Arrivederci !!

The smiles are hard to come by,
Harder they run away, the harder I try.
Moments locked in time seemingly fade,
Resonating in my ears are the goodbyes I bade.

Life would come inevitably to this, I knew,
The many years passed seem but so few.
Seems just like yesterday that a veil was raised,
And everything just passed by, as I sat and gazed.

The walk towards me seemed uncertain and slow,
The walk away was as certain as the morning glow.
Many days have passed, months and years as well,
Yet the waves keep on rising, the more i try to quell.

I look at the dropping sunset, another sign of passing days,
Must be the mist that blurs my eyes with another teary haze.
I tear the letter into tiny bits, and fling it in the deep blue,
And turn my back on the only time, I'd sincerly said I Love You.

To my 20 Year old Duck

(Originally Dated 25th May 2010)

2 Decades ago, around this time, I was being shepherded into a small ward in Shankarambal nursing home near Bangalore’s St. Mark’s Road. I remember vividly that I had dressed in one of my favorite deep blue jeans and possibly a blue shirt, as 4 and a half-year-old me walked into the ward ushered by my Grandfather (maternal), who was grinning under his thick handlebar mustache. Inside, my mom lay on the bed, with one arm extended sideways. Under the arm, there lay a small package, bundled in blankets. I was told that this was my brother. This is more or less what I remember of this day, 20 years ago, when Faiz, my younger brother hatched. I say hatched, and not born, because as one of our favorite uncles (Dad’s friend) described him at birth, "he was like a Baby Chicken hatchling", hairless and shriveled and so white that he was pink (if you know what I mean) First few months, I remember not being allowed to lift him coz apparently he’d come with a dismantled neck, which required 6 months to assemble itself. By the time he was 7 or 8 months old, he’d become pretty heavy to lift, so I guess its safe to say that I probably only cuddled him when he was asleep or in someone’s lap or in his favorite place, the hammock. I remember dad singing him to sleep, and mom having a couple of bottles ready for when he woke up with a shrill scream. I mean, the guy had a siren in his throat, more effective than most fire engine sirens, and its always been used for conveying one state of his being --- HUNGER!!! (This holds true even today ;)) As Faiz grew up, so did his cheeks and I could see that he was going to be the cute one, but at that age, I didn’t know what that meant, except that most of my cousin sisters preferred to cuddle him than me. I was losing the ladies (again, if u know what I mean) to my younger sibling. 

The years passed with us playing games, me learning and teaching him quite a few, and he always winning them after learning from me. Although I must say, apart from chess, all the other games, he won by crying. I, being the elder one, was advised by my parents to concede to his whims. So in carom, I would pocket the coins, and it was payday for him. In cricket, he never got out, and he never bowled or fielded. In tennis, the ball was always IN. As of now, he'd prolly whip me in any game I guess...sigh, the changing times :P Sadly our parents didn’t let us play boxing as a sport. Needless to say, being the younger one, he was the more pampered one of the family. And he had a sharp tongue, yes sir, when he learned to speak, he shut everyone else up. When my friends would tease me, he has taken it upon himself to get back at them, coz back then, I was as talkative as a boulder.So snappy comebacks were as much a part of me as morality is a part of our politicians. I can proudly say that he alone is enough, to literally shut every relative of mine. If you ever are lucky enough to witness him taking on my entire extended family, in a battle of wits, you will probably see the wit-war equivalence of 1 man invading the Normandy coast and bringing the Nazi empire to an end. And No I am not exaggerating. Sad part is, I am not allowed to let him loose upon them. 

Btw, Faiz, if you’re reading this, you are not allowed to gloat. :P 

 As I said, he was the most pampered one, which made him quite a bit stubborn. Dad called him a Bengal Monitor once. (Google it) The stubbornness got him in trouble with mom more than once. My mom believed in the idiom, “Jab Paap ka ghada bhar jaye, toh phoot jata hai” (When the Vessel of sin is filled, it will Break) So Faiz & I, whenever we screwed up, it would register itself in mom’s head. She wouldn’t do anything except give us “The Eyes” (An eye stare that even makes her family members go “OH DEAR LORD HALP!!!”) And getting the eyes meant 2 things 1. We’re Dead 2. But not today. Coz the register was like a ticking time bomb, the more screw-ups we did, the faster it ticked. Until one fine sunny day, the fuse would reach culmination, fizz, and silence………… AND KABOOM !!! Weapons included belts and hangars and rulers. And she would do the American Police thing, she would recite all our crimes as she whooped our sorry backsides. Things we’d have forgotten, she’d recall n go, “On so-n-so date, at so-n-so’s house party, you just HAD to touch the glass jar when I told you Faiz NOT TO TOUCH the glass jar”. Before he could think “Which Glass jar??”, his ear would have been twisted like an old Fiat car key where the engine refuses to start. First, he’d scream and yell and beg mercy, and once the spank took place, I’d hear his tears break out. That was when my (STUPID) brain would scream, “INTERVENTION”. And I’d run and stand between him and mom n go “Nooo mom Noooo he’s sorry he won't do it again.” I remember mom would try to hit him from around me, I’d feel him cringe behind me & hold my shirt as a human shield, and I’d get the whoop on my arm. This always worked ;-) At least one way it did. Coz when I was getting whooped, Faiz would probably be hiding under the dining table or in the closet, thinking, “I hope she finishes with him and forgets what I did at last week’s party, else I’m dead too.”

 He’s grown into a major pain in the backside for people he likes and doesn’t like equally, into a funny man who is the live wire of almost all of his social gatherings, and into a cuddly buddy for young kiddos (which we both inherited from dad) He also invented his own language, for more info on that, you should contact him, for I fear I will be killed for revealing it here. :P If you don’t know yet, he is one helluva talented chef and has surpassed his teacher (mom) in preparing the most amazing Grills you will taste. His passion is Aeroplanes. Name a plane or a type of plane or a function related to it, and chances are he will talk to you about it for hours together. He loves listening to stories. He was the first person who listened to my stories and requested an encore every night. He is a person who seldom expresses his feelings...but if he really loves you, trust me you will know it. As we grew up through our teens, I’ve seen him go from silly and childish to crazy and angry to calm and flamboyant in his ways. He’s still a Bengal monitor at times, but then...we all have our flaws. Looking back now, those were some real crazy times I had with this li’l tyke. 

11 years ago I left home to study and have been out since, so interaction with him has been limited, unlike most siblings. Yet we love each other to death. I remember the first time I felt really proud & sure of him was when he exhibited maturity beyond his years in 8th grade. Before that I just loved him, but after that, I’ve come to respect him too, in a way a younger sibling should be. For those of you who have younger siblings, if you already dont respect them, start right now, trust me it makes a world of a difference. I’ve lived a life where I’ve had friends walk in and out of life. Having a brother means having a friend who wont walk out on you, no matter what the circumstances. He is a shadow of mine who knows my darkest secrets and my deepest fears, and yet will not cease to love or respect me. He is a confidant I can share anything with. A partner in crime with whom I can plan to perform evil tortures on annoying people as well as pull of pranks on unsuspecting friends. He is that companion in boring parties, with whom I share amazing ROFLing moments with our inside jokes about everyone concerned. He is a mirror image of me, opposite in almost every manner of being, yet someone I can love from the bottom of my heart for all his zaniness. More than anything else, he is a 20 year old personality who fills the character gaps I have, someone without whom my parents would probably have half a son, someone who simply completes me. Happy Birthday Li’l Brother…. BarakAllah Feek. May Allah Bless you with a long, prosperous and happy life in both this world and the next. Love you !!

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**