From chai addiction to spiritual freedom in Ramadan
Of course I am going to talk (yet again) about the beverage that makes me tick: chai. Or tea, if you prefer English. The groggy morning self longs for a cuppa as I saunter down the stairs and sit lazily on the couch trying to get myself together. The cat brushes past my ankles and I frown, annoyed as I cast a longing look towards the kitchen.
If I wasn’t fasting, I would boil water and loose black tea for a good 12 minutes or so. I would then add evaporated milk, boil it a bit more till the colour and aroma feels just right and so incredibly inviting. Then with a flourish, I would strain it into my beautiful blue and white mug. (Yes, the mug is new. And it’s beautiful, and he doesn’t know we have three of the same ones in case the kids or the dishwasher get overly excited and shatter the masterpiece). But I digress. After pouring it into the said mug, a sprinkle of saffron and I’m charged with a million batteries. Suddenly I am good-natured and humorous and I can come up with sixteen very creative ideas for my daughter’s science project. But not so today. Today I’m feeling strictly ‘meh’.
Ramadan, for me (especially it’s first few days) is always a bit tricky. Chai has a refreshing, energizing effect on me, as a result I avoid drinking it at Suhoor (pre-dawn meal). In any case, post suhoor, trying to sleep while the bathroom urges keep disturbing me, is already quite challenging and I imagine the diuretic effects of tea would only make it harder.
After breaking fast at iftar I avoid tea because I need to catch some winks in the night before it’s time to wake up for the pre-dawn meal. In essence, there is a sad separation between me and chai in Ramadan. It’s painful and the fondness of it is such that I am writing an entire blog on it.
The dreadful caffeine withdrawal lasts a week at best and after that I realize I can function without it. I can be fun and funny and I don’t have to blame caffeine for it, plus the jitters of an extra strong chai can be thankfully avoided. I also save myself some extra calories and nothing interferes with my sleep. It sounds impossible but my concentration levels and my ability to focus on one task with complete immersion has improved somewhat. Wait, am I seeing life outside of chai? Me, the addict – am I noticing that life might be good after all without my steaming cuppa of dopamine?
Perhaps this is an invitation to not just explore my caffeine addiction, but everything else that I think that I can’t do without. This is what Ramadan is really about, isn’t it? Breaking free of the chains we think bind us. Realizing that we can do without our much-loved beverages, the frequent meals, the extravagance in food and more importantly, we can do away with habits like gossip, backbiting and social media addictions.
As Ramadan hurtles along towards its end, I wonder if I have truly cleansed myself of the addictions that plague me. I wonder if I have learnt to be with myself, in silence and solitude and lived the true purpose of fasting – connecting to Him and being aware of His presence in my life. I wonder if I have let go of comparison and competition and just like the desire to drink tea is waning, are my worries and anxieties fading?
As I sign off, I remind myself that Ramadan must bring about a reset of the body and the soul and I hope to celebrate Eid with a lightness that is both physical and spiritual, more calm and contentment and umm.. I really wouldn’t mind a karak on the side. Just saying.
For the ones who would like to read the chai series:
I recently came across the book “The How of Happiness” in which the author Sonja Lyubomirsky presents scientific arguments and research on how to get and remain happier. A number of different studies quoted in the book show that our personal circumstances only account for about 10% of our happiness.
Yes, that means that the coveted job we’re after, that perfect partner or even winning the lottery would in essence make us only about 10% happier in the grand scheme of things. So where does happiness lie? According to Lyubomirsky 50% depends on our genes but that still leaves another 40% and that, she argues, depends on what we do and what we think. That aligns with my belief too — that happiness lies deep within and that our actions and thoughts make a huge difference in how happy we are. While she doesn’t give research on how humour helps with happiness, I personally feel laughter has a lot to do with how we feel.
I’m not sure how and when I began being known as the ‘class clown’ — but somehow the title has stuck and for a good few years now. I have a strong urge to break the monotony of lectures (or boring work meetings) and provide some kind of comic relief, much to the dismay of my professors/well-meaning colleagues, who by the end of the year have usually given up on me. They say what goes around comes around and sometimes, in my sessions as a trainer, I come across students that say and do the same (inappropriate) things that I would do as a student/trainee. In spite of myself I can’t help laughing and secretly applauding their guts.
It was quite early on in life that I realised that I loved laughing, and that I had an equally wonderful time making others laugh. I longed to be able to write material that gave people some kind of mirth, some kind of joy. I’ve been extremely lucky with mentors, editors and opportunities and over the years humour has become one of the genres I experiment with.
I always thought this part of me was just a silly side of me — unimportant — not really essential to who I was. It took the steam off from days that felt like pressure cookers but surely, it did not matter, or really make any kind of difference, right? The analytical, logical side, the hidden nerd that loved reading and studying, the woman of principle, the listener who wanted to be compassionate — that’s who I really was, right?
I’m starting to realise that the advice given to friends under a pile of self-deprecating jokes was particularly well received and I felt more like myself when I was laughing or trying to make others laugh. The literature that made people smile was read far more than the most serious, analytical piece I could write and the dark, satirical humour I wrote on my personal issues helped me perhaps a tad bit more than the sob-fests (which by the way I also write). Equally telling is how I would naturally gravitate towards a chuckle-inducing PG Wodehouse book than say, a serious war novel.
So, what’s the point of this whole piece? Let me just say that when life happens — being the comic is actually my relief. Yes, there are times when laughter just doesn’t cut it and sadness and tears are necessary for a complete human experience. When I hit rock bottom and I’m done processing the pain I’m feeling, the easiest way to get back up is to laugh once more.
As long as humour is in good taste and doesn’t violate the more important principles of empathy and compassion (towards self or others), for me it truly is a way out. When I’m able to crack a joke about a seemingly hopeless situation it isn’t just a silly, unimportant side of me. It’s that quintessential part of me that finds joy in the bleakest of moments and can (hopefully) spread it too.
When I first read the following lines by Arthur Weasley (Ron’s Dad in Harry P, remember?) “Ah, yes, I collect plugs,” I was a teenager. I had smiled about it and thought “How cute.”
Molly Weasley’s husband is as different from mine as possible, but the boys have a shared love of plugs. In fact, mine has one-upped Weasley by a fair margin. He not only collects plugs, he collects wires (all colours, shapes and sizes) tools, voltmeters, solar panels, old car batteries, bulbs, inverters, electrical tape, nuts and bolts and everything in that zone that you can possibly imagine. I live in a workshop, or you could even call it a solar plant. We produce our own solar energy and someone in our family firmly believes that electrical wires add a great deal to aesthetics. Our storage areas are also packed with random power-packed devices that can blow, cut or weld, and that’s not all. We regularly receive innocuous looking packages from Amazon and even from China, because, guess what — we don’t have enough wires, bulbs and plugs.
Any empty drawer in our house seems to grow wires and it’s cronies — I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve opened a cupboard that wasn’t assigned to something in particular with the intention of keeping something in it and found that our never ending supply of plugs and co had overflowed and encroached upon that empty space too. I should add that the scientist in charge of these materials is a genius, a busy man, who couldn’t care less about how materials are kept. I mean if we can produce solar energy at home, surely, the mess shouldn’t matter right? Umm … Well, you know …
I used to be (notice the past tense?) a neat freak, someone who looked at jumbled up cables and felt nauseous. Not ideal, as you can imagine. There was this one time that I decided to ‘clean up’ one very important cupboard that belongs to my husband. Upon opening his treasure chest, I just stood staring at it for a few minutes and when I came to, I had a big garbage bag in my hand. This incident is not pretty. If you love wires, please look away.
I felt a warm sense of fulfilment and peace wash over me as I retrieved tired-looking wires, bulbs with broken filaments and tools that looked useless to me and tossed them. I found so much dirt and dust I thought I was cleaning up mini sand dunes, and lo and behold — after a full day of hard work, the cupboard looked clean. There were wires sitting nicely (UNJUMBLED!) on the shelves and devices and machinery without a speck of dust (Martha Stewart would be proud) and of course why would one need two screwdrivers of the same kind if one would suffice? Minimalists could write essays on how wonderfully I downsized his cupboard. I remained mum about this feat when I met him later that day but every time I passed by the cupboard I would give it a loving, secret look and open it up and smile while waving my arms as though to say “Here you go!” I think I might have chicken-danced at some point too.
A few days later …
“Who messed my cupboard?” he asks, while rummaging through his stuff.
“MESSED? Are you serious?” I respond incredulously, finally hoping to get due acknowledgement.
“DID SOMEONE THROW MY OLD TOOLBOX?” He says in a voice that gets ever more menacing.
“You mean helped you cleanse your mind and life of clutter as you embrace a more minimalistic life?” I say weakly.
I can’t tell you what happened next because I have feeling my editor will not allow swear words. The above happened many years ago, but its echoes have been far-reaching. We’ve spoken (read: argued) about my ‘cleaning’ many times — especially when something’s gone missing. As a result I now have selective vision that automatically blurs out the wires. Somewhere along the line, however, we learnt (nah, still learning) what compromise actually means and maybe the wires (and the man who works with them) — are cute after all!
My Dad could cut fruit beautifully, perfectly and without wasting any of the fleshy bits, he could carve out a watermelon, peel and slice an orange within seconds, or go from a prickly pineapple to inviting slices – and present it on a plate so elegantly you’d be tempted to eat it all up even if you’d just had dinner. And he did this with a smile on his face, humming a tune, turning the fruit and the knife in his hands rather like an expert magician and impressing us with his dexterity, and knowing he was doing it ‘just right’. That, my friends, was when I began learning about excellence, but I just didn’t know it yet.
So what exactly is excellence? Excellence is when we give things their due, when we pursue something like it should be pursued; mindfully, joyfully and earnestly. The exact opposite of excellence is mediocrity – mediocrity is when you shuffle through life being strictly ordinary and you couldn’t care less. Excellence is when you don’t settle, when you do something – anything – with a desire to make it count. One might think excellence is achieved only if the end product is beautiful. I think differently.
Excellence is achieved when our thoughts and intentions are pure, when we do things for the right reasons, and we do them because we really care. The pursuit of excellence is usually born out of commitment to a higher purpose or a bigger goal and every step taken on that journey keeping the ‘eyes on the prize’ is in fact, excellence. It’s setting your own world alight, it’s knowing what you want, why you want it and it is taking meaningful, devoted steps towards it.
We typically associate excellence with some people – have you noticed? People who are generally good at something will most likely be good at everything they do, and people who are sloppy will most likely be careless or sloppy at all tasks. I’m not saying that excellence is simply an attention to detail, or a pursuit of perfection, in fact it is far greater. Excellence is an attitude of resilience, of grit, of staying focused, of believing in your goals, in yourself and then daring to be seen because you gave it your best.
This is an attitude or a trait I desperately want to acquire – I want to be someone who’s relationships – every single one of them – is cultivated with care, respect, a fulfilling of duty, sincerity, selflessness, unconditional love and therefore, excellence. I want to be someone who leaves that kind of an impact on the world, someone who lives this life making every second on the earth count. I want to have excellence in the way I use my time, in the way I parent or have conversations, in the way I do everyday tasks because I deserve nothing but excellence from me.
Here’s another thought. Excellence is failure. Yes, you read that right. Excellence is not necessarily beautiful and perfect like my Dad’s plate of fruit, and especially not in the beginning. Those that get to excellence are those who face failure chin up, with a tear and a smile that says: “I’m good enough. I CAN try one more time.”
Sometimes, it’s the process that becomes even more delightful than the outcome. Excellence is not the destination, it is the journey – and because the journey is so meaningful the end invariably becomes wonderful. It is the journey undertaken with a clear vision, with a heart that is filled with sincerity.
The pursuit of excellence can be draining, and there will be days when we mess up and are tied into mediocrity and it seems like there’s no way to get out of the rut we’re stuck in. On those days, it is essential to remember that you can still have thoughts and aspirations that are great, and these will then translate into an excellent reality. Some days, that first step, that painful phone call, or that realization which you’ve been running from could be excellence.
I didn’t realize it then, but those plates of fruit had hidden lessons. While I did learn to cut fruit and present it nicely too – I only wish I can internalize the bigger and more important lesson of excellence in every aspect of my life.
“Umm, Listen!” I say, and my voice rings across the grocery store. Ten people look at me and I recoil with embarrassment. I look at my shoes instead — the person I am trying to reach seems far from interested. He is busy exploring the car accessories aisle while I am dealing with a shopping trolley and a toddler who thinks that the fruit yoghurt in the cart should be eaten right now. Frustrated, I try again. “Can you hold the baby, please? Listen? LISTEEEENNNN?”
Listen (AKA the husband) walks gingerly towards me, annoyed at being pulled away from all things cars and picks up the baby while I clean her up. That was us, some 10 years ago. I belong to a very traditional family, deeply rooted in desi, Pakistani culture and in my family, none of the women call their husbands by name. In his absence, the husband is referred to simply as ‘Him’ and in his presence he is called either ‘Listen’ or ‘Munnay kay Abba’ (Dad of my child).
Both my parents called each other Listen. In addition my Dad had some very amusing nicknames for my Mom, including Peahen, which indicated that he was the peacock. So naturally, when I got married, I too decided that the husband was going to be called Listen. I ended up giving him numerous nicknames too, most of them the kind I wouldn’t use in public. So in parks, groceries and with our extended family, he was Listen, and I, the shy, Eastern wife.
My children called him Baba, and then unconsciously I began calling him Baba too. It was easier to use than Listen (random people in grocery stores wouldn’t answer) and it was more acceptable publicly than my nicknames for him. All went well until one day he turned to me and said “But I’m not YOUR Baba!” I thought the guy had a point. But by then I had gotten so used to calling him Baba that I thought a derivative of it would work fine. So, I decided to call my husband Bob. I tend to play with names (I think the readers get that by now) — so Bob quickly turned to Bob-Zilla and Bob-Zola.
Now I should tell you that my husband looks nothing like a typical Bob should so while this nickname stuck for a bit, it didn’t suit him at all, and the person who noticed it most was my dear Father-in-law who was visiting. “You named my son Bob?” he asked serious, incredulous, and amused, all at the same time. “Could you not choose a more appropriate name?” he asked. Out of respect for my wonderful in-laws I dropped the Bob — and just began calling my husband Zola. As I have mentioned above, the full version was Bob-Zola, but now due to circumstances, only the Zola part became useful.
My predicament with the name doesn’t end here. The Zola (as he was referred to in those days) refused to appreciate my depth and creativity with nicknames. “ZOLA? Like seriously?” he said. It was only after this that I gave up and used his actual name to refer to him. When that happened he looked at me askance and said, “Oh, so you now call me by name? I mean, there’s no warmth or personalisation there.” I had let go of the pretence of the shy Eastern wife and it was then and there I decided that I would use his name.
As we finish over a decade and a half by each other’s sides today, I’m recalling all the fun times, the crazy names and most importantly, the companionship that we’ve been blessed with. We’ve both failed miserably at times, but the standout feature has been the vulnerability and the resilience of our relationship.
One of my long standing issues has been perfectionism and I’ve learnt that more than anyone else I will make mistakes in relationships — but I’m still worthy and lovable. I’ve learnt to be self-accountable, not self-critical — knowing the difference between the two is essential. I’m working on developing the courage to dust myself off after every setback, know that I messed up and still say sorry and not hate the ground I walk upon. I have to say that the Zola, or Bob, or Him has been just — phenomenal.
There could be plenty of ways by which I could remember 2020. I could remember it by the pain and helplessness of seeing my father unwell and his subsequent passing, I could remember it by the fracture of my foot and the agony of not being able to walk, and I could of course remember it by the fateful pandemic that took over all our lives.
I could even remember it by some of the most challenging struggles I have ever faced on a personal level, and difficult questions I have had to ask myself. While the opening of this piece feels contradictory to the title, please bear with me. 2020 really has been the best year of my life so far. Let me explain.
It is true that I lost my father (and that void shall never be filled) but I also realised what a beautiful legacy and what lovely memories he left behind, and what a life he lived. I realised how much of him lives on in me, and ironically, in this year of social distancing, I found some of the most precious souls I am lucky to call friends and mentors.
2020 for me was a year of not just realisations, but actualisations. If the last three years were the onset of a journey, 2020 helped me catch a glimpse of the destination. 2020 was all about learning (formally, due to a parenting course I enrolled in) and informally too, because life happened and lemons, lessons and blessings all tumbled forth.
The fracture had seemed like the end of the world; a bathroom trip meant a laborious struggle with my hated metal poles and while the upper body workout was excellent, my morale wasn’t. Slowly but surely I began to accept what had happened (without questioning fate) and then I began feeling gratitude for the arms that did work, for the hands that carried me everywhere, even for the crutches that bore my weight without a whimper.
Standing on my own two feet again without a cast or a boot felt like a blessing I cannot quite encompass in words — I’m eternally grateful for the tears that expressed my feelings.
Emanating from heart and radiating outward
Another very important change that 2020 marks for me is the realisation that happiness does not depend on our circumstances; in fact, it is a state of mind, a feeling that emanates from the heart and radiates outward into the world.
I had consumed quite a bit of literature on positive thinking but it was this year that I learnt to be truly content and grateful, and found a sort of sanctuary within myself that softened my heart and made it aware of the blessings I had previously overlooked.
Where I had earlier doctored happy thoughts inside my head in order to attract goodness I now find myself being optimistic and content from within because I truly feel there could be no other way to be. I am debating whether contentment or clarity is more important — but the truth is that 2020 has offered both in very satisfying quantities.
Yes, the pandemic has been alarming, but it’s also made me focused on what actually matters and how short life really is and that I should try and make every moment count.
I’ve never been a compulsive shopper (malls make me palpitate with stress) but this year was instrumental in helping me figure out the difference between needs and wants. I now think hard before heading out to the mall — the mad consumerism culture has finally been questioned.
I do need to buy groceries but I can certainly do without dinners at fancy places and a new dress. If we focus on our needs and use our funds in a beneficial way — rather than just feeding our never-ending wants, surely, this will translate into a life better lived.
In 2021 I shall take a moment to cherish the wonderful year that 2020 was for me, the lessons it taught, the insights it offered, the relationships it rescued, the people I gained, and most importantly, the finding of that one person who hitherto had been pretty elusive. Myself.
A bottle green Fiat 124s zipped across the highway between Karachi and Hyderabad for the second time in the day. Normally the journey would take over two hours, but this car reached a shanty little bakery in a suburb of Hyderabad in a little over an hour. A strikingly handsome and dapper young man stepped out. He had come back to Hyderabad for a very important reason. He pulled out a beautiful black leather diary and pen from the car’s glove compartment and walked into the bakery.
The shop assistant behind the counter took one look at him and cowered. “I’m sorry I got angry. I was having a bad day,” he said quietly. The shop assistant looked abashed, flustered and deeply pleased, all at the same time. The young man handed the shop assistant the diary and gave him a hug and all was forgotten. He could always say sorry, that was one of the things that I truly admired about him. The young man in the Fiat was my father.
The feeling of emptiness and grief after his moving on from this world is indescribable, and the void will never ever be filled. I will take this opportunity to celebrate a life that was extraordinarily well-lived, to hail a man who beat the odds and set a shining example for years to come.
My earliest memories of my father are of this jovial, happy person, whose humor, conversation and people skills made him the life of every gathering. His designer suits would be pressed to perfection, the ties were always tasteful and the hair had to be a certain way. You could smell his signature Chanel a mile out of his room and the black coffee was a staple. He managed a household of 15 as the sole breadwinner and he still had time to make each one of us feel special.
My father was extremely well read and his library at home contained everything from Allama Iqbal (he was named after him) to Oscar Wilde to Shakespeare, to PG Wodehouse, to Ghalib, to Tolstoy to GB Shaw, to history, art and so much more. There was Freud there too, and encyclopedias and volumes of religious literature too, plus the best sellers of those days, specially self-help books. I remember him reading well into the night with his side lamp on and reviewing the book with me the next day. We were allowed to borrow books from his library, but only if we were very respectful about them and returned them in perfect shape to the right shelf. Papa read his first Freud book when he was just 14; he was, in every way, a genius with a photographic memory.
Papa and I had a very special relationship – he wasn’t just a father to me, he was a friend, a mentor, a guide, a great listener and even a partner in crime – we sometimes watched cricket matches together the whole night, despite mom clearly telling us we weren’t allowed. If I ever needed someone to listen and advise, he was there. If I ever needed someone to read what I had written and not judge me, he was there. If I needed someone to tell me it was okay to get atrocious math results, he was there, (despite him being this unbelievable arithmetic mastermind) and if I ever needed someone to applaud my amateurish culinary or cricketing skills, he did it. If I was ever dejected, he provided the necessary cuddles and if I ever needed to laugh, all I needed was a story or two from him. He had travelled extensively all around the world and had spent a large chunk of his life in Europe and the Middle East, so he always had an adventure to relate and make us chuckle. How I wish I had written those stories down – what a great book his memoirs would make!
Being the youngest in the house, hardly anyone ever took me seriously, but my father spoke to me like people spoke to adults; sometimes he’d discuss business and important decisions with me and sometimes he would take my opinion on things that really mattered. He would listen to my (oh so many!) questions respectfully, and reply thoughtfully, as though what I was asking was valuable. He would sit me down and make me understand complex poetry from Ghalib, Faiz and Iqbal (and so many more) and he’d repeat the lines from his favourite movies, and make us watch them too. My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, BenHur and so many more classics in his video collection were all watched multiple times by us.
My sweetest memories with him would have to revolve around art, music and literature. Van Gogh was a favourite and Papa would open the big art books from the library and we would talk about art for hours. Papa understood rhythm like few people do, and he could hum the symphonies of Mozart, Strauss and Beethoven to perfection. I remember him calming me down so many times with the Blue Danube – his mouth was almost a boom box and he would replicate the different instruments and would also give me a synchronized head massage along with his lovely rendition of the symphony. His smile was infectious and the performance delightful — you just couldn’t stay angry at him or unhappy about anything after the Blue Danube! Sometimes Papa would sing for us and teach us his favourite songs too. He would also delight us with his cooking – Papa understood food like a science and his knowledge of world cuisines was quite extensive.
Papa loved harmony and the one thing that bothered him was disharmony in any way, be it aesthetically, or worse, if anyone in the house was at loggerheads with someone else. It affected him immediately; he would absorb the vibes and his forehead would get lined and he’d talk about how harmony was so important to him. I am now noticing that when people around me are not on good terms with each other I immediately feel the vibes just like he used to, and it interferes with what I call my ‘zen’. We do pick up so much unconsciously and consciously from our parents.
Papa spoke six languages fluently (English, Urdu and French among them) and he wanted to learn German and Japanese. He had excellent command over language in general and his own interest in poetry meant he wrote it really well too. Once in his younger days, he had gone to meet the great Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz and during the visit, he had nervously shown Faiz Saheb some of his own work. Faiz Saheb read my father’s poetry and promptly declared it was rubbish. Heartbroken, my father went off to England to study Chartered Accountancy. Years later, Faiz Saheb confessed that he had been dismissive of the poetry not because my father wasn’t talented – but because he knew a little encouragement would make a good-for-nothing poet out of a perfectly capable young man. Later on his life, Papa did return to poetry and how. I still have some of his pieces that I treasure deeply and revisit time and again.
One of the many things I greatly admire about my father was his ability to empower and mentor people. He was my mentor sure, but since his passing I have been receiving messages from people around the world telling me how my father had inspired and mentored them. Some of the people I know and some I don’t – but they all tell me his input in their lives has been invaluable. He always saw the good in people – his perspective on people and on life in general was overwhelmingly positive. He could reply to a million sobs with a single Mark Twain quote and he strengthened people with his love, wisdom and support instead of pitying them or making them feel like a victim. He also had an unmistakable aura, a charisma about him – you couldn’t not notice him. The attention to detail was astounding – you only had to look at how perfectly filed his nails always were to understand that elegance was very much a part of him.
He had an impish mischievous streak too that I found especially endearing and my Mom was his best and most loved target. His humor was rarely the laugh-out-loud kind – it was more of the witty, refined, subtle kind of humor that took you two minutes to figure out that you had just been checkmate.
My father was a very well connected, successful man in the worldly sense, but what was most striking about him was the depth of his personality and his innate spirituality. I remember having long discussions with him on religion and spirituality and he guided to me understand the concepts of love, worship, tolerance, empathy and most importantly of the correctness of our intentions and to never, ever judge people. Hate the sin, not the sinner, he always said. He was unafraid to practice what he believed and had the courage to ask difficult questions and make unconventional decisions if he needed to. He was an upright man, his love for God and His Messenger (PBUH) was evident in everything he did and said. I’d share things that were bothering me and Papa would pray for me like only a father can and later ask me — Mehmudah, did that thing work out fine? And then I would know why things miraculously fell into place.
As Papa’s perfectly coiffed hair (the temples always had to be silver and the hair black) gradually turned white, and the thobe (jubba) took the place of the suits, and a beard replaced the lemony aftershave lotion, a new, more reflective side of him emerged. The Chanel was now replaced by Oudh, and mind you, the Oudh had to be authentic. Papa was very particular about perfumes, and he spent a lot on high quality perfumed oils, much to my Mom’s chagrin.
Then his partner of over 30 years, my beloved mother moved on from the world and the man I had known to be the ultimate alpha male slowly began to recede, as though the shock, the heartache was too much to bear. The full manifestation of the Alzheimer’s and dementia was a gradual process and I can’t begin to describe how agonizing it was for me to witness the man who was famous for his unbelievable memory now unable remember his children’s names. Illnesses grabbed him and pain and suffering became his companions and he, the perfect, exemplary picture of patience.
In his later days my relationship with my father strengthened even more. I would visit him for days at a time and we still had our long discussions, with the only difference that this time, I would be the one speaking more, and Papa would be the one nodding more. Out of all his children I feel like I have been the luckiest – I spent the greatest amount of quality time with him and I was a willing, curious student, and he, ever the wise teacher. I did not know him merely as a father, in fact, I knew him as a person, as a friend, and vice versa. Sometimes I feel no one in the world understands me as well as him, and every time I write a piece (especially of poetry in English or Urdu) I imagine myself reading it out to him and him nodding as though to say – oh yes, I do understand this, without me having to explain why I wrote it.
If for a moment, I think of how my life would have been without my father playing the pivotal role that he played, I feel my personality would have been incomplete. I realize just how lucky I have been to be brought up by this beautiful man who actually lived the principals of excellence, gratitude and charity, and did not just speak about them. My father will forever be an example for me to follow, a man to love and respect, a person to cherish and a presence to dearly miss.
It will still take a while for me to fully process the gravity of what has transpired, to understand that he has indeed moved on and the regrets of not having served him as was his due will linger forever. But the love, the time, the attention and most importantly the confidence he had in me will always stay with me. And we don’t really lose the ones we love, do we? Don’t we just wait a little bit till we see them again? Rest in peace Papa, it’s been an honor. I don’t think any piece of writing could do justice to the life you lived, to the man you were, to what you meant to me. Words do seem inadequate today, Papa. Till death unites us again….
Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, Tiktok — exciting places to be where you never get bored. Right? Not for me. For the last ten years, I have not had any social media accounts except WhatsApp (necessity) and LinkedIn — which is strictly work related and I show up on it once a month (or lesser if I can help it). When the fourth person this week asked me why I’m not on Instagram, I decided to pen down my thoughts.
I find Instagram pretty impressive. I adore some of the filters, and its amazing how easily people are able to put their work out there and instantly make waves. There is some great content on the platform, and so much I could learn from. So why am I still not on it?
For starters, the content that I view online is carefully filtered — I do not watch videos on YouTube or WhatsApp or pick up a book, movie or article unless I am absolutely certain it will benefit me and aligns with my bigger goals in life. Social media may add to the noise, interfere with my solitude and I might feel compelled to peruse material that I really don’t need to. Moreover, I am an extremely private person and prefer to remain hidden, or be found out accidentally by those who care enough to look.
Therein lies my problem with social media. The minute I sign up for an account, it suggests scores of people that I want nothing to do with. I do not want an old colleague to know how my trip to Istanbul was, or learn about her children’s sports day. It’s also yet another go-ahead for the internet giants to document every little detail on me, and bombard me with adverts I do not need to see.
As I flick through a distant cousin’s life at campus in Massachusetts I suddenly feel like I’m not smart/thin/rich/ (fill the gap) enough and my kids don’t have the perfect hair, clothes or smiles and do not play rugby or swim for the state team to boot. I don’t know about you but social media pulls me into an unfortunate comparison, a sort of rat race where my family and I never feel good enough. One could argue that I strictly connect with only those people or causes that I truly care about but it’s tempting to accept follows and friend requests and I’d look very unpopular with only 20 friends or followers.
I did sign up for Instagram some five years back but a parent of one of my students wanted to follow me. I got a little freaked out. I had set up a bogus account from a bogus email but he still found me? Anonymity please? I ended up going off Instagram in just three days.
Let’s be honest, attention online feels good; a few likes and followers really wouldn’t hurt. I could support people too. But then I remember the dangers of social media addiction and the dopamine rush I associate with likes and comments, and how worthless I can feel when my post doesn’t do well. There’s this constant pressure to produce something completely brilliant to impress people, over and over again or risk feeling miserable. I’d like to remind myself — I am not here to impress people, and my own ‘like’ and respect of myself is what actually matters.
The only thing that I can see in favour of Instagram and its equally convincing siblings is that the work I produce can benefit more people if I were on social media. But then again, if created with the right intention, I have noticed that meaningful work can still be effective. While I may not be quite the social media star, I would like to think that whatever little effort I have made has been sincere and might have made the impact it was intended for, with or without my own social media accounts. Wouldn’t it be completely ironic if I requested you to please share and like this piece on social media? 🙂
Image for illustrative purposes only. Credit: gulfnews.com
I looked into his glowing, beautiful eyes and instantly felt transported into another world. They were magical, they were captivating. His perfect, muscular body glistened in the early morning sun and I felt a sense of awe and wonder. I wanted to be near him, I wanted to understand him, trust him and I wanted him to trust me too, but I felt shy, hesitant.
His mop of dark, unruly hair looked just a tad bit wild, but it suited him. Hesitantly, I walked closer to him, wondering: could I possibly ride him? Black Moon, they called him. This gorgeous horse stood in front of me and I cautiously gave him my hand to smell. He took a couple of sniffs and looked at me intently, as though trying to figure me out.
My first horse-riding lesson was so much more than just that. It was the realisation that getting out of one’s comfort zone is almost always rewarding and that denim skinnies don’t exactly fall into the ‘comfortable pants’ group. So I should tell you that I am mortally afraid of animals.
I think it all started with seeing my cousin being chased (and bitten) by a stray, rabid dog when I was 7 years old. She was terrified and how the dog howled, and sprinted after her, like a being possessed. From that time on, anything larger than an ant makes me highly uncomfortable, be it cats, dogs, bugs, goats or as we will talk about today, horses.
Another thing I should tell you is that I have poor balance. As a baby I am told that I took very long to get walking, I can’t rollerblade or ice-skate to save my life and the yoga poses that require balance and coordination? I usually find myself in a heap on the floor if I try those positions.
Horse riding, as you know, is a skill which requires plenty of balance and fitness, both of which I lack. But I went and signed up for the classes anyway, because though I may be terrified of horses, I am also incredibly attracted to them. I wanted to try something different, a new experience that would make me appreciate nature and take me away from the boring monotony of life.
So here I was, flushed and nervous and looking at Black Moon with wonderment and a longing to be able to ride him. The next 45 minutes were the most delightful minutes anyone ever spent on a saddle, an unreal experience on a beautiful, foggy Dubai morning.
It wasn’t just about learning to ride a horse, it was a negation of about a 100 stereotypes — I am fine with animals (I stroked and patted my horse and lived to tell the tale) and my balance isn’t quite as bad as I thought it was and no, I don’t need to be at my ideal weight in order to ride a horse and it’s OK to learn new things even if you’re not a school-going kid. I also realised that getting on and off the horse is more challenging than I thought and a kind, understanding and qualified instructor is such a blessing.
Black Moon may have looked wild, but he was gentle and trusting and at a mere click of my tongue he would start walking again, or stop if I pulled the reins. Another thing I realised is that horse riding isn’t just about mounting a horse and letting it do all the work, it is a skill that requires the rider to actively use their muscles, in fact it is quite a workout. The average person can burn about 250-400 calories per hour horseback riding at a slow speed.
The joy we receive from being closer to nature, and in particular in interacting with animals, is in it’s own league and I feel like I’ve waited too long to get over my fears and get on the horse. What’s holding you back? What’s the one thing that makes you uncomfortable but you secretly wish you could do it? Perhaps now is the time to take the bull by the horns.
— Mehmudah Rehman is a Dubai-based freelance writer
I will complete 35 years on the earth in about two days, and by the time this is in print, I would probably be done and dusted with the message receiving and gift opening that typically happens on the 7th of September every year. Now, I do realize that I am violating a lot of protocols here. Women don’t usually tell their age, much less project it in the national newspaper, and many don’t think reaching the riper side of 35 is a cause of celebration, reflection and achievement. But when have I ever been the sedate follower – I think a lot of what defines me is to not really care about what others might think and do it anyway if I believe in it strongly enough.
For starters, I’m genuinely happy I’ve made it thus far. As a child and even as young adult, I always imagined I wouldn’t make it past the age of 33 – somehow I always thought a tragic accident would kill me. Thanks and gratitude is due, I am safe and well and still around to share some important reflections on my story thus far.
Professor of Psychology Jeffrey Arnett was influential in identifying something called ‘emerging adulthood’ the age between 18-29 when you are still vulnerable and impressionable but because of the way life is, your experiences start to become greatly varied. Many of us are thrown headlong into life at this stage (without the protective comfort of our parents and early mentors) and inevitably experience significant failures and successes in this stage of life. These years have a great impact on who we become as adults. Most people consider early childhood and teenage as the most important building blocks of a person’s personality (and that holds true) however, this age too, has its very sharp learning curves and helps us build critical values and beliefs that last a lifetime.
Why it is important to identify this information is because a decade earlier my mindset was that of a victim. I was reactive to what people and circumstances were doling out, I had taken away my own control upon myself. I felt hurt, frustrated, disenchanted by life, and was expected to learn my lessons and act on them before I could even process what was happening. You must have heard of the term ‘Hurt people, hurt people’. Because I was unaware of my own emotions, and life was happening as it is meant to happen, I did not develop that quintessential quality of empathy, something I feel all meaningful relationships require.
They say that time is the best healer, I would argue that time is the best teacher too. Today, I am clearer about my purpose in life than I have ever been, I truly value and enjoy the different roles that I have been assigned, both personally and professionally, and most importantly, I have forgiven, both my rash younger self and the people who needed to be forgiven, whether or not they asked for forgiveness. The contentment that I feel is probably because I’ve been able to actively practice gratitude. I have also accepted and understood the unique person that I am, and with all my imperfections, I like and respect the person that I have become. This is not to say that I have become complacent – there’s a lot of learning and self-improvement that I want to do, and many goals that still need achieving.
Yes, the heavy dinner on the weekend, and the occasional indulgence with dessert tends to stick around my waistline much longer than it did when I was younger, and yes the bags under my eyes look ever puffier in the mornings, and the hair is losing vitality and color, but I feel comfortable in my own skin, muffin tops, and all. I feel just as curious as I did when I was a child and I’m grateful for having developed a genuine empathy with has enhanced just about every relationship I have and invited friendships that mean so much to me. I’m a little bit wiser than I was and I’m able to process negative events and emotions in a much healthier way. It’s not like negative events don’t take place anymore, I’m just much less of an emotional wreck and far more positive when that happens. The quote that age is just a number rings very true – and the sexiest thing ever – is confidence.
Footprints on the Sands of Time 