Monday 23 June 2014

First draft- A thousand Miles More

Raja awoke to the loud clamor outside. He turned eyes half shut to the empty bed beside him. Sultana's bed was made. It was not like her to be up before him. He would usually have to wake her, especially on school mornings like this one, but she was nowhere to be seen. Another loud thud, and then a scraping noise came from the other room. The kodti felt strangely busy for such early hours. Raja swung his legs round the side of his bed. Eyelids still heavy he couldn't find his chappals, and too intrigued to see what all the commotion was about, he padded across onto the veranda.

The courtyard was full of activity. He saw Ami-jaan rescuing the large metal tray that had fallen. Her chaador draped over her head. It wrapped neatly across her, covering her to her forearms. While carefully it remained pinned to her shoulder she was busy collecting pots, pans and utensil piling them on top of each other. He watched her as she grabbed the four corners of the cloth that had been laid out underneath and tie knots securely on top. Maybe she was sending them to be washed, he wondered. "Abdul! take these and put them on the cart." She called out, her voice soft but demanding. Abdul, the worker in their home came running across the courtyard. In one swoop he plucked the cargo off the ground and carried it on his shoulder to the horse and cart that was already waiting. They were, one of the only families in the village, to own a horse and cart of their own.

There was no smell that morning of parathas being cooked over the warm stove or the sound of Abu-jaan reading the Quraan. The char pai upon which Abu-jaan would normally sit, precisely positioned under the shade of the orange tree was empty. Raja from the corner of his eye saw Sultana. She was dragging a large trunk out from the other room. "psst, Sultana" he whispered. "what are you doing?" She dropped the trunk and looked at him startled. She hadn't noticed him hiding behind the pillar of the veranda. "what are you doing hiding there Raja?" she said, her tone tense, eyes diverting to and fro looking rather annoyed. "I just wanted to see what was going on" he said with eyebrows raised, tilting his head to one side. "We are packing, isn't it obvious and I suggest you keep out of the way," she snapped, and with that she swiftly turned dragging the heavy load. "You can't get it down those steps by yourself" he said quickly hoping to keep her attention for a little while longer. Her one foot firmly placed two steps down, and other balanced on the step closest to the trunk, her arms and hands tried to manoeuvre the bulky load into position. She stopped and looked at him. Her face softened, and while breaking half a smile, her eyes bore a darker shade than the normal glisten of auburn that always alleviated his worries and helped chase his tears away. He looked back at his sister with confusion. What was going on and more so, why was she not telling him?

Being an eleven year old in a household of seven siblings and two adults especially being one of the youngest it was rare that Abu or Ami-jaan would tell him anything. He would often have to wait for Sultana to pick up the news. At sixteen she was like a second mother. They spent much time together and he knew her moods well, but today, they were hard to read. Today, even the air was different; hemmed, hesitant.

He ran round the trunk and with both arms and all his strength lifted the trunk while sultana dragged it down the three steps. “Wait what are you two doing? You will hurt yourselves like that.” A soft concerned voice carried on the slight morning breeze landed on his ears. Raja looked up and saw Abu-jaan walking in through the gates. “Abdul, come and help the children. Sultana you help your mother and help the children get dressed.” Sultana quickly straightened, and adjusted her duppata that hung loosely around her neck, quickly whispering “leave this now and go inside, I will find you some clothes and then you must get ready” before she scurried over to Ami-jaan in the kitchen area who was feverishly busy selecting and sorting.


Raja stood staring. He still didn’t understand what was going on. Abu-jaan looked different. His fair radiating face today looked as grey as his eyes. His shoulders sloped and hunched today unlike what Raja had ever seen. His father was a disciplined man, strong and fair but always soft and kind in word. His back always upright and his face always beamed a smile, but today it was like he carried the whole world’s burden on his shoulders.

to be continued..........

Sunday 15 June 2014

Fathers day

For me it’s father’s day everyday.

From a very early age I had a passion for words. I was a constant seeker of knowledge and think always will be to the end of my days.

Before I could articulate words, I would create images, which manifested in a constant stream of drawings and paintings, being my favourite pastime as a child. During the evenings, I would not sleep without listening to my father tell me an old folk tale in Urdu, of distant lands and of places I had never heard of or ever seen.

Visual arts were encouraged in our household, with my father being a keen photographer, making me his apprentice.  He loved to take me on his adventures of discovery, travelling up and down the country to capture pictures and life; to fill every curious sense with exhilarating beauty.

I remember once, my father taking me on a trip to London to visit the museums, asking me to write a story of the day on our return. I wrote for days. Pages and pages, trying to capture each and every thing felt, seen, smelt and experienced; a day now engraved in my memory like it was yesterday.

From there on, writing became an outlet for me, especially poetry. It helped me through my teenage years and as I grew older, words I found hard to say in person, I would often write. It was always an emotional release; a pleasurable pastime. It wasn't till later in life after having my children I realized how my writing could also be used to convey messages, be shared with others in the hope that they too may take something away from them or provide a source of inspiration.

My most cherished memories of time spent with my father are of evenings listening to his stories of old. Tucked snugly in his bed, under the lamp that spread its warm pink hue, I would listen with eagerly attentive ears. Head propped on pillows, eyes wide with gasps of excitement and whimpers of fear, I never tired, always asking “just one more.”

I feel so blessed to be the daughter of a father who has given me the greatest wealth; morals, manners and appreciation for the world and its’ blessings.  I feel honoured to be that granddaughter of a great wise man I wish I had met, an artist; true and sincere. My father is the centre of my world and has made me who I am today but also I feel exceptionally blessed to have the best uncles who have served as inspiring father figures in my life too.

Being a parent myself I know the struggles endured in raising children, and recognise that there are parents that are doing it singlehandedly; under difficult circumstances, through hardships, poverty, war or trauma.

Being a parent is the most challenging and most rewarding job in the world. I hope that I too, like my father and his father before him, am able to leave a lasting legacy that inspires, encourages and motivates not only my own children, but others too.



 

Monday 2 June 2014

Poem- Where is, the love.

where is the love?

When life washes ashore, 
when held in destructive claw, 
or when walking from the wreckage,
of heat and flames so savage.

where is the love?

Hidden between cracks,
of bricks and mortar,
chaos and disorder.
Beyond closed doors,
when flesh beats down on floors,
muffled screams,
where blood streams
at the hand of regimes.

where is the love?