wrong. And the deeper this lesson is taught, with the catalyst information of Why somethings are wrong, the longer the lesson’s effects remain. This in turn results with the son becoming a better father tomorrow.

A father has to buy stuff for the family, and there are times when he has to reject the wants of his kids. Because he understands where to draw the line between pampering and making absolute spoilt brats.

They say that to learn swimming, you have to jump in the water first. A Father is a launching mechanism which throws you in the water.

My dad made one tough choice back in 1999. To send me away to India, far away from him and mom, to study and learn to swim the seas on my own. All I had were his prayers, a few of his habits and his love for reading.

Those three combined to give me an understanding of him in specific and Fatherhood in general over 8 years, that he would never be able to put in words over 80 years.

That’s the thing about Fathers, they are hopeless with words. They show their love in the most un-expected of manners, and they don’t feel heartbroken that we don’t pick up the signs. For them, its enough that they love us and they know it. They live with this firm belief that someday, we will understand what it is like to be in those tough shoes.

I admire this generation of fathers a lot though, they are slowly moulding in the fact that saying I LOVE YOU SON does not make them sound weak. And here’s a standing ovation for my dad who’s said it so many times to me, and so many many more times to himself. For making an effort dad, Thank you.

All in all, as you grow through teens and even later, you will resent your dad a lot, and he knows this. Oh he knows it wayyyy to well. But mark my words guys, someday, when you have a toddler just 5 minutes old yelling at the highest shrillest note its brand new voice box can manage, you will know exactly how your old man felt.

Fathers don’t cry, not in front of their kids, but I know for a fact, that there are innumerable moments when a father, hidden away from the entire world, including his wife, sits in front of Allah, head bowed, hands raised, tears welling up in his eyes and quivering voice….asking for his child to pass his exams, to make it through his tribulation, to get well from an illness or simply, to be happy.

Sit back, close your eyes and think about the awesome times you’ve spent with your dads. They are rare, but each one of them has a fragrance which will last hundreds of years to come. Think about the times he has beaten you or slapped you, and try remembering why he did that, 9 out of 10 chances are that you behaved like a stubborn ass. Try remembering the astounding amount of pain he's borne to put you all through your education and manage the entire family. The sacrifices he's given to pay for your small happinesses, and the unaccountable times he's fought for you. Be thankful for them today, else your kids will not be thankful for your efforts tomorrow. And then, call/msg/write or face your dad, look into those eyes which have been so understated, look into the experience they have accumulated, and just say, I love You dad. For all I know, he’ll feel like he has been hit by a thick pillow, will stumble upon a few words and mumble an I love you too ;-) And that’s what makes such a dramatic effect. That he makes the effort to say that.

Mom always told us, that Jannah (Paradise) is at a Mother’s feet, but she always used to add, That door to Jannah is locked, those keys are at your dad’s feet. ;-)

Jannah

I don’t really know what prompted me to write this. Maybe the recent trip home.

I’ve been away from home for a decade and a year almost. But even today, leaving home makes me the same 13-14 year old nervous wreck. Except that I controlled the goodbye tears. But the lump in the throat just never leaves.

And the entire journey I think about the first lady in my life. That big chubby angel of purity and love who loved me before she could see me. Mom, or Mamma as I call her.

Lemme introduce my mom to you, anyone would tell you this line, “My Mom is the best in the world, no contest.” And well, I am no different.

Mammas of the world are really smashing humans Allah created to be classified as All heart.

I guess the recipe of a MOTHER looked something like this.

1 Cup Chocolate

¼ Teaspoon Anger

1 Universe load of Unconditional Love

Equal amount of Forgiveness

2 Glowing moons which will always look at you in a way no one else can

1 Big bucket of Tears (serve all purposes)

10x Normal Human’s Pain-bearing-capacity

10 Million Zillion Hugs

Unlimited Smiles & laughter

1 spoon Natak and Nakhra (to taste)

Mix it all into a smooth batter, add 4 Drops of unique fragrance. And mould.

It’s a sad sad thing that most of us have no memory of the times when we were loved beyond our own meddling control. When we were infants. I can only imagine how much she must’ve showered me with kisses, hugs, spent hours with me in her arms just looking at me and seeing daydreams 20 or maybe 30 years into the future.

Before that, I can imagine how much she already loved me and had to control herself immensely to wait for my arrival in those gruelling 9 months of labour. Not to mention the time I did make a landing. I don’t believe any amount of empathy can make anyone of us imagine how that must’ve felt for her. And then, as we were helpless little munchkins who knew nothing but how to eat/drink,cry, sleep, cry, poop and cry, she seemed to love every bit of it. For her, every day began with all of us screaming on our top decibel ranges to announce our hunger or wet nappy. And it ended with us getting so restless to sleep that she had to hold and rock us till we zonked out. Amidst those two extremes of the day and night, she would’ve said a million I love yous and smiled at every smile, giggle, turn, tear and better believe it, even at our farts and burps which at that time sounded like a palm size balloon going out with a short SQUEEE or BRAPPP

I can imagine the peace she felt when she held us close to her heart, amidst 2 strong arms giving out the most gentlest of hugs.

I can imagine her just sitting n resting her forehead n nose against mine n thinking, “Life just cant get any better than this.”

I can imagine her looking at my squiggly laughter and thinking, “I’ll just blow up the entire world if it ever makes that laughter stop for ANY reason.”

I can imagine her putting me in my stroller or my high chair, keeping me up on the big table (locked into my seat’s harness) and making real conversation with me, and me stuffing my fingers up my mouth thinking where the heck in the pacifier. And whenever she would say something a bit high pitched, I would probably reply with a “EEEYAAA?”

I can imagine her unadulterated delight when I’d making gurgling and laughing noises and wave my hands up n down as a thank you for the fresh diaper or possibly for no reason at all.

I can imagine her first tears when I might have cried through the night from a fever or tummy ache which I could only convey by wails.

I can imagine her going all ALLELELSHUNUGOOPUSHUFARRUFARRUMELABETAAAAA. Of which I would understand nothing but would still show the toothless grin, which would brighten her day more than 20 suns working together.

I can imagine her singing or humming me to sleep

I can imagine her trying to make me talk, to repeat ALLAH, or MAMMA, or PAPPA even though she knew I wouldn’t speak for a long time. (Time is proof that the day I did start, I wouldn’t stop….Sorry maa)

I can imagine her tears of joy when I took my first unsteady steps and rushing towards me when I’d loose balance n land on my knees and palms, or more safely, My cushioned bum.

I can imagine a million other moments which are etched in her mind forever, which are invaluable to her, which she will share with my children inshaAllah, and then I will see them for real.

But there is one other thing I can imagine, the deep longing in her heart whenever I leave home. Or the deep longing in every mother’s heart when their kid grows up and starts thinking that that display of affection is “embarrassing” or “Eww”. Or when hugs are not reciprocated like before. Or when she realizes we cant be kissed or cuddled. When her most awesome display of affection would be a stroke of our big head. I probably can never tell the amount of regret she would be having which goes like, “I should’ve loved n cuddled him more when he was younger.”

Mamma, this is me, saying Thank you for every ounce of love, every tear, every hug, every comfort and absolutely everything that you have done for me. What I am, is because of you. And I know I don’t say this enough, but I really really Love you. And I am infinitely indebted to Allah for giving me YOU !! I beg forgiveness for all the times I’ve let you down, or hurt you. I am sorry. And I know that my thank yous and sorrys do not register in your all loving and all forgiving heart. InshaAllah I promise not to break your heart, and be everything you hoped and dreamt from me on 16 ^th Nov. 1985, and ever after.

May Allah bless you with a really really long healthy and successful life in both worlds.

O humankind! Be in awe of your Lord and Sustainer, He who created you all from a single soul, and created from it its mate, and from the two of them brought forth many men and women. Be in awe of Allah and of the wombs (that bore you). Surely Allah is watching over you. - Surah an-Nisa : Ayah 1

P.S.

Shahjahan Mamu, the love bitten emperor of India, said once that Paradise on earth is Kashmir.

I beg to differ old fruit, Paradise is At Mamma’s Feet…..Period….

Jewelery Nightmare

((Written On 24th February 2010. Posting Today))

The thing about love that stands clear from all the other aspects it has, is the willingness to do anything for the one you love. And I mean anything.

Not being new to this aspect of being a sentient being of emotion, I began this day with a lot of excitement to the forthcoming events in my life. All beginning with Today, mom and dad’s 25^th Wedding Anniversary. The Silver Year.

To say I was on top of the world would be a slight understatement. Sure I was up on top, sitting way up on the apex and smiling at the world below, and at times during the day, cursing others in this world. Nevertheless, the evening had a different agenda. I had to shop. For mom and dad’s gifts. And I had planned what they would each get.

I wanted to get Mom a nice piece of jewellery, and Dad was going to get a swiss watch. The latter part of the task was the easier of the two. Quite simply as I was shopping for something I understood about. Picking out a sapphire crystal swiss watch for dad was a fun experience, not to mention it took me not more than about 17 minutes to enter the shop, run through the options, select one which said CLASSY and MODERN at the same time, smiled at the knowledge that dad would love it, swipe the card and get outta there. 17 minutes. Heck I was a swiss watch myself.

But the OTHER part of the endeavour. Hoo boy. I was sure I wanted to get Mom jewellery. And that’s a big deal. Simply coz My mom is a connoisseur of Jewellery. It was the equivalent of picking out a car as a gift for Micheal Schumacher, picking out a punching bag and gloves for Muhammad Ali, picking out a suit for SRK…..you get the picture don’t you? My brother warned me against it. But me being ME, I had to go do it.

So with a lot of apprehension and a face oozing confidence, I stepped into Al Fahidi Street, which is the Commercial Street of Dubai to many people. Filled with a lot of Gold Shops, most of them branded stuff. Name a gold designer and chances are they’re there.
I was petrified.

The only times I’ve been to a jewellery store, I’ve been under the wing of mom, my aunts or cousins or sisters in law etc. NEVER ALONE. This was my Normandy. Except, this was all alone. Imagine one Allied forces soldier standing on the beaches of Normandy alone, looking around at Zee Germans and getting stared back at. Pretty much the same scenario took place with all the ladies around the gold market staring at me. I wish I could tell you how I looked into each of their eyes with a confident look. Oh hell No. This allied soldier had his head down, guns behind my back, walking through the lines with a “Excuse me, Pardon me, Sorry don’t mean to intrude, KLANG!! (Hitting a signpost is inevitable when you walk with your head down right?)”

But nope, I love you maa. So I braved the first onslaught and went up to the counter, blabbered something about diamonds and the yellowy coloured metal which ladies find so fascinating. Hooo Boy…. I first saw Pearls. Who the hell first came up with the idea to say, “Hey lets dive so deep into the oceans that our lungs burn and find those clammed up shells, pull them to the shore, pry them open with a mallet and a nail, and voila, round white thingie which shines !!” I mean seriously, how the heck did that happen?

Then moved to the diamonds. Found one I liked, and the shopkeeper blabbed about cents and carrots and Belgian cuts and I was thinking, this guy’s a chef who turned jewellery salesman. Then I saw it. He called it the MOM pendant. The name sounded perfect. And when I laid eyes on it, it looked it too. It is a tear drop gold outline with the Arabic word UMMI or MOM, set in calligraphy and lined with diamonds.

A few deliberations and a few conversations with my Bhabi, and yup, the pendant adores a black velvet box on its way to its recipient. I just hope she likes it. If not for the design, atleast for the sheer guts it took me to walk up among that horde of chattering females and staying alive and awake through the entire experience, walking out with a smile.

Love you Mom.

Love you Dad. Wish you both a Happy Married Life for another 25 years inshaAllah. And furthermore may Allah bring you together in Jannah for all eternity.

I guess its true then, Diamonds are forever. **SHUDDER**

Paradigm: Magic !!

A few days ago I read this guy’s blog. His name I do not know. Blog post was named Rainbows. And this post got me thinking. This guy had sort of persuaded dying embers into crackling a slow fire to warm up the mind.

The post he wrote dealt with how beautiful an imagination was back when we did not know any better.

He goes on a limb to describe how amazing a rainbow is, magical even, if you totally ignore the fact that it’s a physics phenomenon of nature’s rainy summer days.

So I just thought, why just rainbows.

The entire world always looks so much nicer when you throw logic out of the window and look through 5 or 7 year old eyes.

For the rest of this post, I don’t want you pointing out the logical fallacies of my words. I hereby acknowledge that there is going to be none, so don’t bother.

1. The earth is Flat. No Spanish moron’s ship is going to sail down the horizon with its flag slowly dropping lower and lower until it disappears. My guess is that the monsters at the end of the earth are slowly gobbling them up.
2. Night falls bcoz the sun drowns in the sea, and swims under us and comes up again next morning.
3. Stars are diamonds. You can keep your big balls of fire theory for someone of boring existence.
4. Boys, Girls are Slimy
5. Girls, Boys are disgusting
6. Flowers are pretty “things”. Not organs of plants’ procreation.
7. Rainfall is someone opening up taps in the sky.
8. Say CHEEZE for Lightning flashes
9. Adults are silly.
10. Thunderstorms are scary. Hugging a grown up or your friend during a loud thunder roar is perfectly normal, adults don’t do it coz they are silly.
11. Ghosts exist. Period.
12. Table manners are over rated. The messier the meal, the fuller the tummy. The back of your hand is more efficient in wiping your mouth than any napkin in the world.
13. Chocolates are the healthiest of all foods.
14. Green stuff is for cows to eat. Not us
15. One word…RUN…there is no such thing to worry such as stamina or tiredness.
16. Fairies exist. And they look like Granma when she was younger.
17. Cartoons are real people. Bugs Bunny and Tom n Jerry are out there.
18. Rainbows are Magical
19. Spinach is Ewyuck !!
20. Someone falling down is funny.
21. It is okay to cry.
22. There is only 1 disease….Fever.
23. If you don’t know my Cousin Pinky or Bade Papa, you aren’t from this earth.
24. If you are 6 and a half now, and I am 5, I firmly believe that next year I will be able to overtake you.
25. "Tag….You’re it" & "Beat You to it...." Coz everything's a race, from drinking milk (bleh) to getting dressed to running from point xyz to finish line, i.e. Mom.
26. Silly rhymes about colors are good jokes. Blue Blue, You ate Glue
27. “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” is a perfectly sensible question. “We’ll get there when we get there.” Is a Stupid anser
28. Stupid is a bad word.
29. Pens are magical and for big people. No matter how much you write, you don’t have to sharpen them.
30. Exercise?? Whazzat??
31. If you become too fat one day I will poke you with a needle and you will blow up like a balloon.
32. Wave to the aeroplanes, they can see you from there.
33. The bogeyman exists to make sure we behave.
34. Boys : Animals are fun, frogs, cats, birds, dogs….
35. Girls : Boys will never understand Dolls
36. Eenie Meanie Minie Moe is a perfectly correct manner of solving any conflict.
37. Breaking a pinky swear will have bad bad baddddd results
38. Responsibility??? Whazzat???
39. Any game involving you having to sit down is boring.
40. “Mom I want a snack”. “A Fruit?” “HUHH???”. “Almonds?” “HUHHHHHH??” “CHIPS??” “Chilli Tomato Flavor Please”
41. If your parents don’t buy you what you want, they don’t love you. (This usually lasts for 5 minutes or a few days, depending on how stubborn you are)
42. All stories Grandma tells are true, the morals are something she makes up though.
43. If the hero dies in the movie, he is really gone. Crying is okay again.
44. Superman CAN FLY. No arguments whatsoever
45. You can never have enough toys.
46. Doctors are bad. All of them. Specially dentists.
47. You are my best friend, you too, you too, you too…and you and you and …….
48. The only way to laugh is to laugh until you roll over holding your stomach.
49. Milk is a bad Idea.
50. Chocolate milk is a Great Idea, and if you don't have a milk mustache, you are not doing it right.

P.s. The Original Post which inspired the rambling you see above

http://farrago-mish-mash.blogspot.com/2005/10/rainbows.html

Nanabba

Solitude is a writer’s best friend. No I don’t mean in the sense that to be a writer you should shun all company. But when you want to write something, try sitting by someplace empty, someplace vast…someplace quiet..

Its 11 pm on a Saturday evening, There is this field on my way back from the gym. Its an old abandoned football field, with two old goalposts being the last remaining signs that the grounds saw a lot of matches between young ones from the residential area it stood in.

I sit on a stack of bricks with some milk and a soft melody in my ears. And let my mind drift.

Today morning started with a hazy dream where I heard my roommate talking. I woke to the news that one of my roomies had lost his Nana (maternal grandfather) today. I’d heard him speak about his Nana many times, and he had been really really close to him all along. Being an NRI almost all my life, this situation had raised its ugly head more than once with me. Problem with the employed here is that our passports are in the hands of authorities to avoid us running off to home countries after committing some crime or fraud. And when a tragedy strikes, the first place we run to is the authorities and the airport to get a damn flight home. All for that one last glance.

My roommate didn’t get his chance to see his Nana. Chance plays an evil hand sometimes, and it’s a situation where your hands remain tied up. He came home from office, after resigning from his duties, and sat silent almost the whole day. We stood in the balcony after lunch, sipping tea and gazing at a cloudy Saturday sky. Moments such as these when even the most eloquent of speakers are stumped for words. I put my arm around him saying nothing. And he burst out. About not being able to see his Nana one last time. Words are weak consolers so I kept them at a minimum and let him cry.

That’s when I felt my skin go frigid and the moment took me back to the mid 90s when I was in a similar situation.

One of the toughest news my dad had given me was of my Nana passing away. I still remember the moment when he told me Nanabba (Grandpa) was no more, I was around 11 or 12. What first started as a shock (it was the first time I was fully comprehending death of a close one) later lead to me breaking down seeing mom in tears. Dad told me he and mom were going to India for the funeral and I was to look after Faiz, stay with neighbours and wait for them to return. I was not going to get my last look. So my mind raced back to the last time I had seen Nanabba. Hardly a year ago.

My Nana and Nani had performed their Hajj, one of the major and later duties of being a Muslim. And they had stopped over in Qatar for a month before heading back to India.

I begged them not to go back so soon, to stay for another month or two. But nanabba smiled and told me they had to go, and that they would see us in India soon.

I sat on my bed and watched Nanabba dress up for the flight. He wore his favorite safari suit of smokey blue color and spoke to me in his commanding but compassionate baritone, I remember him advising me to study well, and to be a good elder brother, to be a good and obedient son. Nanabba was a headmaster in a school in Bangalore, and education was something he was very particular about. He loved the reading habit in me and nurtured it with books from his school library. He always wished Faiz to develop it, but my brother was destined to earn his knowledge from Nat-Geo and Discovery more than printed pages. I’m sure nanabba would be equally proud of Faiz’s knowledge today.

I remember him talking to me, and I looked at him, nodding my head and saying yes. He took out his shoes, and proceeded in his disciplinary fashion to turn his socks the right way, dust the soles of his feet and wear the socks. He took out his little talc powder dispenser, and puffed it a few times into each of his shoes before slipping into them. He stood up to his full height in front of the mirror, set his famous handlebar moustache right, and wore his prayer cap. He looked at me, put his hands into his pocket and took out money, and slipped them into my hands with a smile. I remember hugging him, crying my eyes out and continuing my requests to not go away. My eyes fill with tears even today when I recall that moment he and Nanimmi walked into the airport departure gates in their slow and composed manner. That was the last time I saw Nanabba.

Everyone tells me that he is one of Allah’s most blessed beings. How with his modest salary and circumstance, he raised 3 kids, married them all into good homes, and completed all his duties before returning to his Lord.

For me, he was the paragon of principles. A disciplinarian who loved people in his manner. People of Richmond Town’s Serpentine street and Johnson market would stand and give their Salutations to him whenever he passed by with his umbrella and schoolmaster bag. Echoes of “Assalam Alaikum Shariff Saab” still fill those streets for me.

The moment I got my engineering degree and rushed to Mysore where my father was on holiday, I hugged and told him I’d passed with disctinction. He was speechless as he hugged me with a big smile. My oldest uncle cried joyfully in front of my dadajaan’s photograph. I never saw my Dada but have heard him to be a great figure of Mysore as well. But Even to this day, I hold this thought dear to my heart, that had Nanabba been alive, there would be no happier soul on the face of the planet on that day. Not a soul more thankful to Almighty, not a soul brimming with more pride over his Engineer Grandson.

I am a tough person to break into tears. He was too. Everyone says I am a lot like Nanabba. Probably since I was the first grandchild of the family, he was happiest when I was born, Mom talks about how he went mad with happiness and gave away money to all the nurses around. As per the custom of our Noble Prophet PBUH, every newborn is made to taste something sweet (Dates or Honey). And this duty is generally done by the Father. I tasted honey from Nanabba’s hand. He gave the first Azaan (Call to prayer) in my 1 day old ears. I dress like him, carry a bag all the time and share a lot of his traits. I know for a fact that I could never be even a percent of what he was. AlHaj Janab Mohammad Azeezullah Shariff Saheb’s legacy is that of respect and reverence in the old city of Bangalore. And I cannot thank Allah enough to be a part of it.

I miss you Nanabba. Thank you for everything. Specially for the love, the prayers and the values. I Love You !!

P.S.

I’m sure everyone of you have had someone like Nanabba in your lives. I’d love to hear about it. Sit back, let your mind wander to the past and pull out the memories and re-live them. Cry if you can, these tears have a bitter-sweet taste.