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good manners

She did it again.

But before going any further, I must mention that in two days – to be exact, she will be celebrating her sixth birthday. That is how old she is. Old or young, this sharp-witted, quick and clear-thinking child sometimes leaves people speechless. Her older sister is an angel, sweet and happy, smiling, gifted… super intelligent.

But the little one ? Well how to start and where to start; first you have to decide that.

Every one says that she has her Dadi’s looks. Does the resemblance start and end there? I sometimes wonder. I was already reading children storybooks and able to write complete sentences when I started school. Was somebody tutoring me at home? Maybe. All I know is that it was a very ‘parrhaku’, book reading family. I also got bit by the reading bug. How and when? memory does not help!

Enough said, we return to our little unpredictable wonder.

Among other prim and proper habits, she never overeats. She will never eat just because there is more to eat. Once, she decides that she is full, you can’t force even a morsel on her. So one evening, when I came to the dinner table, she was still sitting there, staring at her plate where there were some peas and corn staring back. I asked why was she not finishing her food? she said she was full and could not eat more. Then, pushing her chair back she was about to leave when I said that leaving food in the plate was not good manners and we all should take only as much as we could eat.

She said what could she do, her mama gave her too much. I said OK, I will finish it. To this she gave me the sweetest smile and pushing the plate towards me said, “Ok Dadi you can finish my food. Its only a little bit.” and went towards her room.

But half-way there she turned around and looked at me with a lofty, know all style “But dadi, make sure you don’t over stuff yourself”.

All I could do was look at her royal, receding back and a spoon full of peas and corn.

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a cat’s tale

Once again they were together.

After prayers, they sat down around the ‘dasterkhan’ to share the food everyone had brought for themself plus two. There were a variety of dishes and it was more than enough for everybody.

“People, who pray together and eat togather, stay together.” someone said.

“Wah, wah kia pate ki baat kahi mare yaar ne” (what my friend just said is so true) someone agreed.

Many nodded their heads.

A few minutes passed in silence; then someone asked the person sitting next to him. “How is your business doing?”

There was no response for a while. then he gave a little chuckle and said, “First you will listen to the story I am going to tell, after that we will talk about my business.”

“OK, lets hear it then.”

So the story began…

“Once upon a time there was a monkey who wanted to marry a cat. One day he decided to propose to her. She listened to him nicely but said that she would only agree if he promised to protect her children from the hungry lion who, every time she has babies, comes and eats them. The monkey promptly promised to protect her and her babies from the hungry lion.

They got married.

The cat once again had the babies but she was not worried because the monkey had promised to protect her and the babies. But when the lion came to eat them, the monkey climbed a tree and as the lion ate the kittens, the monkey kept coming down the tree then going up again. And as he was doing this up and down, up and down, the lion finished off all the babies and left.

The cat was heartbroken. She asked the monkey why didn’t he keep his promise, why did he not save her poor babies…

The monkey said didn’t she see him running up and down, hither and tither, up and down… so much running around he did to save them, but still nothing happened; the lion ate them all!

There was silence – thoughts were flying around – minds were at work.

The next day someone emailed the story to the higher up.

“Cat be neutered,” came the reply.

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a night watchman

What could be the reason? Why was sleep so elusive? Was it because of a crossword right before going to bed or it was something on my mind- and to escape from that thought, I had picked up the newspaper and started doing the daily crossword? I don’t know. Mind has its own ways to deal with ‘thoughts’.

I have endured insomnia and have fought a losing war with it. I lived in Sakardu, Pakistan for almost over a year. Not being used to living at high altitude, I was edgy and restless at first and then developed insomnia. It was really bad. But then after a couple of months things started to improve and I was able to get some decent amount of sleep and felt refreshed. Though, I cannot say that I was completely cured. Without any warning, I would still stay wide eyed till the early hours. But I was young and healthy and a very happy and proud mother of- now, a five month old first born. What was a year or two of sleeplessness going to do?! right?

A friend working in the Pakistan Army was also stationed there. He had the same problem and his doctor had prescribed Valium and told him to have half a pill (I do not know the potency) at bedtime. Being a good friend he advised me to do the same. Who, me? No sir, not in a million years. Thank you very much. I have a mortal fear of tranquilizers. I weigh my options first before a final decision to even take a painkiller like Tylenol.

Anyway, that was a long time ago. We finally bade farewell to K-2 and the other snow bound mountains and came down to the land of five rivers. Sleepless nights lost reality. Only once in a while when nostalgia strikes, we still take those times out of memory bank, dust it lovingly, handling it like something precious then putting it back in the vault for other times. I even talk about my insomnia, like a good old, long lost friend.

So what happened now that robbed me of my good night sleep? I think I have found out why.

I like making crosswords. Have been doing it for years now. But always in the morning, after breakfast I go over the headlines, read, if something seems interesting – a column, a letter to the editor, editorial, some sales announcement – anything.  After that it’s the crossword on the last page and me. Once done, I am ready to embrace my day.

It was an important appointment on the other side of the town and for that I had to start early. Everything was done on the double. There was no time for a relaxed sitting with the newspaper or a game of crossword. After dinner, all things done and taken care of, I picked up the newspaper. Big mistake!

Now that I have learned my lesson, I am going to follow these two rules.

Rule # 1: Never pick up a newspaper around bedtime.

Rule # 2: No matter what, do not attempt to solve a crossword near bedtime. This will jog your brain cells too much and turn you into a night watchman – short of making you, every now and then, shout a warning to the sleeping population… “jagte raho!” (stay alert!).

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Dr. Zhivago

This winter I didn’t watch Dr, Zhivago. It was a long hard winter… too cold for this sunny state of Florida.

I have always loved winters. So when winters come, on an appointed day I bundle up in my warm clothes, sat myself down in front of TV and begin the annual rite of watching Dr. Zhivago. It didn’t happen this year. Not because of winter blues or any other winter related reason. It just didn’t happen.

I was scheduled to go under my Surgeon’s scalpael and because of Holiday Season … Holiday Season? how ironic!! Anyways, because of the timing, I had to wait, I was put on hold, to wait for my turn on the assembly line. I was left with apprehensions, what ifs and… Ok, enough. I don’t want to sound bitter, which I honestly was not. I went from shock to anger to self pity to resignation and in this choppy state of emotions, I did not watch Dr. Zhivago. I didn’t want to adulterate my feelings associated with this movie. Finally the Holiday Season was over and the good Surgeon was back from his vacation. The assembly line started moving and I braced myself for whatever was in store.  By the time I came back home and started recuperating, the short lived Florida winter was almost over. I don’t mull over the loss of a rhapsody. But watching it has always been like renewal of an old promise.

Speaking of Dr. Zhivago, there was another favorite movie. Come September with Rock Hudson, Ginalollo Brigida, Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin. It was the late sixties when it came to our town. It was Rock Hudson that made all the girls skip class and head for the movie theaters. At least this is how it was in my college. Girls swooned when Rock Hudson’s name was mentioned (no one knew at that time that Mr. Heart Throb was gay). I have a friend, a University Professor whom I love and respect dearly. A while back we were talking about movies, favorite movies and not so favorite movies. Come September crept up in the conversation. HE HADN”T SEEN THIS PICTURE!  NOT EVEN HEARD THE NAME!! Sacrilege, Blasphemy are the words I am sure my friends would have uttered if they had heard him say that.  But of course he liked to watch Marilyn Monroe. We understand.

Another rage was Ben Hur. That also came out in sixties. That was also watched, vanishing from Ms. Ali’s English Lit class. Half the class feigned a stomachache. Asiya, the college canteen owner was blamed for feeding the girls her gone-bad sweet potato and chana chaat. Poor woman swore on her mother’s head that everything was fresh and as always, prepared in the morning. (sorry Asiya!) This excuse was fabricated in Bhai Sahib’s workshop. Bhai Sahib was a very tall girl who had broad shoulders and heavy arms, hence the nick name. She was  in our group and loved – to the point of addiction – watching English Films. Always telling us about which picture house was showing what. If you don’t see Bhai Sahib in our English Lit class at 11 in the morning, she surely could be found in a Cinema place watching some foreign movie.

One day, our brother came home early from the office. He had taken half day leave from work.  He had a surprise for his two college going little sisters. Would not say what the surprise was. Office transport came in the evening and the three of us left the house. After a short drive we were deposited at the gates of one of our local Cinema Houses. SURPRISE!! We had come to watch Ben Hur the second time over. But of course, he didn’t know anything about the stomach ache that would only go away if the girls watched a Certain Movie… :)

By the time it finished and we came out , the night had fallen. Our driver was no where to be seen. We waited for him to return from where ever he had gone but it didn’t happen. People for the next show had started forming the lines when our brother hailed a ‘tanga’ (a horse-drawn carriage) and we started our long journey home through the dark, unlit streets of the town. At one point my younger sister asked him why he was taking the back streets. He said  “shush, khamosh”…

“Why?” She was surprised at this sudden change of mood.

“Don’t you see we are cutting through the residential areas. Its late and people are sleeping.” He sounded very stern and serious.

“What about the horse’s clop, clop?” she wouldn’t stop.

“Be quiet” He beamed his search light  on her face (he never left home without his search light). My sister looked at me.

“What’s wrong with him” she whispered.

“He is scared” I whispered back. and we started giggling. Suddenly a dog barked somewhere.

“See you are waking the people up!”

“It’s a dog, Bhai!”

“Be quiet, I said be quiet” he hissed again, and again and we almost rolled off the back seat. Poor man really was scared riding through the dark by-roads with two young and beautiful girls acting irresponsibly, not listening to his commands and going into fits of laughter with each new threat. The tanga wala once or twice tried to intervene on our behalf but was rebuffed sternly, so he retreated, only once in a while talking to his horse which made our brother grumble some more… under his breath, of course!

At last our brother’s ordeal was over and we reached home safe and sound. We both jumped off the tanga and ran inside the house and into our room. we were rolling on the bed when we heard our brother complaining to our mother…

“… and mother, I promise, I, never, ever am going to take them out anywhere … again. there is no use doing anything good for them. ungrateful…” which sent us into new fits of laughter.

PS: does any one remember a very old song Those were the days, my friend… We thought would never end …. it was Mary Hopkins… or was it?

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my Urdu stories

So, finally I got around and took care of my Urdu Stories. For a start there are three stories there now for my visitors to read.  I have not sent my creative work anywhere in a long time. Reason unknown or maybe its something I would like to address some other time.

Anyways, here we are with three new issues. I hope you enjoy reading these stories. I would wait for your comments.

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the essence

Today I sat myself down and read N.M. Rashid out loud to myself… in a clear, loud voice like I was at some poetry recital, a mush’irah, and there was a room full of people sitting in front of me. Afterwards I felt fulfilled and satisfied with my performance. The best thing is, that nagging feeling of loss went away leaving me happy and relaxed.

When I was doing my Masters in Urdu Literature and Language, N.M.Rashid was our favorite – I loved Jilani Kamran too but he was my late night companion. When everybody was in their beds and the house had settled down for the night, I would pick up his collection of poems, “Astanze” and read the poems I could read without opening the book or turning the page. That was me, just for me.

And N.M.Rashid? He was for everyone. Between classes, suddenly Zafar Iqbal would start reciting Rashid which would lead to his “Hasan, Kooza gar” (Hasan, the Potter) and suddenly we would have an impromptu poetry recital. Hasan the Potter, everybody’s favorite!! If Shehzada Hasan was on the grounds and spotted a small, passionate group doing “wah, wahs” he would be there, joining us in no time… time to watch out for reading mistakes. He was a stickler for spelling and pronounciation.

Oh blessed are the days when we were young and such “aflatoons” (self-appointed intellectuals).

A few years back someone sent the English translation of “Hasan, Kooza gar.” It was amazing how the translator had captured the inner beauty, the essence the pain and longing in the original poem. I asked who the translator was, but my friend didn’t know. It was just perfect. Flawless. As if it was actually written in English. I had to know who was so good in this field. I mentioned it on my web site and asked if anybody knew. After some time I got an email with this information: Dr. Prichett. She had translated this poem. Shabash Ms. Pritchett, well done, hats off to you!! I had the privilege of talking to her a couple of times in the past, but that was a long time ago and though I wanted to call her again and talk about her excellent work, I never did.

Now for some time I was again under Hasan Kooza gar’s » spell. I wanted to read it. I can read. Yes sure I can read but I didn’t want to read it alone, I wanted to share it. Who with?

Chunan qeht saale shud ander Damishq

Good old Sa’di… “this year the famine in Damascus was so bad…”

So today I read “Hasan Kooza gar” to a room full of invisible people…

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a dialogue with dada

Our five year-old strikes again.
The other day she was playing with her mama’s fake fur slippers. She started pulling small wisps of fur and soon the carpet was covered with these small pink balls of fur.

Realizing that she has made a mess in the family room and her mama would not be happy to see that, she went to the garage to get a cleaning brush and a dust pan. Her Dada who was also watching, told her to get the broom with hard bristles. That was the only way to pick the fur. She went and brought the broom. Then Dada told her again to put the dust pan and the brush back where she got them from as they were getting in her way.

She paused and slowly turned towards Dada, poised on one foot, holding the broom twice her height and said, “Dada, there is only one ‘me’. I cannot be here and there too. Let me finish this first.”

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sharp shooter

Here is another one about our five years old who is very smart for her age. I am not talking about some academic achievements because she has not shown any particular interest in this field but she can take her own sweet time for that. There is no hurry. And in any case, she thinks her older sister is smart enough for both of them. If her Aapa (older sister) is good in her reading and writing, math and other such stuff its only because she is doing that for both of them.

Right now she is in the ‘reigning princess of the house’ mode.

I am talking here about her intelligence and how fast her brain works to grasp the gist of a comment. You ask her something and you will get an immediate reply. A keen observer that she is, she always have sharp and witty comments. Like the other day dada – her grandfather – asked her if she would like to walk with him to the mailbox which was a few houses away. She said yes why not and holding his hand went out with him. While walking back home, a red car passed them by.

“Oh dada that was just like chacha’s car.” She observed.

“Yes, that was just like his car.” her grandfather agreed.

“I like my chacha’s car.” she added.

“Ok, and bibi, what kind of car would you like to buy when you grow up” her dada, asked.

“I don’t know dada, because I am not grown up yet” was her quick response.

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1908

Another flickering light went out.This time it was my husband’s mother, my mother in law. She passed away last week at the age of – well, over a hundred years. At first people said she was hundred an four / five. It turned out that even that was not correct. And my brother in law had all the facts to support his claim because she had talked to him about an incident that had happened in 1908 and at that time she said she was 8 or 10 years old. But however long she lived, she was tired of living now and wanted to go home.

When her bones became wary of 0stioprosis, walking became difficult. She was provided a walker, but she didn’t like it. Same with a hearing aid. Lost all her teeth. The dentist took care of her dentures but she didn’t like them either. So now she was helped to the rest room, spoon fed the soups and had her daughter to be her ears when her son called from across the Atlantic. Then one morning she asked why was it so dark. Was it raining or just overcast. A new pair of glasses didn’t work. Slowly and gradually the time was taking its toll but one thing it could not touch. That was her mind, her thinking mind. She was alert, she was sharp, sharp as a needle.

She had always been an avid reader of newspapers. She had to know what was going on around the world. She was also interested in the local politics. You could easily talk to her about the issues the country was facing. She never got a formal education but she could read Urdu – her mother tongue – and Arabic. She was excellent with numbers. I used to say that Indira Gandhi didn’t have a chance if my mother in law was given a proper education. The first time I told her that she looked at me quizzically. Was I trying to be smart? she probably thought. But then that sharp, probing look from behind the thick glasses softened and she laughed.
” ghar chalana bhi to gormint chalana he ” ( homemaking is like running a government) was what she said. She had a point there.

She was a good mother, full of love and affection for her children. Very authoritative to the point where you would think that she owned her sons and daughters. She knew her motherly rights and no one, but no one could go against her wishes. In a way the credit goes to her that she raised her kids with such care and devotion that they would always listen to her, no matter what. They were angles, she believed and could never be wrong.

And daughters in law? well who cares? They were brought in the family to keep the family name alive. But that does not mean that she was not polite or sociable with them.

Once we were talking about something. At one point I asked her, Ok, ammi (mother) you have three sons and two daughters. So two sons are your eyes and one is your heart. Daughters? ummmm. They could be your kidneys. So what about your daughters in law?
“They make my sons happy.” ” And you?” I persisted. ” Now what else you want to know? Didn’t I say, if they are happy with their wives, I am happy too.”

Even though, she was not vocal about that, but her oldest son was not as close to her as she would have wished him to be. At the age of sixteen and just out of tenth grade, he was sent to Pakistan to his chacha (uncle) to get his college education there. There were probably some other reasons too but that is a family matter. He was not happy with this arrangement and has always resented the fact that he was separated from the family at such a young age. He was always very reserved and cynical with her But she never let it affect her love for him.

Now how old was she? I will relate an incident that she told my younger brother in law and then you decide how old was she when she passed away.

After World War 1- that is early 20th century – in the subcontinent of India, a wide spread movement was started,. It all began because Turkey was defeated in the war and some parts of Ottoman Empire were given to Greece and some other non Muslim country. The Sultan of Turkey was considered the Caliph of the entire Muslim World and the disintegration of the Empire was unacceptable for the world wide Muslim community. In India, two brothers, Moulana Mohammad Ali and Moulana Shauket Ali started the historical Khilafat Movement. I will not go into the details of the Movement.

My brother in law talking to me on the phone said, ” sometimes back ammi had told me that when; during the Movement things got serious and the British Raj, put the brothers in jail, their mother, endearingly called by everyone, Bi Amma, came out of purdah and went around towns and cities and villages giving speeches, spreading her sons message, collecting funds for the Movement. At one point, Bi Amman came to her village to give a speech at a local, girls school. Ammi went to that ‘jalsa’ with her mother to listen to the speech. ‘I was eight or ten years old’ she said. ‘I remember everything’ ”

According to the history books it happened in 1908. Now figure it out !!

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love her, love her not…

Way back when the presidential race was still going on between Obama and McCain, I saw this on the news.

“No way, no how, no McCain, no Palin!” Mrs. Clinton declared.

After someone in the audience yelled, “Tell us about Palin,” Mrs. Clinton replied: “I don’t think that’s what this election is about. Anybody who believes that the Republicans, whoever they are, can fix the mess they created probably believes that the iceberg could have saved the Titanic”.

This was Hillary – my love/hate syndrome. She is smart, she is beautiful she is tough and she is intelligent. But I was for Obama and who ever said anything against him, promptly landed in my bad books. Then Obama won the Dem. Nomination and Hillary was out of the picture. I could deal with McCain as a rival but it was obvious that he was no match for Obama. He was a man holding on tightly to the same old ways of playing political games.

It was appreciated when she endorsed Obama. But I was still apprehensive when she announced she was campaigning for him. And slowly love for her crept back and soon she was a shining star among my favorites.

Now I hear that she is being considered for Sec. of State in Obama Government. ummmmm. I don’t like this idea.

And why is that?

I have good arguments. The biggest among them is – she is too opinionated, too strong headed and her ideas will clash with that of Obama’s. And if she does not get what she wants she – sort of – falls back on emotions … if anyone can still remember her on her campaign trail! Remember how she was saying just about anything about Obama? She wanted to get into the White House so bad that you could see the White House reflecting in her eyes. And now President Elect Barack Obama is rewarding her with a most prestigious post.

Well, what can I say. All I can do is wish him smooth sailing.