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.

(Author’s note: this is based on a true story. Some details were also altered a little and  names were changed. All for privacy’s sake.)

Summer afternoons are treacherous. better not rely on them.

When Nooran came to clean the house, no one was there to tell her chores of the day. First she thought she would go back and tomorrow if the Khanum enquired she would say she did clean the house and went back home. But then her good conscience scolded her for making up a lie and the resultant hell fire. She touched her ear lobes said a prayer and picked up the rag and the big broom to start her cleaning work. She was not aware someone in the house was watching her.

This was Asad. the young lad of the house who had recently joined the ranks of the “I dream of  Jeannie” brigade.  He had seen Nooran almost every day but a couple of weeks ago he saw her in a different setting, and could not get her out of his system. That historic day, she was hanging the laundry after washing it in the courtyard. Her clothes all wet, her hands stretched heaven word spreading a towel on the line, she looking interesting. She was not a “hoorie or a parie”  woman but there was something about her that day that Asad got smitten by and the venom was rushing through his veins madly. He started watching her… biding for an opportunity to be close to her. Today was his day. When she came to his room with the big broom in her hand and a folk song on her lips, he was ready.

She put down the broom and rolled her sleeves up once again and bent down to pick up the broom. Asad who was hiding behind the door, shot out of his hiding place and put his arms around Nooran and tried to turn her around towards him. Nooran, frightened at this sudden intrusion, let out a blood-curling scream and pried open the hands squeezing her and faced the culprit.

“Asad? is that you Asad?” she almost spat the words out.

“You- this and that- how dare you? You…”  She picked up the broom and started hitting Asad.

“I will give you what you were looking for… you- my husband will be happy to to give you- this, oh just you wait.  You can have all you want- all you want- your mother will be home soon- you- this and that …”

Asad forgetting his failed amorous attempt, tried to dodge the thrashing and ran out of room chased by her.

“You think you will get away with your-? Oh no, I will give you … ”

Now they were running in circles around the water pump, trash bin and a couple of weather beaten rattan chairs in the courtyard when suddenly the door opened and in came Asad’s  taya- Nasir. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his nephew being chased around the courtyard by Nooran with her big broom which had gotten loose by now- its long bristles scattered all over the courtyard.

“Hoy. Whats is this? what is going on. Why are you both running around? Stop it Nooran! What is going on? Shame on you, you are beating a Syed with a broom? no respect for a Syed? Have you lost your senses?”

“Ask your- nephew,  this syed son of a Ranjha here, ask him because I am mad, too mad. If I tell Dulla – and I certainly will – he will kill this- this…” she threw down the broken broom and started crying. “We are poor people but we are honorable people. This thug, this… tried to violate this poor woman’s honor. Look at him… he is just a lad, a chhokra. But if you look at him but inside?  He is the granddad of shaitan”  She sat down on the ground and covering her face with her dupatta, started wailing.

“What did you do Asad?” taya Nasir turned to Asad, who just stood there, looking at his bare feet.

“Hoy, I asked you something” Taya Nasir thundered.

“Nothing”  Asad confessed meekly.

“Nothing? Then why this woman is crying?”

“Don’t know taya.” Another meek answer. “Swear to God, I didn’t do anything to her.”

It was becoming difficult for Taya Nasir to contain his laughter.

“Chal ja apne kamre mein! Go to your room and wait there. I will come and talk to you later.”

From the corner of his eye, Asad looked at Nooran and went to his room. Once he was gone, Taya turned to Nooran. but before he addressed her, he put his hand in the side pocket of his kurta and seprated a few notes from the wad of currency he always carried in his pocket.

You never know when you would be in dire need of some cash… Money is the ultimate solution to every problems, was his philosophical approach that he applied to any situation he faced. It certainly helped further his political aspirations.

“I am sorry Nooran. I will take care of that stupid boy. I assure you that I will make sure he never ever dares bother you again. Just forgive him this one time. Chal uthh puttar, go home and take a day off. Don’t upset Dulla. Whats the use anyway. Asad’s parents will be upset too and you both will lose your jobs. Of course you don’t want that to happen, so what I would do is not tell them either.”

Nooran slowly got up then sat down again to collect the bristles to tie back the broom.

Go home Nooran, I will take care of that. Here, take this and buy yourself a new broom. He handed her the money. Her eyes widened when she saw the numbers, then she was out of the door in a flash.

Taya Nasir, pleased with himself, gave a little chuckle and went to Asad’s room.

“OK khotiya, now tell me why she was chasing you?” Then he gave a long and hearty laugh… “As if I don’t know what happened, but, I want to hear it from you. chal shabaash, ho ja shuroo…”

He gave another booming laugh and laid himself down on Asad’s bed plumping the pillow and taking a comfortable position.  He was ready to listen to an amusing ‘anecdote’.

I was alone and lonely but I think I was quite used to it now.

I was seventeen years old. Just finished my second year of college and for not getting enough marks in one subject, could not get into the third year of college. The subject in question was English language… barely passed but not good enough. I was scheduled to appear in Compartment Exams after three months and that would be September. Study time was summer with the accompanying grueling heat and discomfort. But if I wanted to go to college – which I did – I had to clear this exam. And to achieve that, I had to study, and study hard.

Now at this stage in my life and with all those years behind me, I can understand why I didn’t make it in that subject.

I was the brightest student in my class. Active participant in all the projects, ever ready to help fellow students, loved to read Shakespeare out loud while others at the first mention of this name would have an Epileptic fit. Whenever we were given an assignment to give our views on some particular piece of literature, I would have a field day. In fact that was my favorite thing and – alas – the reason for my downfall, meaning not getting enough marks in my English Lit paper to get admission in third year of college.

One question in my English lit paper was about a green door (I am sure the color was green). Let me rephrase: there was a short story in my English Lit course about a man and a green door that during the course of his life, he would suddenly see. Why was that? It was not explained in the story. I do not fully remember the whole story now but the question delighted me because it was a simple and easy question. Then I made the mistake. Instead of sticking to the point and just writing down when and where he saw that green door, I strayed in the sense that I started analyzing why he saw those doors like a psychoanalyst would probe and dig and try to go deeper down your psyche. When I reluctantly finished the “answer”, I had used up half of my allotted time. I rushed into the rest of the questions and my answers and obviously didn’t impress the person who corrected my paper. Though, I tell you, I am very proud of my treatment of that particular answer to this day. A psychoanalyst would have been impressed. Alas, the examiner didn’t share my sentiments.

Now, we go back to the beginning.

So lonely and alone, a girl was studying her English Lit course once again in the sweltering heat and humidity of a long summer. I would go in the spare room in our house and study the course with a dejected heart. I had fallen from grace and everybody ignored me. Well that’s how I took it at that time. It could have been something else, like giving me some space to study undisturbed.

My mother had stopped talking to me because she had said how inconvenient this would be for the family. It was not going to be easy to take me to another city to appear in the examination. Naturally I reacted to this comment. What do you expect from a teenager after all? So the argument between a mother and her ‘aflatoon’ child earned the child her mother’s regal wrath, I was the pariah, the social outcast of the family. I was certain my mother hated me. I resigned to this and tried not to cross paths with her.

Confined to my environments, I would sometimes miss meals, or if wanted to eat, I would go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea and toast some bread with it, or bring a banana or an apple to my room to eat later when hungry. This went on for one whole week. Then one night when the rest of the house was asleep and I was so tired of my books and everything that I, spreading my arms on the table, put my head on the open book and started crying, the last thing a very proud, sure of herself teenager would do.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my head that made me sit up and see who it may be. I don’t know who told her or how she found out but there she was standing beside me, stroking my head.

“It is hard, I know it is hard. I never went to a formal school or maybe I did, but it was just a Middle School, but I can imagine, I can think. You are going through a bad time, but it will pass.”

Then she pushed a small bowl full of almonds, on the table. You are not eating properly. How do you think you are going to remember anything if you deprive yourself of nourishment. I do not want to say more because you are an obstinate child, your father’s child. Now go to bed. You can start again tomorrow. She smiled and left the room.

So, she loved me after all. I too smiled and went to my bed.