Post # 25 - Monsoon (Memories II)

When we visited Karachi in the summer holidays, there were three things we really looked forward to: meeting our grandparents, going to the beach, and playing in the rain with cousins. 

Although it rained in Rawalpindi throughout the year, there was something very special about the Karachi monsoon. Probably because of the relief it brought after the stifling heat of June. Or maybe because we were in party mode and needed an excuse to celebrate anything with our cousins and rain was a major cause of celebration. 

Even then as soon as the dark clouds rolled in and thunder rumbled in the sky, the lights went out. This was the pre-generator era (yes, I am that old!) but we kids weren’t bothered with load-shedding. When the first rain drop hit the driveway of my grandparents’ house, all us six cousins were out of the front door, oblivious to everything.

There is a special kind of joy that one derives from the rain and which sort of multiples when you let your defences down and dance with complete abandon in a downpour. 

Even though I haven’t let go of myself and stepped out into the rain in a long while, the twins did yesterday. One moment they were on the porch, stretching out their hands to feel the raindrops. The next instant they were in the driveway, jumping and splashing around. What made it more fun for them, I guess, is that no one (read: me) was stopping them from jumping in dirty puddles or rolling  around on the floor. 

As I’m writing this I feel a little sad. My grandparent’s house is still there but none of us cousins are around to play in the rain. My grandmother isn’t well enough to make aaloo ka paratha or pakoras. Those fading images of merriment and joy are all that I have. And I guess they are enough to out a little smile on my face as the clouds start rolling in and thunder rumbles in the sky. 

Note: I've talked about the monsoon on the beanbag earlier also. You can read those older posts here and here. 

Post # 23 - birthday wishes

I was into fantasy fiction and role-playing from a young age. Probably because I read the abridged version of Tilism-e-Hoshruba when I was around nine. My imagination was also a wild one and often playing alone in the garden at my grandmother’s house in Karachi I’d enact fantasy stories of my own. One of them which I distinctly remember was of me as the queen of the snakes with a deadly cobra (invisible to the world) by my side who was my protector and wazir. My favourite pastime during long hot afternoons was to sit in a secluded spot in the house and solve all world problems with my retinue of snakes. 

I never shared this with my cousins because girls of my age were more into fairies and less into snakes. Whenever we played a game that involved fairies I was the evil one who was defeated and either shunned or forgiven if I turned over a new leaf. At the end of every fairy game one of my cousins used to make a wish. Right smack when the maghreb azaan started, she would close her eyes and bring her hands together and whisper something. For a few days I let her be but then my curiosity got the better of me. Turned out she was making a wish to become a fairy because she believed that wishes made at maghreb always came true (try telling this to a nine year old now). 

I can still recall the scene as if it happened yesterday. She made me wish too but little did she know that I didn’t wish to become a fairy. I wanted to be the Queen of Snakes, the master controller, the woman everyone feared and revered. Alas, no deadly cobra came to my bedside swearing allegiance the following night.

When this memory floated into my mind in the morning today, I thought how the media (books, movies and now the internet) construe our image of a being. Not all fairies are sweet little creatures and not all snakes are evil. In our folklore djinn often assume the shape of snakes and come to warn humans of a catastrophe. There is one thing though, a good fairy is a good fairy and a python is a killer snake, unless it’s a djinn. Can we say the same things about us humans? 

Sometimes I wonder who I am? More importantly, who do I wish to be? Do I still want to be the saviour of mankind with my snake army? What about the other avatars I’m trying on - the writer, the yogi, the makeup artist? Do I choose or wish for one or can I be all three? 

Even though maghreb time has long gone by as I type this paragraph, I still want to make a wish on the eve of my birthday. I wish to be everything I ever wanted to be and more importantly, I wish for patience and perseverance to see my wishes come through in the coming year. Happy birthday to me I guess! 

Post # 13 - Memories I

Often times memories pop up in my mind. These days I’m thinking a lot about the Ramzans I’ve spent. Especially when I moved to Karachi for IBA and we had such a lot of fun in Ramzan at Nano’s place. Everyone used to be there. Often we had Khala’s entire family over for Iftar. That was the time when Sherbano and I were on talking terms. I don’t know what  has happened there. But that is another story.

Nano used to drink her own special 'podina paani' (mint water). She didn’t have the ‘laal sherbat’ like the rest of us. The tea used to be made in this ginormous metal tea pot and I often had the duty of making and serving the tea. The dining room used to be full of laughter and loud talking and just plain good family cheer. I miss that so much. The house is so quiet now. It’s as if it, too, has aged. As if it knows that very soon it will not be a part of our lives. That when my grandparents leave us, the house will sever its bond with us too.

It’s the only house I’ve known since childhood. I was three or four years old when it was completed. Being in the army meant that we never had a permanent address. And whenever we had to fill a form or write down a permanent address, we used to write D-16/1, Block 17, Gulshan-e-Iqbal, Karachi. One day this address will cease to exist for me. It will belong to someone else. 

How does one say goodbye to a house? I’ve said goodbye to many houses over the course of my life so I should know but this house is full of so much love. Of so many memories. Of so many people. Unlike the other houses which we’ve lived in over the years, this particular house was built by my grandparents for their family. And it really hurts to think that one day, which I’m afraid will be very soon, this house will get erased from my life. And I’ll be left with just memories. 

What I regret the most is not recording enough of the house. I had plans of taking pictures of the house during different times of the day. Of the white spiral staircase or the light streaming in through the big entrance window into the hall downstairs. Or of the full length mirror in my grandparents’ room where my Nani and mother and aunt would drape their saris. Or of the dark green carpet in the lounge and the Chinese lanterns in the dining room. 

Even though the house may have changed in appearance and outlook, the address remains the same. My grandparents still live there and I’m still their baby. And no matter what happens to that house in the future, the address will forever remain etched in my heart. 

Post # 5 - Where I talk briefly about books vs. the internet

The internet is like quicksand - it sucks you in slowly and before you know it, you're in so deep there is little chance of rescue. I just went through a bit of crazy browsing on Instagram and in the blink of an eye, literally, I had spent 40 mins going through completely random videos. 

Books are a bit like quicksand also. But of a good kind. In fact, the best books are those which suck you into their world and before you know it you're in so deep there is no chance of rescue. And if I happen to be reading such a good book, I don't want to be rescued!

If you have to make a choice between a book and the internet, choose the book. 

[This pic was taken by hubby dear. The year is 2012, the place is Bhurban and the location is a lovely house where hubby dear was shooting for a drama. I think I mainly chose the book at this hour because there was no wifi! I'm reading 'After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie' by Jean Rhys]. 

Day 3 - Where I talk about baby shark and my childhood

Sharks weren't very popular with us when we were kids. Maybe it was Jaws which set the tone for how we were to think of sharks for the rest of our lives. When we were growing up, sharks were not wearing ties or tutu and dancing - they were ruthless killing machines. And somehow a bunch of us cousins made it our mission to kill a shark and save mankind from utter ruin and devastation. Or so we thought.

Imagine six kids, between the ages of 14 and 4, who held meetings (mostly outdoors) every week during hot, sweltry July afternoons in Karachi. Why afternoons? Well, that was the time when our moms were mostly out to buy stuff (trips to Zainab market and Tariq Road), our grandfather was taking his afternoon nap, our Uncle was at his job and our grandmother was engrossed in her Urdu digest magazine. The servants were also not around and so, it was the perfect time for conducting meetings to discuss how we were going to, well, kill a great white shark.

I think I've skipped the most important part of this entire endeavour. Each one of us (except our eldest cousin) was supposed to bring some sort of snack at the meeting. Before the meeting started, we placed our respective snacks on the table as a sort of offering and prayed for success. I recall our last meeting very vividly. We were all sitting on folding chairs in the porch (I'm not sure if we had the pedestal fan or not) with the table laden with goodies in the centre and each of us was trying to come up with a grand plan. My eldest cousin suggested we talk to my mother's uncle who was in the airforce as we might require air power to kill the shark. But how will we go out in the ocean in the first place? A valid question raised by another cousin. To which I had replied that my paternal uncle would help us as he was in the navy. With the logistics settled we started munching on the biscuits and daal moong and cake rusk when suddenly a voice broke the spell, asking us what we were doing sitting in the hot summer afternoon in the car porch?

It was our grandmother who, finding the house very quiet considering her six grandchildren were around, had put her digest away and got up to investigate. I think she was amused but we were terrified. We had taken stuff from the cabinets which we knew we weren't allowed to unless we got permission from an adult. And the cook had been complaining for some time that the dry goodies were disappearing rather quickly. Anyways, our grandmother told us all to get our asses inside, put the goodies on the dining table and do something constructive like read a book or play a board game.

We were quite disappointed that our secret was discovered. What came as a bigger disappointment in the evening was when we told the details of our mission to the elders at the dinner table and our uncle told us that there are no great white sharks in the Arabian Sea.

Childhood is so innocent and now, when all of us cousins are in different countries and haven't come together in years, these memories are a reminder of the good times we shared. Memories have a way of resurfacing and while I hadn't thought of those 'shark-hunt' meetings for years, they came back to me one evening as the twins were listening to the current nursery rhyme sensation, Baby Shark. At least the sharks have nothing to fear from this generation.