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Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

How Can a Mom and a Friend Rejoice…


It was probably the millionth time someone today asked me a question, my ears have gone wounded hearing ,
“Do you have fights at home when the India-Pakistan match is played?”

And I give back the same answer a millionth time, with the same words and the  same expression since the past two decades,

“I don’t side with any team. Both are mine. No more no less. “

Yes, my husband and kids are very passionate Pakistanis. They don’t spare a minute to support Pakistan or mock at India when they folly in the play. And they do it right under my nose. So what?

In fact, I am proud of their patriotism. They love passionately to where they belong. No regrets for I love passionately to where I belong.

And yes, unlike them, I belong to both the lands. Hence I love both India and Pakistan as much. No more, no less.

An acquaintance even had an audacity to question once on my mothering abilities for not having brought up kids favouring India or at least being neutral. She got a good bashing from a passionate mom in me, when I brought home the fact that I wanted my kids to be exactly the way they are—patriotic and passionate for their homeland. Yes they do love my birthplace too, but they know they don’t belong there. These are such intricate feelings one learns to appreciate when one lives it.

Talking of the match between India Pakistan played at Mohali today, my kids had literally counted down hours .

My girl had gone an extra mile to paint  a T shirt with a Pakistani Flag for herself, at the cost of her study time for the Term Exams right next week. And like a true sister she ran  from pillar to post, in whole of the city,  to find a Pakistani team  T shirt for her brother, buying it at double the normal price just a day before the match. They stayed up all night in the angst of not missing the first few moments of the toss even at 5 am in the morning.

I am so proud of their spirits. They did not even miss their schools and went wearing their Pakistan T shirts and a flag painted on the face. They chose to see the remaining match in School, as and when they could.

As they stepped out at 8 a.m,  they both made an expectant request ,
“Ammi pray for Pakistan.”

How could I say to them, “No I am Indian, I’ll pray for India.”

I felt , once again, proud of my decision to love both India and Pakistan as much . No more no less.

I watched the match like a daughter and like a mom changing roles as and when the two sides did some action worth applauding.

I was sad for Sachin not to have made the century but then I also felt enraged when Afridi got out too soon. I cheered for a brilliant low catch by Nehra but then got equally elated for Misbah when it was given in ‘not out’ by the third umpire.

I cheered both sides as much. No more no less.

The match got over. India won brilliantly. Pakistan lost miserably. The game was a treat to watch.

Many friends called and emailed me congratulating on Indian victory. I was pleased for India. No not because they are mine. But because they proved to be a better managed team.

The kids came back home, gloomy and defeated. My daughter with her eyes swollen, had cried  for having unable to bear the loss of her team and the fiery four letter words thrown at her by few fellow Indians. The son did not want to be hugged or talk about the match.

How could a mom rejoice for her victory with kids laden with sorrow ? Again the mom in me felt proud of having chosen to love both the lands as much. No more no less.

After hugs and cajoling they began to vent out their anger.

My girl blasts out her fury against India because of few nasty friends and shall support Sri Lanka in the Finals.

My boy is truly my boy, so he will side with India by “showing a big heart and sportsman spirit”, in his own words.

Time is the best healer. I know their bitterness shall vain but how I wish they had their prayers listened for today. As for me, sides did not matter. I would have been happy for Pakistan’s victory as much. No more no less.

My kids’ Pakistani buddies and my own Pakistani friends in real life or on Face Book are all enveloped in gloom and disbelief. It makes me sad too.

How could a mom or a friend rejoice when so many of her near and dear ones are gloomy? Again it made me realize  how right I was for having decided to call both the lands my own. No more no less.

Victory ceases to thrill when there is defeat and sadness all around.

The heart in me which feels and throbs with  the feelings of every disheartened  Pakistani, how can it rejoice?

Most of all it is the heart of a mom who’s babies aren’t happy today. So how can that mom rejoice? She joins them in their sorrow as much. No more no less.

l love you my Pakistani kids, my Pakistani spouse and my Pakistani friends, and hence I love you too, PAKISTAN !

So how can that heart rejoice?

Just wished to add a beautiful poetry  sent by a cousin , who is also an Indian mom of Pakistani kids like me:

Hari dharti ha wahan to neela aasmaaan ha yahan

Wahan janam data hain yehan janmon ka nata ha

Jo seekh waha se pae ha wahi to yehan lotae ha

Aasha hi abilasha ha yehi jeet ki paribhasha

(P.S. Am an Indian married to a Pakistani man and two passionately Pakistani kids. And I love both INDIA- PAKISTAN as much. No more no less.)

Category:

Cricket, India, Pakistan, Personal

I Wish I was That Heart


I wish I was a heart
You ask, Why?
I say, Why not?
Neither yours nor mine
Just a Heart.

I wish I was a heart
With no Hindu Muslim tag
Neither a doe nor a stag
Not a Sunni or a Shiite
Neither black nor white
Not even a pauper or a prince
Which never loses, always wins
And with love that binds
The other hearts, souls and minds
I wish I was that heart.

I wish I was a heart
Day and night that beats
For rest, it never retreats
That never says it’s tired
From God it is inspired
Who neither sleeps nor rests
Always striving for our best
Such be that caring heart
So selfless from the start.
I wish I was that heart

I wish I was a heart
Love is all one finds in its store
With empathy ingrained into its core
Compassion embedded within it’s walls
On mercy and kindness it always falls
Warmth and passion it gladly outpours
Envy and vengeance it wholly abhors
All that are so banal for a living
Yet so considerate and so forgiving
I wish I was that heart.

I wish I was a heart
Who’s color red is a delight
So sanguine, warm and bright
Into candies and chocolates it molds
And loads of sweetness it enfolds
That cuddly teddy bears, so dearly hold
On who’s valor and love, stories are told
For whom Valentines blow off their heads
Upon who’s breaking, many tears are shed
I wish I was that heart.

Category:

General, MY POETRY, Personal

On Being a Mom


With small kids especially with all of them wearing diapers, life used to be arduous. There was no night sleep, just naps as and when possible. And no dream of a hot cup of tea would even come true. Looked as if I was stuck in a time freeze that would never thaw.
No there weren’t half a dozen of them, just two kids but a lot wholesome two.

Any complaints to an otherwise cooperative hubby or a barely understanding ammi would invite lessons of being thankless and not valuing the prized gifts from God. Perhaps when you get things unasked you definitely undervalue them.

Yes they were a bundle of joy, but the joy one gets in reading a book or painting a silk scarf is worthwhile too. I missed these so dearly. The husband often remarked of me being a more difficult than the kids themselves. And yes for him I sure was a difficult ‘child’.

Many experienced friends with grown up kids, often remarked with authority that small kids were smaller problem, big kids bigger problem. I really dreaded, if this was a small problem what would be a ‘big’ problem.

I feared losing my passion for the ‘other’ interests when getting engrossed into being a full-time mom. It was then that in a TV episode of Dr Phil, they talked of moms having their own time. We desis have no ‘my time’ in a mom’s dictionary. But I decided to make it happen in my home.

Despite a lot of creased foreheads around in the neighborhood ( yes we desis are so good at peeping into what goes on in the house next door as compared to what’s happening right under our  nose), I continued doggedly to have my time and my passion. If it wasn’t for a patient husband, and his firm nod for a yes, it certainly wouldn’t have been possible.

Fridays evening after coming back from work was ‘my time’ when I had the compulsive obsession to paint. And their Dad adorned the role of a single parent for those 8 hours or so trying his best to prove himself ‘a better mom‘. The kids too knew it was their Dad-only quality time. I have no idea what all they did, so long as they let me have my heavenly-time letting me riot with flowy  colorful paints on silk scarves.

The yelling at kids is so a synonymous with a mom, and I too did it mindlessly, until there came the Super Nanny TV serial and it was like a ‘revelation’ of how easy it is to raise kids if you become their friend and talk to them on a one to one level instead of being their commander-in chief. I decided to give it a chance.
My world and my kids actually changed once I began talking instead of yelling at their mistakes. They became a lot more receptive and ‘manipulating’ them to behave the way we parents want them to was also quite possible now—though not always.

Being friends with kids comes with a package. Yes they share with you ‘some’ of what’s going on in their life, but then they make you a butt of their jokes too. My kids leave no opportunity to be critical or mock at my follies. Perhaps if one realizes, kids being whole heartedly friendly is far more comforting than them being half heartedly respectful.

Attending a workshop by a child psychologist some years ago on Positive Parenting to teach parents how to inculcate  survival skills in the kids, again made motherhood a lot more fun than a burden.

Again, as desi parents we “love being all protective, subconsciously trying to not let them grow up to be independent from us.” remarked the lecturer. He couldn’t have been more insistent on upholding a ‘trusting’ relationship, giving them space to fend for themselves, instead of ‘sheltering’ them from the ills of the evil world both inside and outside the home.

Cleaning rooms for the kids, making breakfast for them in the morning, following their progress with teachers in the high school, dropping-picking   to and  from school, was in no way a symbol of being a ‘caring’ parent in the eyes the psychologist.

His words came like a hammer on one’s head. Like all moms I too had dreamt of being an embodiment of care and sacrifice. One can be a good mom and yet not do their chores. Wow! That really makes motherhood so very easy. You can have the cake and eat it too.

First thing he told was to stop making a breakfast for the  kids if they were in their teens or beyond.

Weird and a really tough proposition especially to see them struggling in the kitchen while the mom looked the other way. My heart missed several beats each morning. First week was a disaster. My kids went to school without any grain gone down their throat. The guilt of being an evil mom hit me hard.

As if his words were a gospel. The kids were a changed species next week, managing their breakfast like a perfect housewife. Again the mom in me felt hurt—Oh my God, they don’t need me any more.

Next on the list was to make my son’s room a no entry zone for me–no cleaning, no organizing  for him.
A constant tug of war in the head between a helpful and a couldn’t care less mom was hard to banish. Days, weeks passed. Nothing moved from its place in my son’s room. The socks rolled up in the corner stayed still. The scattered books and papers maintained their position. But yes the cupboard got messier and the dust layer on the bookshelf got thicker. The room even started to have a peculiar smell—and I joked with him of living in a ‘sty’.
I called  the psychologist to tell him I had no hope but he with utmost patience told me—“leave it as it is.”
I did but with a heavy heart. The mom in me was constantly cursing for having listened to this evil psychologist who knew nothing about boys.
Then came a blessed moment. And my son actually decided to make his room. How he did was beyond imagination. And ever since I never had to search for his lost sock or a book.

As for dropping the kids to school or following their progress in High School isn’t encouraged by the school itself in Canada and the kids are trained to manage their issues themselves, with the assistance of the counselors on site. Whether it is -30 degrees freezing winter or hot sweltering summer, the kids find their own way to school–by public bus or at times by walking.

I see my kids going out of my hands and becoming more independent with the each passing day.
How much of a contradiction we moms are—when the kids are dependent on us, we crave for independence and when they spread their wings to be independent we clamor for them to be in our control.

Learning the art to communicate with the kids as equal individuals, giving them space and letting them learn to be the masters of their world isn’t all that an easy task for any mom, but I guess it is in their best interest. The earlier we realize, the better it is for both the mom as well as the kids.

So befitting is Kahlil Jibran’s poetry in this context:

On Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

And yes, to those who vehemently  remarked that bigger children are a bigger problem, I beg to disagree. I think they are a bigger pleasure, provided we learn to accept them as equal friends.

I am glad one day my kids may not need me anymore, but hopefully they’ll still love me.

Category:

General, Personal, Social Issues

YOU ADORABLE RASGULLAH


Ever seen a human reincarnation of a ‘rasgullah’?

Here it is:

Sweeter than the sweetest honey
Softer than the softest bunny
Juicier than the juiciest fruit
Ever saw a rasgullah so very cute?

Lucky are the kins of an awesome treasure
Who spills just joy beyond any measure
With drenching drooling, the melodious cooing
The resonant ga ga, the symphonic goo gooing

Oh, such rolly, polly, bouncy little guy
The snugly charm that makes you sigh
Those screams and wails of a naughty lil’   boy
Ah, you infinitely charming,  you bundle of joy.

MASHAALLAH!

Category:

MY POETRY, Personal

MEANINGS OF LIVING AND OF SUCCESS


My definition of life and success may not be all that great and magnanimous. But then so rightly did someone say that a successful life is not an ideal of reason but of imagination:

For me,

to have LIVED means :

Having appreciated all that is beautiful.

Having laughed more than having cried.

Having acknowledged the best in the others.

Having held the head high even when let down.

Having sung the song of prosperity even in adversity.

Having endured the denigration of those we call friends.

Having been blind to the manmade boundaries and prejudices.

And so,

to have SUCCEEDED means:

Having  given up one’s self.

Having made the world bit better

Having   made   a   life  breathe easier

Having chosen for other’s good before mine.

Having   earned  the   respect  of   the  intelligent.

Having  no regrets for whatever I did  in good faith.

Having  won the approbation of  the known and the unknown.

Category:

General, Personal

FAKING AS A VALENTINE


I take a daisy in my hand and start plucking its petals one by one–

Valentine’s Day is good, Valentine’s Day is bad, is good, is bad…..
Why?

Despite being a person who holds strong opinions even on trivial issues, I am not able to decide yet if Valentine’s Day is good to celebrate or not.

The young  girl in me, still alive, reminisces the time when my friend, now  husband, used to send  cards and dried roses from across the border, when we barely even heard of this day. So when I could get those roses two decades back, without a Valentine Day around, why cant these young girls now?  At least on the Valentine Day if not everyday.

It isn’t a harmful day anyways, if one listens a bit less to one’s grey matter while listening to one’s ‘dil ki awaaz’.  It doesn’t tell you to hate or kill anyone.

After-all,  in this world loaded with hopelessness, despondency and  uncertainty, the youth have so many insecurities these days. Hence, if they get one day even to blow their tops off with celebrations in the name of love, let them.

Tomorrow again it will be business as usual for them too.

Only if it hadn’t gone as commercial as it currently is–but then what else has not gone commercial–be it Eids, Ramadans, Milads and  even Muharrams when people get made a wardrobe  full of black dresses to wear during the 40 days of mourning.

How I wish that people did not confuse ‘love‘ from ‘lust‘ which is so selfish and pervert–exactly the opposite of what love is meant to be–selfless and pure .

But on the other hand, when one sees  those numerous ads, of not just the innocent flowers, teddy bears or chocolates but of the products trying to boost one’s libido ahead of Valentine’s Day or even of those  contraceptives–it feels sickening.  As if those in need of this stuff wait for this single day  out of  all 365days  in an year.

Hence I feel guilty of corroborating with the misdirected purpose of the day, and not vehemently opposing it  with the loud mouth that I have.

There has also been research that if on one hand Valentine’s Day brings a tsunami of love amongst many, it erupts a volcano of dormant emotions in those who have either lost their loved ones, or were ditched by them or even those who never found their true love.

Valentine Day blues are real, not imaginary.

Yesterday I visited a seniors residence (an  old home) in Mississauga to get the first hand feel of both these emotions.

The place was being bedecked in red frills, and balloons everywhere.  It was a pleasurable sight  to witness how enthusiastic some elderly( in their 80s)  and the very elderly  ( in their  90s or beyond) were about the Valentine Day. The zest with which they cleaned their rooms, and the gleam of youth in their eyes as they  took out  their best clothes to be ironed,  even the most  emotionally challenged could not miss.

But at the same time I was extremely pained to see the tearful emptiness in the eyes of a wheel chair bound woman who said her husband has passed away very recently and she has no Valentine now.

She is not alone. There must be millions all round the globe today feeling miserable, unlucky, left out, unwanted, unloved or whatever their depressed emotions would make them feel.

Joining  in gloom, many young girls will fake and send themselves cards, chocolates or red roses to showoff to their friends what a ‘secret’ Valentine they are to ‘someone’ ‘somewhere’.

I do not feel sad for them, I feel helpless.

What if we could rise above our selfish love and make this feeling of ‘loved’ and ‘wanted’ so universal and selfless.

“When young girls can be innovative enough to fake Valentines Day for themselves, cant we just fake it for others too? ”  Came the flash in my head as I was attending a meeting of an  organization in this above mentioned ‘old home’s conference hall.

From that point in the meeting, I knew not  what did they discuss –as there was another meeting progressing  in my head.

As we finished, I approached the reception desk of the residence and asked the lady there if she had an idea, how many here would not be having any visitors or will not celebrate the Valentine Day.

After some reservation,  and some explanation from me, she came up with a figure of about twenty or so elderly who have no visiting appointments booked for the day. I discussed a plan with her, which after a phone call from her Manager, she readily agreed to.

I rushed home in excitement and asked my husband for a deal–that instead of buying a bunch of beautiful red roses and shoving them into a flower vase in our living room and let it sit there till the last flower dries, we shall buy two dozen rose buds and as many chocolates and visit the ‘residential’ place in the evening to fake as Valentines for those who have no visitors.

And to make sure that none of those elders get overwhelmed and get a wrong message, we shall go together–my husband and me–to give them the roses and chocolates.

At least they will smile and feel wanted, be it for a few minutes.  And hopefully the ‘feel good’ feeling will last as long as it will take the rose buds to dry in their vases.

I do not know how much of Valentine Day celebration is haram in my faith but I know that as part of our faith we are allowed to lie on three occasions–and one of them being when you want to please your loved one.

So today all these elderly men and women will have my husband and me as their Valentine. And we will  ‘fake’  love to just please them.

In this world of recession and promotions,  they will get a great deal–

BUY ONE VALENTINE,  GET ANOTHER FREE ! 🙂

Category:

General, Humour, Personal, Politics, Social Issues

TRAVELLING PIA THE DESI STYLE


The moment one stands at the counter to check-in with the PIA ‘amla’ at any airport in the world, one gets the’ home coming’ vibes. The check-in may not be as orderly, the flight may be overbooked, delayed, or God knows what unforeseen might happen, but the badnaam-e-zamana PIA carries its own notorious charm–at least to me.
Seven starish chic airlines of the Middle East are too luxurious to exude a raw charm, and the modest, low budgeted Canadian four star carrier is boringly efficient.

So, go  East or West, PIA is the best.

Many of my compatriots living abroad don’t get the weirdness of my preference for PIA.

There’s an  emergency, and with  a short notice of barely a week to reach Karachi–I got a ticket booked on PIA.

Checking in and boarding the plane were uneventful. I took my boarding pass and fetched for my seat no. 25B. Happy that the counter person had obliged me with a seat in one of the front rows. I land on my seat, only  to find that it’s a middle seat with two over sized feudal looking gentlemen well seated on both sides. None of them were willing to give up either the window or the aisle seat to place me at the side. Not that I am a Miss World or Miss Petite etc but imagine a 15  hour journey in that tiny middle seat between the two of them where barely one cannot move one’s elbows beyond 30 degrees.

I threw my bag and jacket in the seat as they scanned unabashedly, the middle aged lady who was going to be their immediate neighbor. What if there was a petite young lass instead, what would be the frequency and wavelength of their X ray eyes, I wondered. ( By the way this scanning is the prerogative of our desi men–considered highly impolite in the rest of the world).

My desiness ( which actually never leaves me) springs into action. I requested the passing-by purser in shusta urdu, giving him reference of the famous ex Hockey Olympian Station Manager of some other city,  and of how he always got us  ‘good’ seats, convincing him to help me here.

He reassured, ‘Baji wait till everyone settles down.”

Finally after few negotiations in a packed flight, he tried,  failed and  gave up. But then again, on my begging, he took  up the challenge,and finally managed to get me a 3 seater shared with another lady.

And thus I got reassured, that despite a couple of years in Canada, my desi nepotism skills remained intact.

The two of us ladies made another deal, desi style. She was tired and the journey was  too long, so we decide we will take turns to stretch full length and  sleep. The other will either walk on the aisle or sit huddled in the corner of the seat. It was first her turn to lie down on the whole seat and sleep. In the meantime, I preferred to walk  on the aisle,  reading a book on Dreams.

After a  good nap of 4 hours, she happily got up and handed  over the seat with the  “ ab ye seat aapki hui’    expression.

Without delay, I wrapped myself up in the blanket and stretched  myself exactly the way we used to stretch ourselves  while sleeping on a train’s berth when kids. Barely half an hour had passed and the announcement called for a doctor on board. Before the desi me could even think of faking sleep and preferring to stay away, the doc in me sprung  up in a reflex action.

I  found myself  standing along with two other docs in front of a middle aged lady–very pale, cold and clammy not responding to our shouts. On pinching, she barely opened her eyes but  fell back unconscious, again. There was no pulse, but her fast breathing gave us a little relief and a hope of life .The BP too was unrecordable. The senior-most of us docs took the lead while the two of us  followed  his orders and managed her with the necessary steps. While she lay down on the aisle,  I knelt down to check her.

Whatever equipment needed was readily made available by the crew. With some first aid and medications, her pulse and BP seemed to return and she became more responsive, though was still extremely dizzy, sweating and anxious.

The Captain called one of us to to brief him of the situation,  and  asked  if there was the need to make an emergency landing  for her care. But the passenger being stable, now,  and unaccompanied–the consensus was reached that we, doctors,  will monitor her every  half hourly for the remaining  7 hours and act according  to her condition. Being the same gender as hers, I got the  responsibility to monitor her closely for the rest of the journey.

I offered  my 3 seater bed for her to lie down.
And so for sure was gone my turn to enjoy the luxurious PIA bed nap.

Jee haan, ab kaisa sona, kahan ki neend. I was officially on duty.

How much had I thought before embarking on the journey, of  a carefree  8 hour sleep on board, which I barely get any day at home. God must have definitely laughed at me  on my plans, then.

Well no regrets. It was for a noble cause.

As I settled down on a seated adjacent to my patient , many a souls came inquiring about her well being. I must have repeated the same description a dozen times in 30 min. There is no pun in it–this is the beauty and simplicity of our people–no matter how much our circumstances have made us ‘beyhiss’ (apathetic), we shed all our shells and cocoons when in such situations.

As the half hourly monitoring went on, so did the networking with the fellow passengers who trickled one by one to inquire about her well being.

A lady who runs a chain of 5 up-class Desi restaurants and banquet halls in Mississauga, offered her card and gave a life long offer of discounts in her outlets. Another with a boutique and who was traveling to Pakistan for getting the latest stock, offered her dresses at the minimum profit.

Yet another, a very simple lady, came up hesitantly with the presumption that being a doc I must be having some good contacts, and that she was  on a look out for some ‘really’ good girls for rishta for her ‘extremely ‘ good looking sharif son.

A gentleman came up to ask for measuring his BP and though I was not qualified to start a clinic in the air, the medico in me did not have the will to say no. And then two more asked for the same in exchange of their visiting cards and offered  their services in Canada.

Another elderly frail lady requested me to give her the insulin injection before her meals. To my fears for any ‘reaction’ she retorted, “So what ? I f it is written to die, I will die. Why will you be blamed?”

Respecting the strength in her conviction, I had no choice but to oblige, knowing very well that if any unforeseen happened, my degree would be at stake.

And the passing pursers–unfailingly gave each time  “Dr sahiba kuch lengee?”   offers.

The best hot and well brewed chai I ever had on any air travel was that day–from the stock of tea that the crew makes for itself during such long travels. Not once but maybe half a dozen times did I gulp that delicious tea down my ‘networking’ throat.

God knows how but an environment of concern built up in the flight.

It looked as if wave of empathy had spread faster than the wild fire of Tasmania. Everyone was so enthusiastic to help, not only the unwell lady, but any one who was in need.

I noticed many a neighbors offering  to carry the crying babies and strolled  them on the aisle while their moms got some some respite and some nap.

With regular monitoring and First-aid, as her pulse and BP rosee slowly and steadily, she became well enough to speak and respond to questions.

The whole plane wore smiles when she sat  up to take some sips of fluids. And thankfully the need to make an emergency landing vaned.  The crew members beamed in triumph and the message of her wellness was flashed to the Captain. And the Captain responded back with an  the announcement amidst cheers.

As I got ready to pack up for arrival at KHI  and bid farewell to the patient–she shoved her visiting card and asked for mine,  to invite to her sons wedding some months later in Canada and with a promise of a life long friendship..

Where else but PIA would one enjoy this desi networking? By that time I was  richer by at least a dozen and a half contacts and their visiting cards.

Every minute on board was packed with desi  thrill.

We all looked like a family–no one questioned anyone’s faith or sect or province, while helping or talking. I even saw some other fellow passengers exchanging their contact details. with the

How I wish, and I can only wish,  we embark on a similiar journey in Pakistan too where everyone helps everyone else without worrying about his faith or allegiance.

The plane landed at Karachi,  and we all departed with hugs, khuda hafizs and promises from some to stay in touch.

I walk down with speed across the placards at the exit of the tube. As I walked  past them to reach the immigration queue, a lady passenger came up to inform that there was a placard with my name too.

Yes, my PR gifted husband had used his desi ‘right ‘ connections at the airport to expedite my exit–in a true desi style. As if I had to catch a train in next few minutes.

The escort not only asked for my passport but also offered to carry my hand luggage, much to my embarrassment. More so because there, more than half the crowd’s glaring eyes were watching what was going on.

Finally in a typical desi style I was  whisked through the immigration at a supersonic speed , getting  the baggage form the belt, rushing  past the custom officers without any check even of the luggage tags.

I was really embarrassed and guilt ridden , but then there is a desi thrill in this VIP act too. And within minutes I was at the exit gates.

Before the exit, I turned back to find  a few hands waving Khuda Hafiz from far behind.

While I reciprocated to their waving with as much enthusiasm, I remembered  the take away message , a lecturer in  one of the social business  gave some years ago:

In order to be successful in this field one needs to be ‘people rich’ rather than money rich or mind rich.

His lesson seemed to make sense now.

Category:

Humour, International, Personal, Social Issues

Tagged with:

Be more anomalous, I yearn


In this world so chaotic
So intolerant, so fanatic
To opinions divergent
To expressions deviant
That my mind churns
And into words it turns
Makes many a eyes burn
And some big heads turn
But, all for my tenacity
I budge not from veracity
As more rendition I learn
Be more anomalous, I yearn

Category:

MY POETRY, Personal

LIFE AND DEATH


Life is tough, death so easy

Life is suffocating, death so breezy.

Life is ugly, death such a beauty.

Life is  unrewarding, death so fruity

Life is chaotic, death so peaceful.

Life is so shabby, death so graceful.

Life is turbulent , death such tranquility.

Life is complex, death depicts simplicity.

 

Category:

General, MY POETRY, Personal, Poetry

TO BOTH THE LANDS I BELONG…


Yeah, my heart throbs alike for the two lands

Yeah, my love is equally blind for the two places

Yeah,  my voice   sings  songs  in  the two languages

Yeah,  my eyes see identical dreams for the two people

Yeah,  my lips whisper the same prayers  for  the two  nations

Yeah,  my mind worries for the peace  between the two neighbours

Yeah,  my heart aches on hearing  the hatred screamed by the two faiths

Yeah, my tears roll witnessing   the venom  spewed by  the two communites.

Yeah, I feel no difference between two names the world  calls  INDIA & PAKISTAN.

For,  the  hammock of my life hangs between these  two HOMELANDS.

“My deep connection to the land that is Pakistan had been renewed. I felt lucky to have both countries; I felt that I’d been given what partition had denied many. For me, it meant the possibility of a different education, of embracing the three-tier history of India whole, perhaps an intellectual troika of Sanskrit, Urdu and English.”

~Aatish Taseer in his book ” Stranger to History”

INDEED IT IS BEING LUCKY TO BELONG TO BOTH THE COUNTRIES.

A feeling which you can ‘feel’ only if you ‘ live’  it. But mind you , it doesn’t come in easily. One has to rise above a lot of prejudices, a very many stereotypes and take a lot of crap from so called ‘patriots’  from both the sides before you attain this feeling.

P.S. Unlike Aatish I  respect the reality and the existence of political border between the two countries but  dream of  ‘psychological’ borders’  erased between the two peoples.

I hope I live to see such a day.

Ilmana Fasih

17  January 2011

(Background: Am an Indian married to a Pakistani man, with two ferociously patriotic Pakistani kids who say:” We love India but we own Pakistan.”   As for me I love and own both the places).

Category:

India, MY POETRY, Pakistan, Personal, Poetry