Open up your mind and your potential reaches infinity…

Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

MY DREAM


 

Chalo haseen khaab ek banayein, ye khaab phir bana ke gungunayein.

Khayalon ko chalo zara sajayein, nashey mein kyon na jhoom jhoom jayein.

 

Let’s envision a dream, to hum to its musical notation

Adorn it with fulfillment, so dance to that intoxication.

 

I sing  for a dream of a world with NO wars, NO borders, NO discrimination and NO ill-health.
~Me

A journey of a boy’s mama


Whatever a woman happens to be—whether a home maker or a working woman, whether a successful or an ordinary woman—-if she is a mother of a boy as well, she will have to walk through the same journey that every ‘boy’s mama’ travels. The journey with girls is somewhat different. As they say, and I agree, you can raise 4 girls instead of one boy.

And the journey goes:
.
Test comes ‘positive’
Nause, morning sickness
Anxieties, apprehensions
Back aches, as weeks pass by
Yeyy, the angel kicks.
Oh what a feel!
Thy name is Mom.

Midnight heartburns
Pale eyes, puffy face
Torment of unease and fear
Pain progresses, as hours pass by
Wow, the baby cries aloud.
Oh what a bliss!
Thy name is Mama.

Hundreds of feeds
Thousands nappy changes
Restless days, sleepless nights
Burns out, as days pass by.
Yeah, the kiddo crawls, runs, jumps
Oh what a sight!
Thy name is Maa.

Baking favourite cookies
Reading bedtime stories
Lessons on good manners
Million scolds and hugs
Unending kisses on cuts n bruises
Shoes grow smaller, as years pass by
Aah, the naughty boy grows
Oh what a comfort!
Thy name is Ummi.

Daily tug of war
High spirited, roguish teen
Naggings on deaf ears
Endless worries and woes
For exam grades, as terms pass by
Pheww, the playful graduates .
Oh what a tranquility!
Thy name is Amma.

Constant vigil
Assertive, youthful
Heart breaking arguments
Amidst endless love, selfless care
A constant referee between Dad and him
Egos collide, generation gap manifests.
Differences pile, as life passes by.
Alas, a youngman, independent, comesforth
Oh what an atonement!
Thy name is Ammi.

Ilmana Fasih
Dec 26, 2010

…YET SO DIFFERENT


Words are soft, words are loud
Words express humility, words show proud
Words are refined, words get uncouth
Words sound different from different mouths.

Smile taunts, smile praises
Smile lets down, smile raises.
Smile with perfect teeth, smile with braces
Smile appears different on different faces.

Love is silly, love is smart
Love strengthens, love tears apart.
Love stays selfless, love is selfish from the start
Love feels different in different hearts.

Mind remembers, mind forgets
Mind takes pride, mind regrets
Mind thinks active, mind lays dead
Mind works different in different heads.

Life lives, life dies
Life laughs, life cries
Life gives up, life tries
Life looks different through different eyes.
…………………………………..

Ilmana Fasih

18 December 2010

(Completing an old incomplete one).

BABY DAYS…


You were a little angel, so soft and pure
Always so thoughtful, and so very demure.
You have no idea, how much comfort it still brings
To reminisce the touch, on my face, of your tiny wings.
You were so caring and kind, to whoever you knew
And got more genteel, the older you grew.
I knew from day one, you were my best friend
For you were a special gift that God, indeed, send.
You were unique, and so precious like a pearl
So fresh and pure, more than just my LITTLE GIRL.

You gave me a reason to laugh everyday
By the pranks you played, in your unique way.
Banging doors, climbing on the table, jumping off the bed
All scolds fell on deaf ears, no matter what was said.
The hell of life turned into a heavenly bliss
When you came running, to blow you a kiss.
While crying out loud, for your bruised knee
You wrapped your arms, for a bear hug, around me.
And the tears of pain, turned into laughter and joy
So off you ran,yet for another prank, my LITTLE BOY.

ALL THAT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME…


Dignified distances where proximity doesn’t need to be,
Is the true source of pleasure that means so much to me.

Caring blankness where expressions don’t need to be,
Is the true face of contentment that means so much to me.

Gratifying cries where laughs don’t need to be,
Is the true sight of comfort that means so much to me.

Comforting taunts where praises don’t need to be
Is the true sound of repletion that means so much to me.

Satisfying indifferences where attention doesn’t need to be,
Is the true sense of complacency that means so much to me.

Acceptance of realities where fantasies don’t need to be,
Is the true sign of maturity that means so much to me.

Understanding silences where words don’t need to be,
Is the true gift of FRIENDSHIP that means so much to me.

Ilmana Fasih
18 December 2010.

ONLY IF THE PASTURES ON THE OTHER SIDE WERE THAT GREEN


My home phone rings.
“Hello, this is Akshita here”
“Akhsita?Oh yes I remember.”

It took me a few seconds to place her- a young 26 year old Indian doctor, from Chandigarh who I had met on Oct 25, 2010 during a day long exam for Canadian Licence for medical practice.

I had noticed her sitting huddled up in a corner during the hour long break in the exam and I sat next to her with the usual smile to initiate a dialogue

“Are you from India?” she asked
“Yes from Delhi.”

We deicide to go upto the coffee shop to buy cofee and stand in the queue exchanging the usual data about each other.

“But I need some coins too so that I can call my husband once the exam is done.”
“So you don’t have a cell phone,” I stop short of asking her. Yes it isnt mandatory for all of us to have a cell phone.

We talk of the exam and the time flies away.

She mentions to me how ‘homesick’ she feels and it has been months since she talked to another Indian and another doctor.

“So you dont study in a study group”.
“No” she replied again.

Yes I too dont like group study so just give this answer a pass.
As we pack up to turn back for the next session and she asks me, as if unsure if this was an appropriate thing to ask:

Can I have your phone number? If I need to, can I ever call you?”

I dictate out the number again too involved in my next exam without giving my name or even asking her number in return, even out of politeness.

We disperse and she is out of my mind.

Today she calls up to ask about the outcome of the exam result and poor soul declares that she could not pass. I reassure her, and to stay put until she succeeds. Next exam is 6 months on and enough to make a strong preparation.

She explains that she can only talk till her mother in law is in the shower.

She breaks down with the news that she cant even appear again until she reimburses the fees for this exam to her in laws .

“You couldn’t succeed, the fee of $1500 dollars was a total waste”—she is repeatedly taunted by her husband.

We talked for about 20 minutes or so, and she seemed  keen to do most of the talking. I let her.

She confided is being nagged to compensate for the fees. How? She has no clues nor have they hinted how. Go out to work? She says but they dont let her even step out alone from the house. Or maybe if she does go out to do an odd job of $10.25 an hour, they may change their mind.

Or graver still , maybe they expect her to demand this from her family back home to refund. But they are so kind that they do not say it in so many words.

They are letting her use her ‘independence’ to decide how she would reimburse.

“I feel miserable.I dont know what to do’”?

The word homesickness strikes my mind. Now I get a clue to what ‘homesickness’ she was going through in her new home in Canada.

She is being reminded several times a day and in several ways that they got her married to their son, for doctors here earn good money and she has proved to be an expensive daughter-in-law on the contrary.

She is now here since 3 years and lives with her inlaws. She has been attempting to clear the licensing exam since past two years in order to come into the medical practice in Canada.The expenses for the fees are pretty fat and generally it takes a few attempts for the average foreign trained proffessional to pass the exams.

Since she’s been feeding on the family’s expenses for these past 3 years, who had even financed her $ 2000+  airticket when she arrived in the country after marriage and the expenses of her books, exams fees she has been convinced. With all this already spent on her,  she has been convicned she cannot be provided with a cell phone.

“Here the person is paid on an hourly basis and half of the money is taken away in taxes’, she is told time and again.

Hence, to make long story short—she does not need to have a cell phone.

She is ‘allowed’ by her generous inlaws to make a 5-10 min call to her parents every 15 days and they are so kind they stand by her for everyminute of the call she makes to her ‘contented’  parents. Why shouldn’t they be, their girl is settled in Canada.

Any deviation in her expressions to her parents over the phone from ”alls well’ tone is greeted with eyes popping from the mother in law’s sockets,  or for days when her husband “neither looks, talks or touches” her. (in her own words).

She has no relatives or acquaintnaces in the town she lives, and before she got my telephone number, she did not have even a single phone number to call in times, good or bad.
Mother in law is a retired lady and hence she is fortunate to be escorted by her all those hours when her husband is away. When he arrives only does she do her other social obligations.

She feels she and her husabnd are   literally “remote controlled” by the  mother in law.  But she is ‘kind’ enough tolet  her study time from 8 am to 12 noon, soon after her husband leaves for work, but past noon onwards she does the house chores of cooking and cleaning, unsupervised, while the mother in law makes a one hour telephone call to her daughter in another city.

Three years and she has not been even dropped a hint at learning to drive, with a simple assumption from her that she can only do it once she has her Canadian passport.

 I offer her if I could help her in any way, she feels extremely undecided and then wants to wait that if she passes next time the attitudes will get better. At times she contradicts herself and justifies that the husband is “really bearing too much of her expenses”.

I ask her if she could give me her Indian phone number so that at least I can drop a hint to her parents—but she confides that the father is a heart patient and the mom has advised to refrain from any bad news.

I reassure her that there are various places and resources available for help but then it will need a huge courage on her part to come out. I also tell her to take her own decision—nor can I force her to take the action of my choice and then should go in with strong conviction. She repeats, “I think once I pass things will be different.”

As we were just in the midst of this discussion she hangs up the phone. Maybe it got disconnected. I wait. 

But the ring doesn’t ring again.It hasnt rung till now—almost 3 hrs since her call.

I feel extremely disturbed. Can I return the call? What if  other family members are home? What if she hasn’t told them about me and it might rebound on her. Hope she calls back. Hope she stays safe and in control of her situation
 

How can I take the baton for her? She has to run her own relay.
We can just guide her, reassure her and empower her to take her own sound decisions.

But the courage has to be her own.

I’ve never been so puzzled in life. I find it hard to get back to business as usual.

A perfect recipe for me to stay up all night, staring the roof .

Very often we hear of the cries of stories wherein the western desi girls are subjected to forced marriages by their families to cousins or other family members.

In Pakistan I know, there has been a special cell in the British HC for rescuing such girls from the clutches of forced marriages. Majority of these girls are at least school graduates and well aware of their rights and still they find it hard to rebel against what goes on.

A similiar but reverse trend of bringing girls from back home  is thriving too. Many desi households  in the west live a terrifically balanced life —by adopting those western values which suit them and conveniently being amnesic to those norms which donot suit them.

Prevailing social and economic hardships, over population, and fascination for the ‘foreign country’ or ‘west’ lures equally the parents and the girls back home to aspire for a foreign rishta. It offers a quick escape from the hardships in the heat and dust back home. The guy’s family too finds it a lot convenient to look for a simpleton bride from their homeland with the impression that the girls back there are still make ‘bholi bhali bahus’ as they had known when they migrated a couple or more  decades ago. Majority of them live in the time freeze of the times they had last lived back home.

The parents quite often, convince the boy,  after he has done enough of ‘playing around’ in high school or college days, that now it is worthwhile or rather safe to go for a desi girl with a desi frame of mind—fulfilling everyones convenient dreams—most of all of parents themselves,  of  a desi seedhi saadi bahu. It also  enables obliging the relatives ‘behind’  by choosing their daughter, hence opening their gateway to the west.

The guy is convinced that the girl who comes will be adjusting and law abiding at home, wouldn’t be a threat to the marriage, and will never know her rights or claims if at all the marriage fails.
This is one mindset which atunes  all diaspora of the South Asians,  to the same wavelength, across all subgroups, all faiths, all languages and all economic classes.

Doctor girls are in huge demand by the foreign settled rishta parents from our subcontinent.

Principally it is a noble profession, it makes  great news to announce that the bahu is a doctor, if she gets into the system she will mint money and will be the blue eyed of her husband and his family as their mortgages will be finished soon.

Back home with 4:1 ratio of girls in medical colleges, and the valid aspiration of every medical graduate to find a suitor of equal professional aptitude is tough, hence getting a proposal from a foreign settled graduate is like  “her man in shining armour riding  a white horse, who will come, and lo will vanish  all the miseries in her life.”
.
Of course the  cousin marriages, in Muslims,  need no cross check. In other communities, the girl’s family is so enamoured by the foreign rishta that they believe on word of mouth or get impressed by a tour of the photoalbums, and consent to the foreign damaad  without much investigation. Even if they wish to inquire, ‘the distance, the visa, the expense’ constraints  are enough to dampen the ‘evil’ thought.

Investigations for what?  She is a doctor and she will earn well over there.
A lot of them do not even explore how tough the licensinfg exams are, and that barely a fraction of them are able to make into the field of medical practice.

Majority of doctors end up being grateful housewives or doing odd jobs or even diversifying into diametrically opposite fields like interior decoration, beautician, research assistant or a teacher.

This is not the srtory of one Akshita. The situation on ground is overwhelming in volume.
.

The idea here is not to create a paranoia but to inform about the various vulnerabilities one faces—be it in professional terms or socail viewpoint.

Despite the tremendous pressures for a right match or aspirations to move over to the greener pastures, it is mandatory for the parents to cross check the degrees that the boys claim to possess and the the possibilities of one’s daughter to be able to pursue her career.

She should be aware of her rights as well as the duties which takes to make marriage a compatible, pleasant and a worthwhile experience. It certainly does not imply that all are alike but a lot of girls I have personally known do find it tough to adjust to the controlling ways of their insecure inlaws.

Getting one’s daughter maried off to a stranger residing thousands of miles away needs a truck load of courage. It should be embarked upon with wisdom and with all the possible issues in mind.

It has been, now, 4 hours since Akshita called me. She did not ring back. Hope she is fine and safe. Hope her controlling mother in law hasn’t heard her talk on phone.

I hope she gets enough courage to stand up on her two legs and her husband grows a spine in his back —to at least lend a moral support to his wife, who has come a 4000 miles just to spend the rest of her life with him,  and who is going to be a mother of his kids in future.

If the mother in happy, their children too would grow happy.

Most likely, I am afraid her situation will prevail as such with cyclical pattern of frequent taunts and then a few happy moments— typical of  abuse—and she will go on for years being unsure whether it is appropriate for her raise an alarm and she will be listened to.

Every doctor girl coming here to Canada or west in general, has to go through the challenges—of adjusting to the new way of life, pressures of completing the battery exams in order to get back into practice, feeling homesick but unable to visit parents and with loads of expectations that one day she will turn into “a goose that will lay gold eggs.”

In this era of information explosion it is an abominable sin to embark on a life long decision unaware of it’s pros and cons. It is mandatory on all parents and girls to please take wise decisions.
Please look before you let your daughters leap.

Decide carefully and wisely…

Ilmana Fasih
16 December 2010
(PS: This is a true story of today itself. However, Akshita is not her real name).

YOU


A poem for my dear husband Fasih on his Birthday:

If out of moments, I could choose one
and keep it throbbing in my heart too
Of all the times that I have seen,
I’d pick the moment, I met you.

If out of associations, I could choose one
and keep it recollecting, as truely true,
Of all the friendships that I’ve ever had
I’d pick the amity, that I had with you.

If out of emotions, I could choose one
and keep it aflame, as always new
Of all the vibes that I have felt
I’d pick my ultimate love for you.

If out of embarrassments, I could pick one
and keep it cherishing as one of the few
Of all the blushes that we have shared
I’d pick the one, when I said ‘yes’ to you.

If out of events, I could choose one
and keep it reminding, as heavenly too
Of all the years that we have spent
I’d pick the day, I tied ’the knot’ with you.

If out of rages, I could choose one
and keep getting haunted by its horrors too
Of all the angers that I have spewed
I’d pick the one, that first fight with you.

If out of places, I could choose one
and that kept us warm and cosy too
Of all the abodes that we have lived
I’d pick the little nest, that I built with you.

If out of farewells, I could choose one
and keep regretting how we bid adeau
Of all the bye byes that we have exchanged
I’d pick the one, when I moved ‘here’ without you.
If out of dreams, I could choose one
and wish to keep it alive, forever too
Of all the million wishes that I have made
I’d pick the one, of reuniting again with you.

MISS YOU!

Have as GREAT A HAPPY BIRTHDAY as you can have without us.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

OH GETTING THE MEN IN MY LIFE TO RELISH VEGGIES!


I have yet to find a yet more daunting task than to get the two men in my life and my home  to enjoy the vegetables that sit on my dining table.

Right from the creases on their foreheads when the news spreads outside the kitchen that veggies are on the menu card that day, to the whole process of cooking and then laying it on the table is what I call a ‘domestic Jihad’.

Suddenly a much cooperative and mild husband turns into an embodiment of a mean ‘zaalim shohar’ and a son into a ‘chauvinist ruffian at their mere sight , what to talk of the tasting act.

The 20 year old DRAMA gets enacted each time with the ditto dialogues—

ACT One

““I don’t mind aloos and bhindis. But this stuff—no, no doctor ne mana kiya hai sabzi khaane se.”” That says a man who is himself playing doctor, doctor since past 25 years.
And then my typical jala bhuna dialogue—“ Haan haan, when the coronary arteries will get 60% blocked, doctors will reverse the veggies restriction”.

ACT One ends.

For years I took this as a welcome opportunity to flaunt my hubby of his Pakistaniat and the love for Niharis, Haleem or infact anything that had the ‘animal protein’ in it. I even got mean at times like a typical nagging wife to accuse that only if his mom had insisted on him to eat veggies, I wouldn’t be suffering today. And he left no chance to retort at us ‘miskeen Indians’ for having been raised on sabzis like ‘bakris’.

Who knew that God was watching us too.  And HE decided to send me a son who is a replica of his dad when preference of veggies are concerned. More scornful and even more frowning is his face at the sight of them than was of his father in his prime years.

And adding fuel to the fire—anytime he scorns at the veggies my husband gives me a nasty smile which speaks volumes of his “A Musa for the firaun in me”  disdain. But am too smart to even take notice of his smile and cleverly act dumb to his expressions.

And then continues the ACT Two of the age old drama—

“If you wont eat veggies your wife will accuse your mom of not having taught her son to eat healthy”, remarks my husband

Now both my son and I act dumb.

In fact my son gives his Dad a look which speaks of –“Look who’s talking.”

Thankfully as the husband enters the fold of middle age—he seems to have softened down over his anti veggie stance and now eats some more veg- things quietly, and I too act as if I haven’t noticed , just thanking my God and my perseverance for it.

However, the son is at his peak of the anti veggie stance. But the difference is that he does not openly accept his hatred for the veggies like the dad used to and claims he eats salads—‘which are fresher and healthier than cooked veggies’. And that, ‘they preserve their vitamins more and in the cooked ones the vits are destroyed’.

Fair enough—he isn’t absolutely inaccurate but then time and again I keep introspecting why is it that men naturally don’t prefer veggies than women. My husband claims that it is the muscle mass in men which compels then to take “high quality protein” which only animal protein can supply. How far is this scientifically correct—only research can prove.

Every quarrel at the table with my son on veggies makes me keep brooding for hours as to how can mums get their sons to relish the sabzis.

What is the secret formula?

Or who are those men who enjoy veggies over non veg.

At least in my surroundings and upto third-cousins—I have yet to find one.

Even my supposedly ‘miskeen Indian” kins are all carnivores leave aside being omnivores.

Hard brainstorming has made me reach a wild guess that it is the taste that needs to be correct.

And the taste in any food lies in how it is prepared. Our problem amongst muslim households (whether Pakistani or Indians ) is we cook vegetables like gosht—with lots of spices and making it mushy.

Why is it that the same anti-veggie son of mine takes away all the veggies while eating, but when he gets to eat Chinese food—he chews down every bit, be what—lettuce, carrots, pepper, brocolli etc.

The secret perhaps is that —it is just cooked—and maintains the crunchy feel of the veggies. And then the original flavour of each veggie is not killed by the loads of spicy curry powder that goes with it in our usual meal.

Cabbage, carrots, peppers, onions in their visible form over a pizza or a pasta go almost unnoticed by my men. But if comes a desi sabzi—they don’t even bear to look at it.
Innovative cooking and a few tricks, can do wonders in getting the men in your family swallow veggies.

When cooking any of the above mentioned stuff I try to add as many veggies as possible so that they will end up being consumed. I even try to piece the veggies in Pasta so tiny that taking out becomes a harder exercise than to swallow it down the throat.

As for the logic that kids should be trained from the early age to eat veggies, has failed miserably in my household. Except for French fries there were no veggies that my son would look at even instinctively. I wonder if this is due to some fault in my weaning of my baby or is it the general norm in most house holds—I have yet to explore.

Yes, one thing worked wonders for my son and that was the example of the cartoon Popeye, the sailor man, who made my son happily eat spinach till he was naive—the day he became cunning—he started questioning the taste of the same erstwhile delicious spinach. And despite millions of viewings of the Popeye cartoons during the feeding time of my son—here I am back to ‘square one’ with absolutely no liking for the ‘green mess’ which my son calls the spinach.

A son who I proudly call an ‘exceptional’ one because of his strong views against drugs, smoking and even fizzy drinks at the age of 17.

But alas, can’t convince him to love veggies.

Any new ideas? Please, I am in dire need of ‘em…

ILMANA FASIH

21 July 2009

HAVE A SHAY DAY…


Recieved this lovely story in an email from a very dear cousin.Thought it would be wonderful to share.
At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its staff he began:

“Dedicated staff “,

‘When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection.

Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.

Where is the natural order of things in my son?’

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. ‘I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.’

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, ‘Do you think they’ll let me play?’ I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, ‘We’re losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning..’ Shay struggled over to the team’s bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt.. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay’s team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat. At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball. However, as Shay stepped up to thePlate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay’s life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher. The game would now be over.The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game. Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman’s head, out of reach of all team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, ‘Shay, run to first! Run to first!’ Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled. Everyone yelled, ‘Run to second, run to second!’ Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball . The smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher’s intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman’s head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, ‘Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay’

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, ‘Run to third!Shay, run to third!’

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, ‘Shay, run home! Run home!’

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team

‘That day’, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, ‘the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world’.

Shay didn’t make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

AND NOW A LITTLE FOOT NOTE TO THIS STORY:

We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mail without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people hesitate.

The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.

Well, the person who sent you this believes that we all can make a difference. We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the ‘natural order of things.’ So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice: Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up those opportunities and leave the world a little bit colder in the process? A wise man once said every society is judged by how it treats it’s least fortunate amongst them.
MAY YOUR DAY BE A SHAY DAY….
AND NOW MY TWO PENNY FOOTNOTE:
If not anyone else we can make a difference in the lives of our kids, spouse, siblings, parents, friends or even inlaws. There is nothing wrong in being a bit of a ‘cheat’ just to make some one else happy.
Let me share a secret today in my attempts at such a ‘cheating’.
* Whenever any of my kids would come home upset either by having had a fight with a friend or scolded by a teacher or not having got good grades or for not having been selected in a school’s team I would just let them vent out all their anger and then tell them to relax—which certainly they wouldn’t if they were too upset.
So later in the day I would fake with them that I feel like a kid today and want to play a board game with them—either a scrabble or a checker or even a snakes n ladders.
Most of the times my innocent son would comply to mama’s request and agree to play.
It’s another story that it used to be another task to make my upset daughter to agree to play—she would retort-
“I am upset and you feel like playing today.”
….and my plan would fizzle out miserably.
But innocent as my boy was (no more is), we would sit down playing mostly scrabble and I would deliberately make lousy small words and let make him make the big ones. He would be too excited that,
” Ammi’s English vocabulary is miserable.”
Ultimately he would win and forget all about what had happened earlier in the day.
As a result he grew up thinking he is ‘a scrabble master’ and even did attempt at looking up into the dictionary to make big fat words while playing.
I would be the happiest mother to lose and make him please.
My husband would give me mean looks later and comment—“Happy after doing a fraud with your own child, only if I knew it before—you wouldn’t be here in this house.”
Years passed by and my baby grew up.
After 3-4 years of not having played, last year in a cold, depressing winter day in Canada I told my son, ” It is so boring, how about playing a game of scrabble?”.
A 16 year old shrewd boy that he is now- -he smiled back at me and said:
“Okay Ammi but on one condition—that you will not deliberately lose the game with me today. Now I get why you played scrabble with me when I was a small idiot.”
I actually took it as a challenge and played with him, in with full competitive spirit trying my best to defeat him. Unfortunately, this time I actually lost. But was still as pleased as in the years gone by.
PS—I read it somewhere in a book by Freud that if you want to boost confidence of your child—lose a game with him/her.
MORAL OF THE STORY: It is Freud who is a fraud not ME :))
Ilmana Fasih
18 November 2010

Why Another Year to Live


High time I evaluate,

The purpose of my being.
Into another year I graduate,
Alive, with a dream of seeing-
“A world without a border”
Be the new world order.
And…
To stir ripples of ‘feeling’
To propogate waves of ‘caring’
To draw floods of ‘sympathy’
And a tsunami of ‘empathy’.
For millions who strife
For mere neccesities of life.
In a world with ignorance, disease and hunger
Aspiring to make a difference , until I linger.

Ilmana Fasih

18 November 2010