Get, Set, Validate

Loving yourself when people around you don't is one of the hardest things I've had to do. I make it sound like I've learned it already but I know I haven't. In fact, I'm not even close.

I grew up in a large family of an uncle, an aunt, grandparents, cousins and of course my immediate family of parents and sisters. I recall an extremely happy and content childhood. My family that lived in a downtrodden Muslim locality took immense pride in valuing education over everything else. 

My father who grew up in a patriarchal environment thought it wasn't necessary for my mother to work. He did come around later. But it was my grandparents doing that my mother earned two master's degree and ended up being a very loved and respected teacher, also an expert in English grammar. My father, a banker, stuck between his patriarchal upbringing and the immense love for the three daughters that were born to him was a disciplinarian. But most days his love (read sheltering) gave us a pretty comforting and loved childhood. 

My very patient and understanding mother never coddled us. She never had the time to do it. She was what some would today call a superwoman--the one who managed an impatient husband, difficult in-laws, three willful girls and all the house chores. I would say she did a good job of it but I do not necessarily applaud her feat. I don't blame her either because she did not have a choice. 

But speaking of family, it would be incomplete to not talk about my grandfather who played an important role in our upbringing. He was the one who set the narrative. He made it very clear that he liked the grandkid who won accolades. And for him the bar for accolades was pretty low, I'd say. He would go hours talking about my sister's break dance performance which actually involved just three steps through the entire song. When I wrote an essay on Mahatma Gandhi in grade 7, he called up his friends to inform them of my so-called feat. It'd be fair to say he exaggerated our little achievements to the degree that we felt we were rock stars (at least some of us did).

That's how I grew up. A good deed always got rewarded in words, often repeated for years in front of every guest who ever turned up. I'm pretty sure some people stopped coming over after a while.

My grandfather did pass over some of his traits down to his family. My parents were very observant and always generous with praise. My chore in the house was to clean the kitchen platform after dinner and my mother appreciated my style of work so much that it almost made me work twice as hard. Needless to say, the kitchen was always sparkling clean.

A few years later we grew up and moved out. Out there in the world, it became clear that not every good deed is wholeheartedly appreciated and there are absolutely no points for trying. Jobs, bosses, relationships, roommates threw at me facts I did not know about myself. I didn't know I was self-centred. I was told I get bored too soon. Someone said I don't try hard enough, or I'm not good enough. I adapted and learned a lot of things once I moved out, but nothing prepared me for loving myself without other people's approval. Approval was necessary, approval was basic. How else do you validate yourself!

I did survive good, bad and horrible people. I made it through most difficult heartbreaks. And every time I thought the experience was training me to be a stronger person the next time it hurt harder. It took me a while to figure out that I had a constant need for validation. Moving to newer cities, meeting different people made me realize that it was possible to live without validation. Some people did it so gracefully I almost envied them.

I struggle with it to date. It upsets me when people around me are cold to me. I'm disappointed when I do something nice and it goes off without a word of acknowledgement. I can't deal with a judgment that exists without dialogue. I know that I should learn to love myself first and not seek for external validation, but I don't quite know how to do it.

I am aware the world is not full of people like my grandfather. I understand the only possible way to overcome this is to move on and not care so much. Theoretically, my problem statement and solution are pretty clear to me. But practically, it's still the biggest struggle of my life.

The pied piper of Ahmed Manzil

You know when you study a topic hundred times in hundred ways, and finally when it comes to implementing it, you forget it all.

My grandfather, failed to remember, that pain in the back, could also be a sign of heart attack, when he had one. He had read and discussed about symptoms of heart attack so much and so often that anyone who knew him would not believe that he could not identify his own symptoms.

The neighbors knew something was not right when they did not see him doing his routine morning jog. By evening, the house was filled with relatives and friends from all over the city for his funeral.

He was a friendly figure in the neighborhood. Loved by a family of children and grandchildren, he chose to stay in an independent apartment, a block away from his children. At 82, his life was still as busy as it was in his twenties.

People swarmed in and out of ‘Ahmed Manzil’, the three floored apartment that he built in his father’s name. His ex colleagues from the postal department, people with stuck pension cases in the court, his friends from the mosque and community, were the regular visitors.

A doting grandfather of 5 grandchildren, he had all the love he needed in his life. “You all make me rich,” he would say.

I recall him as our childhood pied piper. We would follow him everywhere — at his 10 kilometer jog to the fort, the Majlis (community gathering) where he would address the people and even to the post office for casual visits.

His living room was a convertible play area for his grandchildren. During summer days, it turned into a cricket pitch. On Sundays, we enacted class room play using the door as a blackboard, painted black by him. In the evenings, he was our Arabic and math tutor.

To many who he helped for getting their pensions regularized, he was a philanthropist. His community friends remember him as the one blessed with a singer’s voice. When he gave the Azaan (call for prayer) in the mosque, people in their houses would ask the kids to be quiet and listen to the melody.

Singing was something he enjoyed. ‘Chaudhavi ka chand ho, yaa aftaab ho’ (Are you the full moon, or the sun?) was an old Urdu song he would sing, when he was happy. 

It’s been more than a year that he passed away, but home is not the same without him. My brother visits his grave often. He removes the grass that grows around the grave. I shiver at the thought of imagining him, lying down under there.

 How difficult would it be to lower the body of your loved one under the grave, cover it with earth, leave them there and come back to a home without them! How do you let a loved one go and how do you make them stay.

My grandma sits next to me while I write this. She is peeling the skin off a sweet lime, subconsciously singing, “Chaudhavi ka chand ho yaa aftaab ho.”

Someone up there is sure happy today.

A brief history of a dream

The first time I met my cousin Iqra, at my uncle’s place, we were both twelve. She sat on the front porch with J.D Salinger’s ‘Catcher in the rye’ in her lap, while she fumbled with a Rubik’s Cube.  I walked up to the porch and asked her “The swing is empty. Do you want to play?” She kept her things aside, held my hand and ran with me in the park. “I will solve the Rubik’s Cube puzzle one day. Daddy says I can.” She said. We spent the next three days playing, reading and talking about things.

I had found a good friend in her. “Iqra means read in Urdu”, she said to me as we sat on the porch reading. I told her that my name meant ‘happiness’ in Persian. “That is what connects us so well. When you read, you feel happy," she said, smiling brightly.

It was the last day of our vacation and we went down to play in the park. “I want to be a physicist like Stephen Hawking when I grow up”, she said, as her swing went up high in the air. Later when I admitted to her of not knowing who Stephen Hawkings was, she explained to me about the theory of the formation of universe.

When I met her a year later on her thirteenth birthday I gifted her ‘A brief history of time’ by Stephen Hawking. My mother’s skepticism over my choice of gift for a thirteen year old was put to rest when Iqra was exhilarated on seeing the book. “She sleeps with the book under her pillow”, her mother told me a week later.

For the next few years, I didn't see much of Iqra. I learnt from my mother that her father had lost his job. I got away from my conscience by blaming it on the absence of telephones in her town for not contacting her. I was just too occupied with my cosy life to worry about a distant cousin’s troubles.

When I was in the first year of Engineering, her father passed away. I wanted to pick up the phone and talk to her but I wasn’t sure what to say. I even contemplated writing a note to her but my absence in her troubles drove me away to disguise under the pretext of studying for my exams instead.

It was the last day of my second year engineering exam when I came home and saw my mother packing her bags. “We are leaving; the wedding is in the evening. There is food in the refrigerator.” She said. “Who’s wedding” I asked opening the refrigerator door. “Iqra’s”.

By that time, I had learnt to do away with my conscience.  No matter how contrite I felt for being indifferent to her sufferings, I had mastered the art of concealing my guilt by focusing on something more prominent in my life. “It’s been so many years, she probably won’t even remember me, besides I have a class project to finish”, I said to my mother when she asked me if I wanted to accompany her to the wedding.

When I got my first job, it was her first kid’s third birthday. Our lives had moved on in different paths.  A year later, she had moved to our city with her family. My mother asked me if I wanted to meet her. My guilt long forgotten, I only had good memories of our old childhood friendship. I decided to pick something up on the way for her kid. He was too young to read a book, besides, Iqra would already have plenty of them, I thought.

When I saw her on the front door waiting for us, I tried hard to hide my disappointment. I did not recognize her. She wore a pale green suit; hair oiled and tied in a braid. She looked ten years older than her age. As soon as she saw me she embraced me. I hugged her back, with a lump in my throat.

Our reunion was disturbed by a glass breaking noise which came from her house. Startled, she ran inside and got her kid holding him by his waist. The little boy started screaming. She threw a stack of pages at him and said “Here, make paper planes out of this and fly them. Don’t touch your father’s bottles.” My hand touched the Rubik’s Cube inside my bag but then it stopped when I caught sight of the paper plane. The header on the paper read ‘A brief history of time Page 46’. I swallowed another lump in my throat, took out my wallet and gave the boy a 500 Rupee note. I couldn’t bear the sight of her world. Tears streaming down, I left her place to escape in to my own.

The Outsider

This coffee shop is old and familiar
Like this city is to me
And though I sit here today
Its not the same as it used to be

Its not the place that matters
Its the people around who care
The mirth in joy, the pain in sadness
Is not the same without someone to share

The owner here has changed
He doesn't recognise me from farther
Cause today I am not fighting for the couch seat
Or giggling when I come to take my order

I sit silently writing in a corner
Hoping he would notice me in the end
This lonesome girl he doesn't know
He knew that cheerful friend

Tired I give up agonised
Then laugh over this conquest of mine
The need to be recognised
Will go away with time

And so will disappear
The guilt of an intruder
Cause wherever you go around
You will be an outsider.

Resonance

"I can't put up with grief", she said in a pitch little louder than her usual. I couldn't help notice a quiver in her voice, like it was about to break down. A few minutes back, when she entered the room, she was singing one of my favorite songs. She was a shy singer. Once, she confessed that she did not have a singer's voice, nevertheless, she loved to sing. Often, she sang her heart out, looking at me, which was something she enjoyed the most. That, she had once said, would make her appear more confident, feel more content and look more graceful. And then she would stare at me searching for an acknowledgement of the compliment that she had given to herself.

That day she was looking into her laptop and singing—
Beqarar dil is tarah mile, jis tarah kabhi hum judaa naa the. (Anxious hearts met in such a way, as if we never had gone astray)

The song was interrupted when she stumbled upon an old memory. And then I saw her face change. It illuminated like the rising summer sun, followed by a smile, which was brutally stopped halfway on her face and then it withered away, like a dry autumn leaf, lost in the whirl of wind. 

Her expressions had transitioned from euphoric to thoughtful and then turned wry. I saw her walk slowly and sit on the chair in front of me. She looked at me or rather through me. She seemed to be so far away. All I could do was wait. 

And then she began speaking. She told me how much she loved the people her life. "I want to hold the people I love with these two hands as tight as I can" she said, showing me her hands. "And if that is less, I will embrace them".  She had stretched her arms which made her look like a kid, when she was already sounding like one. Telepathic that she was, she read my mind, put her hands down and restructured her poise.  "I can cope up with sadness but I cannot put up with grief", she said with a shaky voice followed by the explanation of their difference. "Sadness is soothing.  It is like the memories that you hold on to so firmly. You don’t ever want to part with them. It’s the pain of missing someone you loved so much, that you are in love even with that pain. That is sadness. You create it, it grows in you, it belongs to you, you love it and no one can separate it from you. But grief, it is not something you ask for. It’s what comes as an unwanted supplement and is stuck with you for a lifetime. The worst part—you cannot do anything about it". With a large tear rolling down her cheek she completed, "Grief is helplessness".

As much as I wanted to console her, I waited for her to gather herself again. She stood up and walked away. When she came back, she was composed. And she looked at her image and smiled. In resonance we sang-
Tum bhi kho gaye, hum bhi kho gaye, ek raah par chalke do kadam. (You got lost, I got lost too, walking a few steps together)

Singing to her reflection, because that was something she enjoyed the most.

Rising in love

She had always been a deep sleeper. Her sleep had defeated all hurdles. Be it an imaginary earthquake felt by her room mate who had tried in vain to wake her up, or a robbery in the neighbourhood when all the people from the locality were out on the street at midnight and her father had to lock the door when she was left alone sleeping inside or the long power cuts in summer nights when her sisters would wake up and play Antakshari around her. Nothing could disturb her slumber. She slept peacefully, like a baby. Until she fell in love. And no one can fall in love and remain the same. Here's a scribbling from her diary-


Somewhere in the middle, of the night you had woken up because your throat went dry and demanded water. Thousand kilometres away, I had woken up because of the mini earth quake that my phone had caused and had sent the vibration from under the pillow where I had started placing it every night. The long vibration tone and the placement of the phone right under the pillow were both strategic. Since the last few nights my brain had auto programmed itself to react to them- the reaction was excitement. This time, even in the middle of the night, with the sleepiest head ever, my brain got a signal that the vibration had made me happy. I reached for my phone and opened my right eye to check your message. While it took about 2 seconds for my eye sight to adjust to the brightness of my phone screen which contradicted to the darkness of the room, my brain was sending it yet another signal to shut up and go back to sleep. Ignoring that, I fumbled with the phone pass code thrice until I managed to get it right. The phone finally unlocked and I read your message. My fingers went agile and typed a quick response and sent it. I was glaring at the phone with one eye open focussing hard at your status, waiting for it to change from online to typing. It did happen in the next 3 seconds which actually seemed like 3 minutes at 3 am in the night. And even when your message said- 'good, go back to sleep' which was exactly what my brain was asking me to do, I typed Bye and waited - for your status to turn from online to typing. But it turned offline. And in the next couple of minutes, the phone's display, my open eye and my mind dimmed successively, until I was woken up by another long vibration few hours later and I opened another eye.


The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.. We know the truth not only by the reason, but by the heart." - Blaise Pascal

Pyaasa

This is a fan post. I have turned into a Guru Dutt's fan of Pyaasa! When I mentioned this to my friend who is a fan of Guru Dutt's another cult work, Kagaz ke phool, he said 'kya gham hai tumhari life mein'.

Technically, there is no gham(sadness), I told him. The world has been fair to me, life has been easy and I have always met people who loved me back more than I had expected. But when I watched Pyaasa, something inside me changed. It was the ultimate happiness of liking something that I cannot relate to.

Pyaasa is magnificent- The story of a struggling poet, Vijay, played by the actor who makes me blush at the mention of his name- Guru Dutt. I have replayed that part 12 times when a young bashful Guru Dutt tries to woo the girl in classroom with his spontaneous poetry -

Jab Hum Chale Toh Saaya Bhi Apna Na Saath De, Jab Tum Chalo Zameen Chale Aasman Chale, Jab Hum Ruke Toh Saath Ruke Sham-e-bekasi, Jab Tum Ruko Bahaar Ruke Chandni Ruke

While the entire movie revolves around this artist’s struggle, what keeps him going is his art itself and a secret admirer with a heart of gold. It couldn't have been pulled off by anyone as beautifully as done by Waheeda Rehman, the epitome of grace. When he encounters the woman he had loved and finds her married to his employer, amidst an elite party of established poets, he lets loose the most soulful song of his time. And though I had grown up listening to this melody, I had never really understood the depth of its lyrics until, Vijay the disparaged poet sings it-

Bichhad gayaa har saathi dekar pal do pal ka saath 
Kisko fursat hai jo thaame deewano ka haath
Humko toh apna saaya tak aqsar bezaar mila
Humne toh jab kaliyaan maangi kaaton ka haar mila 
Jaane woh kaise log the jinke pyaar ko pyaar mila

Nothing could beat this lethal combination – S. D. Burmans’s melody, Hemant Kumar’s voice, Sahir Ludhianvi’s words and the screen presence of Guru Dutt.

For the next four days this movie stayed with me and I couldn't help talk about anything else.

‘But Guru Dutt was a pessimist’ said my friend on the fifth day. I blushed, as I had only heard the subject and ignored the predicate of his statement. My friend got confused and added- 'That is why he died a tragic death at 39'.
‘That’s the best part’ I exclaimed, ‘His fans got to see only the young and charming Guru Dutt.’
‘That’s not true’, he said ‘Technically, we have seen the old Guru Dutt too’.
‘Kagaz ke phool’ We both said almost together.

Dekhi Zamaane Ki Yaari
Bichhade Sabhi, Bichhade Sabhi Baari Baari