Coming back from Lahore, he handed me a slip of paper. “you don’t have to read it now but it might come handy when you are writing a story”  I looked at the folded piece of paper and then looked at him. He was already looking out the window where the ever changing scenery was running parallel to the train tracks. I put the paper in my purse and forgot about it.

I had known him since my childhood and disliked everything about him mostly because of his sneaky nature. Why he was living with us is a different story for some other time. When I was nine or ten, he used to send ambiguous messages to one of my cousins through me with strict instructions to deliver the message when she was alone.  At that time I didn’t think much about it but as I grew older and wiser, these messages also became rare, then completely stopped or maybe he found some other channel.  By the by I forgot all about it but that day, when he handed me that note, my memory started opening a long forgotten page.  There definitely was going on something between them. I thought. Maybe, was even now …!  Many mental pictures, images, situations started popping up in front of my eyes.

I looked at him again. He was sitting  in the same position … leaning against the window and looking out at the fast receding trees, fields, small villages etc. Soon the train’s rhythmic movement lulled me to close my eyes and  doze off.  When next I opened my eyes, it was my sister telling me to wake up,  our train had arrived to our destination.  I had already forgotten about his note and my images. Moreover, I was young and life had just begun with all its ever changing – sometimes enticing sometimes disappointing – scenario. Who had any spare time to sit down and tire the brains digging out somebody – mean and deceitful as him – and his past.

One day when looking for something and not finding it I emptied my bag on my bed and found not only what I was looking for but that piece of paper too. First I thought to tear it up without opening and take it to the trash bin. Then curiosity took over to see what it was that he thought was good for writing about. It was a couplet and started like …

“lou aaj safar khatm houa ……” (so today it was the end of a journey …)

In two lines he had tried to compose a sad event, a loss … in no way it indicated it  was his personal loss or had anything to do with him – affecting him in any way … It was obvious he didn’t want any one reading these lines to think it had anything to do with him personally.

I was nine year old once again.

We were going to her house in the evening. He called and asked me to bring a glass of water for him. I went to him with a glass of water. He gave me a folded piece of paper – told me to tie it in my hand kerchief and remember to give it to her, but only when no one was around. when I was leaving he suddenly held my shoulder forcefully. Don’t tell anyone about it. His eyes were bulging with menace. I obeyed his orders.

Our school happened to be situated near her house. If we went through her house, the distance was shortened by half a mile. So every morning going to school and every evening coming from school, we would cut through her house. I became his personal messenger for two years.

During these two years things happened, some making sense, some going beyond my apprehension.  Like sending the messages but when visiting them with the family, he pretending and behaving like he was there just tagging along with the family … not even looking in her direction.

Messages stopped. I moved to another school. But once in a while we would still go to her house. She never asked anything about him but was   always happy, always smiling.

Then she was restless, asking me all kinds of questions about him.  One day I saw her crying.  She would not tell what was wrong.

Our family was approached by her family. They wanted him to marry her but were refused, because she was about four or five year older than him.

Both families snapped their ties with each other.

Heard that in a mosque, she stood all night on one leg – praying.

Heard again sometime later that she was  complaining pain in her right leg and was hospitalized.

Heard about her hospital visits – more hospital visits.

He never showed any averse affects of this news or separation.

Life went on .

He got married to an older woman because it was beneficial to his carrier. He was all set in a comfortable life.

We never saw her or her family again.

The day he gave me the note, we were coming from her house where we had gone for condolences.  She had died the previous night in a hospital.

I had questions, many questions that I had never asked. I could have written a story because, there were no broken lines anymore. I understood what had happened  but instead, slowly and gradually, I removed myself from his sphere. That was all I could do to lessen her pain – now that she was beyond all pains inflicted by that rogue of a person – or was she?

I cup my hands

and stand before you.

The Deity you are holding in your heart is not me, nor mine.

And yet,

I stand before you and cup my hands.

Come closer,

do not stand across me,

the waning light is coming between us, robbing the moments,

scaling the time.

Come closer, face to face

one more time.

Do not say a word

be still.

I am the echo of the centuries past,

when Vishnu whispered,

Be still –

Receive love.

When I am with you, I am your lofty sky, your placid sea.

You are anchored reality,

I am too created in this occupied body.

I am nothing but a mirror in your palm, reflecting the play of your fingers.

I am a beggar who has received the silver grace of Salah – al Din

which cools my constricted heart like a mountain stream.

He is the light, the glowing flame, illuminating the world, but who am I?

From the yearning curvature of my soul,

I know I am simply his bowl!

– Rumi – Divan 1397

Today at 10: 17 in the morning I set him free.

I will come back to this later but first I would like to talk about Ms. Buksh.

I am sure she is not alive.

What a horrible thing to say about somebody; but I assure you I didn’t say that with malice. She was my professor and I loved her for her simple charm, and respected her for her intelligence. She was my Philosophy and Psychology teacher and I learned a lot from her, not just academically but also concerning everyday life. Common sense and the power of a thinking mind, self-expression and standing up for ones ideals and convictions… and much more.

I can never forget her kind face illuminated by an inner goodness.

She was also the Vice Principal of our college, always filling in for our principal who loved traveling, workshops and conferences. So, more often than not, our poor Ms. Buksh would be seen doing her duty in the office- receiving visitors, signing  papers brought in by the office clerk, making rounds of classrooms… quietly watching, smiling, encouraging etc. etc. etc. The way things were going, it was obvious that we would not be able to complete our courses before the Board Exams.  Then one day she said she would complete the course over the holidays. No summer vacation for any one. She herself was canceling a trip back home. During one of those lectures, I noticed that her beautiful thick mane of hair was fast becoming gray.

“How old are you Ms?” I shot the question without a second thought.

She was talking about ‘Abstract and Concrete’ and was too involved explaining the application. My question was rude and abrupt.  She looked at me.

“Fifty-one” she said and continued with what she was saying.

That was a long time ago.  So how old would she be if she was still around? Oh yes, I know.

For my BA, I again decided on Philosophy. Mrs. Zakriya was my lecturer now.  I hope she is still around, but surely by now she would be quite old, probably nursing her old age buddies like arthritis, diabetes, B.P., or God forbid, amnesia. She was a very opinionated and self-righteous person. It was hard to like her but she was my teacher either way, so she was alright…

Coming back to Ms. Buksh… How old was I then? Seventeen, to be exact- and I was a bonafide aflatoon on top of that. She liked me, I was sure of that and for that reason, I never thought twice before putting any question to her.  She enjoyed my spontaneity.

It was a beautiful Spring morning when I saw her sitting near those rose bushes, reading a book. It was still cold and sitting in the sun felt good. I had an hour until my next class. A clear blue sky and spring in the air was so inviting, plus a seventeen years young girl was feeling a little restless. So I went and sat down on the grass, not too close and not too far from where she was. After a few moments she put the book face down, in her lap.

“If you want to share, I am right here” she said.

I looked at her, amazed. How could she know? But I didn’t say that. Instead what came out was inappropriate.

“Why didn’t you get married” I got up and came closer, sitting almost touching her chair, looking up at her serene face.

“I didn’t find what I wanted. Or maybe I was not pretty enough to be noticed…” A smile flickered around her lips.

I looked at her face. “You are beautiful.”

She leaned back and rested her head on the back of the chair and looked up at the sky. I was sure I heard a faint sigh. Then she sat up again and smiled at me.

“OK, now out with what you came here for. ”

“Nothing much…” I lowered my eyes. “Mother says some family called on her. She says if the match is good, she would marry me off to that boy…  What boy? He is a big fat man. I am only seventeen, still a student, but she does not understand that.”

“Do you have anyone in your mind?”

“I do not know. One of my brothers’ friends likes me.”

“And you?”

“Maybe. I am not sure. He is a lot, I mean a lot older than me. He comes to our town every month and my sister thinks he comes to see me.”

“What do you think?”

“It feels good when she says that. But I am only seventeen and want to be something. There is so much I want to do in life.”

She was quiet for a few moments. “Yes you are young. Plenty of time ahead of you to live and love. But know that there will be many more times when you would find yourself at the cross roads.”

She was silent again. And then started musing… “Its a beautiful feeling to be in love though.”  There was a far away look on her face.  “Our hearts break, then mend again and it goes on like this over and over again until we are face to face with what is meant for us.”

Was she talking to me?

Then she was back again. “Tell your mother you are not ready yet. Tell her you want to have your education first. You can do that if that is what you want. I know you can stand up for yourself.”

“I do, but we always end up arguing… big time… anything and everything. She does not like me.”  I looked up, startled.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

She smiled. “I am sure your mother feels the same way about you. This is normal teen thing.”

“No, you do not know.”

She looked at me for a long time then touched my head. Her hand lingered there… and then touched my face and withdrew. I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

“Your class is about to start, but before you leave I want to tell you that I see a lot of myself in you, and I feel sad for that. But I have nothing to offer you as a blue print to draw your life upon. We cannot know until we experience a situation or a feeling, and we would rather ‘experience’ than listen to someone who may have already been there. You are beginning to see something that was always there but was not visible. Now it is staring at you, right in your face and you feel confused.”

She was quiet again.

Then, “Its a beautiful feeling, I would say if you ask me. But of course you do not know it yet.”

I nodded, then picking up my books, stood up. “Sorry, I spoiled your reading,” and started towards the building where my dreams were in jeopardy.

Half-way there, I heard her calling my name. I looked back. She was looking at me.

“Come back after your class is over. Look for me if I am not here. And give me a smile, this glum face does not suit you.”

Time has passed. I have faced many more crises in this journey, just as she had warned me. I arrived at many more crossroads when a decision had to be made. There were times when I found myself lost in the fog, looking for a direction.  I needed her to help me out of  situations, illuminating the way for me with her wisdom and commonsense.

She was a Psychology and Philosophy teacher but to me, she was a lot more.  A graceful woman with a sterling mind.

She had said something else on that Spring morning that gave me a lifetime of heartache. If you know what I mean.

“You will not always get love in return- and that goes for everything, not just for the matters of the heart. But always remember that the love you feel in your heart is a gift from God. Be happy and thankful that you were given this opportunity to love someone. Just set him free.”

So I did.

My younger son and I share the love of written word. We both love exploring the book stores, and the stores where they sell old books is the favorite.

Some time ago he bought a translated version of Divan i Shams Tabrez for me which I added to my other books that I keep by my bedside. They are, Divan i Ghalib, Kuliat i Iqbal and of course The Quran.  I have a habit of picking up one of these books first thing in the morning, open it at random and read whatever I see there. Then start my day. This has been going on for years.

Today, I opened the Devan and was struck by a live wire.  Here it is for all of you out there. Read and contemplate, and some more.

Where is he.

Where is my soul’s delight?

my North, my West, my South and East?

He is not here amongst you who conceive nothing. Where has he gone?

He is not here. not here. Not even the compassing aroma of his presence, dwells amongst you who receive nothing.

I look here, I look there, I look up and down, I cannot see even the shadow of his beard.

Oh believers, speak to me.

Tell me where he has gone who shone like a blue flame in my conceiving eyes ……….

Should I be grateful for the incomparable beauty of his face

or for the sweet severity of his demeanor?

Even if his lucid soul is no longer sketched in the memory of his body, it does not matter;

my love revolves like the plants around the storm of his Sun.

Call out for Shams, my soul requires him. Chant his familiar names of friendship, lighten the gravity of our grief.

Enliven the ear’s lassitude with the energy of his name

– Rumi – Divan 1235

How much moss did the pebble collect along the way? If you start peeling the centuries of moss, what if what you get was only a pebble?  A simple truth,  not wrapped in time created shroud of abstract representation.

Happiness is a choice.

Everybody is in bed – sleeping. Feels like the house is drowsy too. It’s quiet- so quiet- all around. I am probably an insomniac again. I do not fall asleep easily anyway. I sometimes envy my husband; the moment he hits the pillow, he is gone. On the other hand, I go through a daily ritual of- plump the pillow, pat it two, three times, measure critically if its positioned alright. Once fully satisfied, I climb in the bed and lie awake, motionless but with an active mind, thinking long gone thoughts, times, places images…  and sleep comes ever so softly, quietly and takes me away. But then there are nights like last night when hours tick by and my book of memoirs remains open and mind is busy checking log-ins, peering at images, deciphering the meaning from the words. But I know these channels will not remain open all night. I will get my sleep. Really, I do not mind. I know I will fall asleep, eventually, so why fret? Why turn and toss? I don’t have to get up early because my children are past school going age. Breakfast? Who says it has to be at eight in the morning? Eat whenever you feel like eating.  A cup of real Darjeeling tea first thing in the morning is my fuel for the day. It has to be a good, hearty cuppa.

I remember, as my wedding day was approaching, my mother telling me that I needed to learn to cook because no matter how many house maids and house boys there are to help around the house, if a girl does not know how to cook, she loses a chunk of her authority and position in the family.  As always, I had a ready answer  “I know how to make tea and I can buy bread at the bakery. Don’t worry, I have thought it out already.” My poor mother was horrified.

And dreams. Do I dream dreams? I don’t know. I used to but now I am not sure. Maybe I do but do not remember. I admit though that sometimes I go through the day carrying a strange feeling like something has happened, but what? No words, no images, just a feeling. A faceless feeling.

Everybody is sleeping. The house is in a deep slumber now. There was a loud noise outside the main door. I was startled the first time I heard it. Did some body throw a stone at my door? But why? What for? I didn’t do anything to upset anyone… But now I know what it was. In the morning, when I open the door, I would see a dragon fly with its big, transparent wings, lying there on the doormat, like a toy propeller plane.  Our front door has a long and narrow glass window right above the door arch – a kind of sunroof- or… I don’t know what. But the light filtering through it sure does allure the poor bug to its death, like a siren call, like a Lorelei, that sits atop a hill or a mountain, calling the lone traveler to madness. So at night this lone traveler sees the lit window and flying full force to this open road to yonder spaces, suddenly hits a solid glass shield and falls down to eternity. Poor bug. Stupid bug!

This morning when you called me from across the Atlantic, I was shooting pictures to paint later on.  Getting a call from someone after almost four decades was strange and didn’t feel real. We were not close friends; didn’t have anything in common except that we did our Masters from the same institution. If our acquaintance continued, it was because of you, because I know I was a self-absorbed, careless, looking-down-my-nose person.  But today, when I received your call, I was not sure of what I was thinking at the time, but then I was happy, simply happy and felt lucky that in this big and busy world there is someone who cares about me just for me, was looking for me, working, and waiting and hoping for the day she would find me. All along these years when we were raising families, getting gray hair, losing strength, developing health conditions, making dentists rich, and becoming grandparents, she was looking for me. Where did she find the time for that? I used to say that everybody keeps bumping into their long lost, childhood friends but not me. Where have all those people gone who I went to school with?

I was happy, sometimes not, but there never were any regrets until this moment. Until this strange moment in time when she would find me and her voice would crack with emotion.

So I was thinking about and looking at those four lost decades when we could have laughed together, shared our ups and downs of life, sent invitations to our children’s weddings, celebrated the arrival of our first grandchild, sent pictures, bragged about their being oh-so-cute and smart and so much more.

So it was not insomnia after all. I needed to be still, I needed to be calm to go over the lost time. I needed a quiet house.

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary.

I love this very busy month.  Apart from our anniversary, there are two birthdays in the family. Three of my friends celebrate their wedding anniversaries, two nephews have birthdays and a friend’s daughter also expects her mom’s friend must remember her special day.

So, yesterday was my turn to receive calls and cards and gifts. The only thing missing was a nice and cool weather. In Pakistan, the place where I got married, was the most beautiful, clean and green place. I used a past tense here. Why? because I have heard that pollution and carelessness and indifferent attitudes have robbed the place of it beauty and tranquility. I cannot imagine a place like that where air smelled of jasmine and roses could be no more.

I remember the rows of colorful sweet pea flowers where I would spend my afternoons, lying on the lush and green grass, watching an intensely blue sky and listening to the birds in my mothers fruit trees.  Zarin Khan, our gardener was always very unhappy to find me there ” kho, bibi tum kiyoun lait-ta  he idar. apne kmre mein jaao na” (Bibi, this is no place to lie down.  Better go to your room.)

And one day in a month called September, I got married and left my mother’s house.