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locust

I saw a picture today. A man’s picture. My husband’s friend – The Zonal Officer of a bank at that time. He attended our wedding. If I bring out my wedding album, you would see him sitting next to the groom with his hands raised like other guests, praying for love and prosperity for the newly weds.

He was a handsome man, well dressed, always smiling – always ready to help; making jokes, making you feel special. Never a harsh word for any one. No matter how big a blunder, he would give benefit of the doubt first. It was just impossible not to like him.

His wife? a petite, most beautiful woman, was a perfect match. She was intelligent, sociable and a perfect home maker in-spite of having a busy schedule of an MD. It was truly a couple made in heaven; successful, friendly, caring and so in love with each other.

Their youngest boy was a friend of my boys. He was a quiet and shy when around his elders but a good company among friends. I have this funny picture of all the friends, giving birthday bumps to my son. He was there, egging on other boys, but himself staying clean.

Then a few years back, we heard that the wife had died. We wanted to talk to him but the man servant in the house told us that he was with one of his sons, in another country, and he didn’t know when he would be back.

Time has this tendency to pass you by stealthily; so a few  years just tip-toed away without our noticing.

Today I saw a picture, a picture of him . A skeleton, wearing white, traditional Pakistani dress. His hair all gone white, thick glasses hiding red rimmed eyes. Hollow cheeks and an open mouth of a person who has lost all comprehension. Whose memory plays tricks on him all the time. Alzheimer!

My mother also had Alzheimer . Did she forget to breathe ? sometimes I wonder.

a reflecting pond

Dag Hammarskjold’s book – Markings – was a birthday gift from Prof Farhat Mahmood on Dec,2,1966.
Every body used to think I was a very “parhaku” ( one whose only love was book reading) person. He also had given me a nick name – The wise one – which I hated. I mean come on, what kind of a young  girl would like to be called this heavy duty term of endearment? But – what can I say. Even  my high school Graduation gift from one of my cousins was a box full of old English Classics. Why did every one think I was some kind of a Buddha !
I have a habit. I always open the book on the last page to see what the book has to offer – is it worth a read – worth buying? So I opened this book on the last page and a few pages later I found that I was simply in love with this simple “markings” of a tormented soul.  Well that is how I thought about this book then.
This book was a rare find in those days so whoever came to know about this gift, started making borrowing requests. I am not ashamed to confess that I am one of the stingiest person when it comes to books. I do not believe in borrowing or lending books because of my experience in this regard. I did let some friends borrow this book though, but not before getting a written promise that it would be returned  on such and such date.
When I got married, I left, among my other few personal belongings, my book collection at my mother’s house to shift them to my new home later but my husband got a job offer from outside the country and this book transferring delayed. Finally when I was ready I was shocked to know that all my books had now new ownerships! I was upset but didn’t say anything. One day I spotted Markings in one of the new owner’s book shelf.
Calmly I took the book out , showed it to the person and brought it home with me. At last!

I love these markings. I take out the book when the mood strikes. Find a quiet corner and immerse myself in this spiritual ‘reflecting pond’ :

Sleepless questions

In the small hours:

Have I done right?

Why did I act

Just as I did?

Over and over again

The same steps

The same words:
Never the answer.

By : Dag Hammarskjold

old man…

Sometimes looking for an opening sentence spoils the feelings you want to save in words for other evenings, to read and enjoy. This is exactly what is happening to me. The feelings, the emotions, the happiness is so complete and wholesome that finding the right words- words, able to carry the essence of the moment- remain elusive.

I can hear them laughing. Laughing with a care-free abundance. Peal after peal of happy, contagious laughter. They were playing a game of  Wii… Chacha and his two nieces, age ten and eight. Chacha is their father’s younger brother. They love him and wait eagerly for his weekly visits. Every Monday they come home from school and after they’ve  change their uniforms, rested and had their afternoon snack and are ready for a daily cartoon watching on the TV, they come to me and ask, “Dadi is Chacha coming tonight?”. And once reassured, they return to rest and relax after a hard day’s work at school. Sometimes there’s a slight change. Instead of a Monday, he would visit on a Tuesday. And the girls would be duly informed.

After dinner the girls usually have a window of half an hour to forty-five minutes to do whatever they would like and then off to bed for the next day of school. When Chacha comes rule relax a bit and they get a bonus half an hour.  But after that, one call from their Mama and they would leave whatever they’re doing and go to their room. No complaints at all.

Tonight also, after everybody was done with their food, one of the girls came to Chacha and said in a very nice and soft silken voice “Chacha, can we play a game of Wii? ”

“Yahss” or something similar to this sound was Chacha’s yes;  the game started and with that a happy jingle of laughter indicating how much fun they were having.

I was sitting at the kitchen table, listening to these heavenly sounds and smiling. Very much aware of a heart brimming with gratitude for such blessings; and thinking about a far away time still fresh in my memory like it happened only yesterday.

I love my afternoon naps. They rejuvenate my mid morning sapping energy. I sometimes call them my “beauty sleep”. So one afternoon I was trying to have a little shut eye session when my boys – age ten and seven – started playing “…this old man” on their harmonica. They had two of their friends with them who had come over after school (mothers being friends, it was not unusual when other children were allowed to come over and spend some time at our house until the parents would come in the evening to pick them up again.)

So, these boys were having a riot of a fun time. Usually the pulling force were computer games but that particular day, they were certainly a little hyper. Singing, talking loudly, taking turns on the harmonica and making me toss and turn in my bed, in my room, upstairs and behind a closed door. Can any one imagine what was going on?

At one point, when I thought enough was enough, and someone had to put some sense in their carefree brains, I got up, went to the staircase and holding on to the banister, I was about to give them a piece of my mind when with a sudden blast of music, one of the boys finished the last line on top of his lungs  “…this old man came rolling home ” and then another blast of carefree, happy and wholesome laughter. I even heard our house-boy’s amused chuckle.

I stopped. Hands on the banister, feet rooted in the marble stairs, mouth open to tell them to behave. Slowly that scowl turned into a smile. “No, how can I spoil their fun? I will talk about it later, but not now. Time passes so quickly and I won’t plant a bad memory in their hearts. No.”

And went back to my room and opened a book instead.

So, tonight I was listening and reliving a long gone time, acutely aware of their happy laughter, laughing with carefree abundance. I was also acutely aware that the old man time neither stops to take a rest nor slows down to let others have one. A moment lost is a moment lost.

Good Night.

… O my Master,

Last night, the twenty first night of the month of Ramadhan, I listened to the Munajat of Imam Ali and cried a million tears. It humbles me every time I read or listen to it. I mean, think for a moment that this is Imam Ali – the epitome  of piety and spirituality, of knowledge, of bravery, humbling himself before Almighty Allah. Seeking His favor and asking for His forgiveness.

“My Master, O my Master,

You are the Giver, and I am the beggar,

and who can have mercy on the beggar except the Giver.

My Master, O My Master

You are the Authority and I am the one examined,

and who can have mercy on the one examined Except the Authority …..
“..and when the servant ( of Allah) turns to His master in the middle of the night and does Munajat, Allah will illuminate his heart..”

friendships

I saw a picture today. two people sitting to-gather on a cliff hang over, sharing a blanket and looking at a vista of the Grand Canyons. The caption was ‘Friends’.

I looked at the picture for a long time. It was an ordinary snapshot and that – keeping the caption in mind, didn’t need to say anymore. No fanfare, no trumpeting, no loud claims. Just a ‘being there’ in a serene setting.

Why some friendships fail and some last for a life time? When, how, who along the way defaults? or carries it through the turbulent waters to a stable footing again? Whatever it is, is never one sided.

There are so many questions that arise when a friendship fails but being able to give 100% is what carries it through thick and thin. This is commitment – commitment to  hold , to never judge, to be there, to not to give in to an argument or to some misunderstanding.

Or maybe it was not worth anything – just walking away was all you needed to do. So what if you had invested years and years into it? If  it was not meant to be, so it was not. But I think it is not as simple as that. Some heartbreak, some feelings of loss linger  and do surface from time to time.

I was talking to a person who had spent some forty years looking for me, and finally had found me through my website.  We talked about our lives and high and low tides of  it. At one point she said, “listen to this ” and she recited a couplet. The gist was :

“what caused an old friendship to come to an end is not even worth a mention. (be happy) Now at least you  know the true worth of that person”

I said” but you know I am a very complex person .. not normal you may say.”

“If she hadn’t figured that out so far then be doubly sure that this break up was bound to happen; if not now then on some later day but it was going to happen anyway”

Maybe she had a point.

Creative minds have a different way of looking at life. Writers are considered to be a little abnormal people. I do not think they are mad, mad people but they certainly are above average Johnnies and sometimes miss-understood … simple as that.

I remember telling a new indirect addition to our family that if at any time she felt I was not being friendly or avoiding her or being uncommunicative, it would be better to ignore me.  I would be back after I had dealt with whatever was picking on my mind, but I would be back; back like it never happened. She laughed and said she would not let that happen. I looked at her and thought oh dear she is in for a surprise.

This is something I really have no control over.

Sometimes I do think that its I who is not capable of giving 100% in the sense that a little of me is always held back , a little reserve, a little space kept only for myself – a kind of refuge to sit quietly and contemplate. Is it bad? I don’t know. But one thing I know is that I am always there if needed, even for people I am not close.  I am always ready to listen, offer a shoulder to cry on, hand a hankie to dry the tears, help wipe away the hurt.  I definitely not like to interfere in other people’s lives, do not want to know anything about other people’s  problems.  Some times I do wait quietly knowing that they would come if they needed me. Is it bad?  No, I don’t think so.  I think it means giving them some space to sit with themselves to find a way out.

Just as I like to deal with my problems privately – my way. Does it mean that I am not giving 100% ?

Well, again – I do not think so.

the prayer of an Afghan woman

(An Afghan woman prays at the graves of her husband and son who have been killed by NATO soldiers)

Oh! the killers of my husband and son.

Sitting on the graves of my husband and son,

who fell victim to the savagery of your bullets,

my curse would have brought doom for you,

but the human passion still reigns my heart.

I pray your wives never see my horrible fate,

to shed the streams of tears on your deaths.

I pray your children bloom before your eyes,

you may never suffer the grief of their loss.

I pray God make you leave my land,

and guide you to lead a humanitarian life.

I pray you may never kill an innocent soul,

and save you always from His Divine Wrath.

——————————————————

By: Dr. Mustafa Kamal Sherwani, LLD

Lucknow, U.P, India.

(A note:  this poem has also been translated in French)

memories, like flowers …

I am thinking about Wah again.

It is a feeling, a sensation, a fragrance that follows me around.  It happens once or twice – every year.   Suddenly I would feel transported to a place called Wah.  For days after that I live in a parallel world that once was.

Wah – my beautiful city where I spent most of my formative years. Where I met my husband and got married to him. Where I had my first born and thought life was so beautiful.

Wah in Urdu – means Wow, amazing, wonderful, lovely… it means all of it  put together and more.  To me it also means waking up on beautiful mornings listening to the birds chirping in my mother’s fruit trees. Or coming home after school in the afternoon feeling the cool air on my neck and listening to the rustling sounds of tall slim and handsome poplar trees. And it most definitely means the whole family gathered around the table for the evening cup of tea and spending quality time in each others’ company. Yes, I am thinking about Wah.

In “Tuzk i Jahangiri” –  the chronicles of Mughal Emperor Jahangir -  it is noted that once the Emperor was coming back from Kashmir; it was getting late and the army was tired. They decided to look for a place to put up their tents for the night. A few soldiers were sent on to look for a nice and safe place and report back to the Emperor.  In their search, the soldiers discovered a place, all green with lush grass and covered with wildflowers … a valley surrounded by mountains. The soldiers reported back and gave this news.  The first word that the Emperor uttered when he reached the place was WAH!!

So this place became Wah for eternity.

Wah had all four seasons. Autumn, Winter, Spring and Summer, all so unique and distinct. All of them so beautiful in their own ways.  Sizzling hot summers and then the first rains of Monsoon. Fall and forlorn, naked trees. Then winter and howling winds or rain silently falling on the roof, or a thunderstorm like no other with such force and ferocity. Foggy mornings and hard freezes crunching under the feet. And then Spring – the glorious spring. when the whole city would be wrought with all shades and shapes and kinds of flowers. The air so clean, so fresh and fragrant. One had to be there to experience the magical Spring!

I remember waking up in the mornings and tip-toeing barefoot on the wet, lush green grass, towards the flower beds to see and smell the beauty.  Have you ever smelled the sweet peas? Seen the variety of colors they have?  My mother and our gardener Zarin Khan always discussed and planned before planting the saplings. The neat and disciplined person that my mother was, Zarin Khan would never do anything in the garden without consulting her. It was amusing the way he would come to the back veranda and sit on the stairs, waiting for mother. Meanwhile Rehmat Bi would bring tea and something to eat for him. Then mother would come out holding her cup of tea and sit down on the takht (a kind of a settee) and talk about flowers, seasonal vegetables and if any tree or the hedges around the front and back yards needed trimming, cutting or pruning. The seriousness on their faces was priceless.

My favorite place in our back yard was between the two rows of sweet pea flower beds. Just lying there and watching the sky was soothing.  Zarin Khan never liked this. The first time he gave me a warning -  “Kho tum achha nain karti. Begum saab hum pe bigarta he!” – “This is not good- the mistress will be very angry!” He’d let me go but the next time he caught me, he complained to mother. I will not say what happened next but I knew I was at fault after all! But this doesn’t mean that I stopped visiting!

Here in Florida, every time I went to a nursery to buy some plants, I would check the seeds racks. In Spring when buying annuals, I would look for sweet pea saplings. It was only this Summer that I happened to see the pea seeds. I thought, once the frost was out of the way, we would plant the seeds. But one afternoon, my dear husband happily broke the news that he had planted the seeds while I was taking my afternoon nap. I was a little apprehensive but they survived the hard freeze!

When they were a feet and a half high, I started looking for the buds. Yesterday I spotted some. They will be blooming by the end of this month. I hope and pray they have the same sweet fragrance.

I love Petunias and Marigolds too. Actually it’s the yellow color of Marigolds and the purple of Petunias that make me happy and feel alive. Have you seen a purple colored sweet pea flower? It’s a beauty!  But, here the tampering has perfected the beauty of flowers and fruit, but robbed them of fragrance, and even the taste in the fruits’ case. My purple petunias have no fragrance, they are just pretty. I hope its different with the sweet peas.

Narcissus, sweet peas, marigolds and petunias are a few of my favorite flowers.  Yellow of  marigold and purple in petunias and sweet peas; I absolutely love them.

And I love the timeless times where memories reside.

chana masala

Here it is, after some requesting from my son and some of his friends. A quick and easy Chana Masala recipe. Enjoy!

  • 2 cans 15.5 oz Chick Peas (e.g., Goya)
  • ½ tsp. Chili powder
  • ¼ tsp. Turmeric
  • ¼ tsp. Salt
  • 1 tblsp. Garlic and ginger paste
  • ½ cup Cilantro, freshly chopped
  • 1 Onion, medium sized, freshly chopped
  • 1 Tomato, medium sized, freshly chopped
  • 1 ½ cup Water
  • 2 tblsp. Lemon juice
  • 2 tblsp. Cooking oil
  • 2 tbslp. SHAN Chana Masala mix (available in any Pakistani or Indian store, like this »)

Empty the cans of chick peas in a strainer and rinse them under cold water. Set aside.

In a medium pot, heat the oil. Add 1/3 of the onion when the oil is a little hot, and sautee until golden brown. Add garlic and ginger paste. Stir for a minute then add 1 cup of water. Add the chili powder, turmeric, salt. Stir. Want things more spicy? Increase the amount of chili powder, or put 2 chopped, hot green chili peppers in the mix.

Add chick peas. Lower the heat to medium. Cover and let cook for 4-5 minutes then add ½ cup of water. (more if you feel that it’s sticking to  the bottom of the pan). Add Shan Chana Masala mix and mush the chick peas a little to give it a little thickness. Stir.

Add chopped onion, tomatoes and cilantro. Lower the heat and let cook for 5 minutes. Take the pot off the stove. Let it stand for a while then add the lemon juice.

If you want to add a little something extra for texture and taste, try adding potatoes:

Take 1 large or 2 medium potatoes, take care of the eyes, then wash and dice them with the skin on. Microwave them on high for about 8 minutes, covered with a paper towel. You’ll want to add them into the pot and cook them for 2-3 minutes and then add the chick peas.

rights

”   I disagree with what you have to say but will

fight to death to protect your right to say it.  ”

Voltaire

onus

You break me in pieces

I build me again

for another day

for a deeper sigh.

But I know what you

do not know.

I will rise

and win the war.

Defeat you I will and celebrate

celebrate the freedom.

Freedom …..

the freedom I died for.

(dedicated to the people of Pakistan)

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