Diary pages

As random as they can be, I am flooded by your memories every day. I hear the crass sound of wood polishing on warm Sunday afternoons. I remember those two wooden armchairs in the main hall of Ahmed Manzil. You would rub them off with sand paper to polish them. I remember the smell of those brown discarded papers and the dust fallen around the chairs. Smell of polish connects me to yet another memory - shoe polishing. Under the wooden table, they were fashionably placed, like the display on a shop. Black, brown and white shoe polish tins, three polish brushes and a dusting cloth. Two of those brush to be used with black and brown polishes and one with scarce hair to wipe them off after polish. This one gave a graceful shine to the shoes, you would insist, as we all would sit down preparing for school next day. Shoe polishing would be a dedicated affair on Sunday nights which was accompanied by ironing school uniforms.
 
Sunday was undoubtedly my favorite day of the week. It started for us from Saturday evenings, when the five of us were allowed to sleep together on the ground floor in the main hall. I remember the rugs being laid and the beds being made for Saturday night. All geared up, our main attraction would be the movie that was shown on Doordarshan at night. You would sleep early which was evident when you snored and we kids giggled quietly till 12.30 until the movie would get over. I never remember getting up before 9 next Sunday. I would sleep until pappa came down and woke me up. He would be upset- why do you let the kids sleep till so late. Ammi would meekly try to protest saying we are kids and you would just smile from behind the newspaper. I have memories of waking up to see you sitting on the edge of your bed, dressed in a Tshirt and white pants, your sports shoes still on after the jog and the Sunday Times copy in your hand. I remember having the 4 pm tea and rusks with all doors and windows closed creating the ambience while watching the daily soap 'Kahin kisi roz'.
 
Ramzan would be the most special month of the year. It reminds me of the keema samosas and rooh afza sherbat.'10 minute baki haiiinnn' you would announce as we all sat surrounding the dashtar khan with delicacies served before us. Mummy, Ammi, Chachi, baji would be rushing in and out of the kitchen with plates of hot bhajiya. I remember standing on my toes in the balcony on the second floor outside chachi's kitchen to peek a view of the eidgah ground. It was an exquisite sight to watch hundreds of men bowing down in unison for the eid namaz. As soon as the namaz was over we would rush down to the ground floor and wait for you. Even before the eid hug was complete your hand rushed to your pocket for Eidi.
 
I have another uncomfortable memory of trying to learn 'tasdi'. When I made every possible excuse to avoid the Maulana, you had said firmly 'Unless you learn tasdi you will never be able to progress from siparah to Quran'. Months later, I had finally managed to grasp it and finish the Quran. I also remember the summer vacations when you woke us up early and took us along with you for morning jogs. This would be a total 10 km walk up to the fort. I still remember those four dictionaries kept under the table that you would encourage me to use whenever I asked you for the meaning of a word.

I visualize you sitting down on a mat, bent on the wooden desk box, writing furiously. The wooden desk box would be full of stationery-  pens, foolscap paper bunches, stamp pad, inland letters, postal stamps, paper pins, postcards, royal blue ink pot, a wooden ruler and some of your pension rule books, all of which was out of bound for us. But when we grew up, I remember you would call me and ask me to read one of the letters you had written to some minister about a social issue. I would feel privileged.
 
Your room still reminisces of your memories. Nobody has touched a thing there just the way you liked it. T-shirts are lined up on the hangers. The books are lying lifeless on the corner of the table. Your prayer rug has been untouched. The white mosquito net has been half undone, the way you had left it. A torch and a woolen cap are tucked down under sides of your pillow and the folded blanket lies neatly on your bed. There is also a letter, the last one written by you still lying there on the table. A blue sealed envelope addressed to the chief minister. I lie down on your bed for a while and capture this picture. In a parallel universe, you read this and smile.