A Tribute to a father from a son.

Papa, A year without you !
It was an early morning our home phone rang. I was too lazy to move even an inch but since no one was around I had to drag myself to take the call. Hello? Can I speak with Sadiq? In a very frail voice I answered yes, who is this? I am Arun Mehta from Mumbai. Immediately my eyes went wide open and I responded with, One minute uncle!  I ran towards my father’s room and told him to pick the receiver as the Former Home Minister, a very close friend of my dad was calling. I was not happy because I had this weird feeling that the call was for me. My hunch was true I was confirmed for an admission into a college in Mumbai and had to leave the next week. Leaving my friends, family and home was too heartbreaking. I was upset and wanted the world to end. Anybody at that age would feel the same way. Sensing something wrong my father decided to accompany me to Mumbai. He must have felt that I was upset or emotionally disturbed. I joined my college still home sick and totally devastated. The weather was as horrible as it could get. I would change my T-shirt every hour. I guess I was looking for an excuse not to be there, I was not ready to live alone without my parents, I never had. One day before my father was about to leave for Kashmir, he took me to a nice Chinese Restaurant at Colaba, over a nice meal of prawns and grilled Salmon, he spoke about his childhood, his struggle, how he would walk all the way from Rainwari to SP college only because he wanted to study but my grandfather wanted him to join the family business. I was amazed with all the stories. Any son or daughter would be excited to see their father sharing stories of his childhood. It was a mix of fun, humour and intellect. A message to me about how cruel the world can get. We chatted for long until suddenly he looked at me, held my hand and told me. “Montu” (my nick name), “everyone has come into this world alone and everyone will go alone. I will die one day and so will everyone, you know. The world moves on and doesn’t stop for anyone. You are here to study, to make a name, to earn a living. Even though it would pain your mother as much as it would to me for sending you away but remember we would only do this for your betterment. When you become a father you will do the same for your children and they for theirs. You will understand this long after I am gone. This world is like Shakespeare puts it “A theater, a stage where everyone is a character, plays his role and leaves! only to be replaced by another one. He kissed me and we walked out of the restaurant. It didn’t help much and I knew, no matter how much drama I may put in he won’t let me come back. Today, when I recollect the events anyone who has lost a father would very well understand what a role model a father is to his sons.
I am the youngest of my brothers and my father was fond of me. He would always say to me, the house looks so empty when he doesn’t hear my vocal chords rumbling. He was there for me, for us and everyone always. I am sure as sons and daughters of fathers and mothers everyone has one or many incidents about their parents, incident that remain with them till their existence. Similarly as a son there are so many events that remind me of him every day, every minute and every second but there is one such incident I may never ever forget and would want to share. 
It was a fine morning and we all were sitting in on the breakfast table when suddenly I started screaming. I got this excruciating pain in my abdomen. I was in agony and the pain was unbearable. I felt like someone had poured molten lava into my stomach. Dr. Taseer, my brother sensing something serious decided to immediately take me to the SKIMS. Carrying me on the stretcher they finally found a doctor who leisurely and reluctantly injected almost 3 pain killer injections into me but somehow the pain wouldn’t stop. What started as cramps or spasms resulted into a major worry for me and my family. In the next 24 hours I was on the operation table. It’s an emergency, said Dr. Umar Javaid Shah, looking at my father. I have to operate upon him immediately as his gallbladder has become gangrenous, he might go into septicemia. If that happens he won’t survive. Like a helpless father, visibly shaken & terrified he pleaded the doctor to save me. The post surgery was horrendous; they did an endoscopy many times but failed too, until I literally passed out. Next morning when I woke up I slowly opened my eyes feeling a little wetness on my feet. As I struggled to look down, I was taken aback to see my father tightly holding my feet in his arms and crying like a baby. I couldn’t take that. My father was a strong man, always stood strong like a rock, seen many ups and downs but never gave up. But today the sight of his son, pale, sick and seriously ill broke him. I would tell him to stop crying but he would literally beg me to fight and not give up. His words were stronger than any medicine and even though the doctors had given up, I with the blessing of my father and mother was up and discharged from the hospital in two months.
I must have been a toddler but I remember that once papa tricked me by being motionless and someone told me he is dead and won’t come back ever. I did not stop crying for 2 days even though he made me understand that it was a joke. I may have been tricked then but that incident had such an impact on me that even after decade or so later I would wake up early in the morning, sneak into his room slowly check if he was breathing and even at times gaze at him for a couple of minutes to see whether his belly went up and down. Shukur-Allah, I would tell myself and slowly move out. When my father was admitted into the hospital and put on the ICU monitor that checks the vitals, I would after every beep take a closer look at his belly and close my eyes in contained happiness thanking god that he is ok. The next day while I was looking at him and recalling all the happy moments I spent with him, I would look at his face and as a son something within me would scream in desperation asking my dad to open his eyes and smile at us. Any child would give all his riches and comforts to be besides his father. I knew his death was going to shatter my mother and my brothers. This thought of mine was interrupted by a loud beep as all the doctors came running. The moment I always feared even as a child had come. My father lay there silent and motionless. I got up from the chair and stepped back. A small little gap was visible between the doctors pointing towards his belly. I closed my eyes as tears came rolling down. Our father, our friend and my hero was gone and so had our hope.  
May his blessing shower on us always.  Please recite Sura’h Fatiha for his soul.

Link to the article published in the GREATER KASHMIR

"Reflections": To be a woman!

"Reflections": To be a woman!:

Some people even though you haven't met , you haven't seen or may be don't even know, but they reflect a certain character. A character that gets respect without any reason. I used to think does ones writing or way of expressing really explain the person. My apt reply now would be, Hellya!

This Blog happens to be one of those that may not have the world class format but it does touch your soul. As if the soul finds a nirvana. I'm thankful to the Blogger who gave me the permission to Blog her write-up & what better then about a "Woman" who comes in your life as a mother, a wife , a friend and a philosopher. When we talk about women, In my opinion only one great personality comes to my mind, Hazrat Bibi Fathima ( Salamulahialai ), who should be a role model for every woman. No one can forget her contribution to the mankind, she raised her children in the form of Imam Hassan (AS) & Imam Hussain (AS), to eventually be the saviours of Islam.


and here it goes...

"Reflections": To be a woman!:
by Bintulhuda Rizvi.

What is the bravest thing to be in your opinion? What is the biggest challenge you could take up? Something you could be proud of. Something only you can be! I will tell you what.......To be a woman!!!

Yes,being a woman is the bravest,proudest,most unique thing you can be!

You are born to be a door to the heavens for them who give you birth. You live to make every life you touch a blessing. A woman can smile when no one expects her to. A woman will smile when no one can. A woman can bear what no one can imagine! A woman can be anything she chooses to be.

A woman will give up her whole existence for the smile on the face of the ones she loves. A woman can kill her heart most willingly. A woman will make you what no one will. A woman can destroy you like no other. A woman will keep quiet when she can make everyone shut up,not because she cant but because she knows better! A woman can speak when no one else will dare. A woman can hide inside her oceans. A woman can bear on her heart the weight of a mountain.

A woman leaves a mark at every step she takes, at every life she touches! Heavens she beckons when she takes birth and heavens lie at her feet when she gives birth!!!

The bravest thing I have been is a woman!.....and I am proud of it!

My Beautiful Kashmir !

Landscape

It was almost twelve o’ clock and I was about to go to bed when I opened the window. To my utter surprise the whole garden, roof tops, anything that I could see was covered with a thick blanket of snow. There’s a saying that the joy a person experiences at seeing something is inversely proportionate to their age, but honestly for me I have enjoyed the snow very much the same way as I did when I was a kid. For me snow is the best thing about winter, and watching snow fall is mesmerising and magical. If you live somewhere that has a snow fall then you would know how the pulse races when you see snowflakes coming down.

It’s not only exciting but soothing to eyes; the first thing that possibly comes to anyone’s mind after seeing snow is; “Now the winter is complete”.

We have an outdoor kitchen with Fibre glassed roof, so this winter I was able to keep warm while watching the white flakes tumble past.For me it has the same effect as looking at the stars in Pahalgam on a cloudless night: there is sense of mystery and a feeling of bond with the universe, and awe at its majesty.

I was talking to my elders and they were sharing their experiences about previous winters and I was surprised to know that they thought this “Chila-i-Kalan” has been much colder than any other winter in the past two decades. Well, I couldn’t agree more as I experienced it first hand, our water tank froze completely, and the huge pipes connected to it burst open. The pine tree branches covered with snow had almost touched the ground. As if that was not enough even the petrol cars refused to start. After all this complaining, when you take a deep breath and see how captivating the whole place and the surroundings are, you ignore all the hardships, and enjoy what Allah has bestowed upon us. We may complain about everything that winter brings with it but remember snow is a blessing. Mysticism teaches us that in this universe nothing is without a meaning and that everything you see around has a spiritual equivalent. Like a teardrop is a way to express human emotion anger is an expression of subdued energy. Thus snow is a channel of energy; a voice so divine that your bodily senses can feel them as if it’s talking to us.Next morning, as the day passed, I came to know that everything has come to a standstill, the electricity was gone due to some technical problems, the National Highway connecting Kashmir to the rest of the country was closed due to landslides, airport closed for days, traffic ground to a halt, this is when I decided to try my photography skills that I learnt from my Dad, I must have been a toddler but I have vivid memories of my Dad shooting us with his “Minolta”, a very popular camera those days and he would just wait for the right frame to click us, that’s how I know a bit about photography. I did click some pictures and I am sure if the space allows you would enjoy some of them, the idea is to take us all on a virtual tour of our street, lakes in its chilly glory.

I tucked myself with a heavy jacket, got my snow boots on and decided that I would try and walk myself upto Nishat through the interiors of Dal Lake and then eventually drive from there. If one has to see the beauty of Dal Lake at anytime of the year then going through interiors is a “must go”. With vast open spaces, lush green surroundings, natural springs and rich bird life it has a unique blend of urban and the rural. The pure and pristine waters of Dal and Nagin wash its shores. It has a different texture, a different hue and is ecologically perhaps the most harmonious area in the City throughout the year. So my first destination was the interiors of the Dallake. While carefully walking on a crumbling floating garden we reached a part of the lake which was totally frozen from where we reached Soth, a short cut the Moguls had built to reach the Nishat Bagh and other gardens under the foothill. It reminds us of Kashmir’s historical past, its great cultural legacy and Kashmiriyat in a living form. There is a beautiful existing Mogul Bridge at Naidyar with three arches and that must be the only surviving one of its type in the Valley. They say Mughals used to use that as the base-camp whenever they would go for a boat ride or hunting.

The Hazratbal Mosque popularly known as “Dargah” looked absolutely amazing and calm. The more one would look at it the more divine it seemed. The mighty Himalayas looked so beautiful, the Charchinari (Four Chinars), the startling Nishat Bagh, everything had a meaning, it looked so scenic, more like a dream come true for an artist, a photographer or a tourist. The strong presence of the Himalayan ranges which surround you, the amazing Lake that reflects everything around, I felt like my soul had found a paradise. The Nishat and Shalimar Gardens, the university campus, the frozen lake of Harwan reservoir, the Boulevard road ,old ‘kadals’, the arches, the little shops, the small dusty windows in the interiors of Dal Lake could indeed be raconteur if they chose to speak. I froze the moments in my camera knowing the pictures really couldn’t do justice to the actual beauty but enough for me to live with a thought that may be many years down the line; I would look at them with a smile, all filled with nostalgia.

Looking at the sky, the shikaras rowing through the frozen lake, ravens flying by, young kids with pink cheeks playing with snow, nothing, absolutely nothing could be better than all this on a cloudy afternoon while walking through a snow covered prairie and observing all this with a white backdrop. It reminded me of an incident when I had to drop my family friends at the airport who had come to visit Kashmir after almost a decade and a half from London, I asked Sarah Mirza, one of the family members how she felt coming back to Kashmir, before I could end my question, I could see tears in her eyes, the impact was quite evident, she told me, Tanvir, The beauty of Kashmir distinctly surpasses any place in the whole world, the grasp of her imagination, eloquence or years. She says, “I left for London as a pre-teen, but the decade I spent in Kashmir, were sufficient to leave a longer lasting impression than I initially realised. The indomitable presence of the Himalayas which surround your person here may be taken for granted by Kashmiris living in Kashmir, but as a Kashmiri who has been robbed of their presence in the flatness of London, I feel like my soul has found a nirvana which it craved for the years spent away. Although London, in her glory can never envisage competing with Srinagar and the natural beauty she has to offer, the one thing which is highly commendable about the Londoners, or the British in fact, is the pride with which they preserve their past. She goes on and adds, “Srinagar, has certainly preserved, imbued and savoured incredible history, for generations, but I feel we need to enthuse restoration to the older parts of the city rather than desertion and destitution. Downtown Srinagar is a fascinating refuge; time seems to have stood still here. It seems to me the Mughal and Kashmiri architects of the past had far greater intuition and aptitude. These artisans’ were certainly better synchronised with the romanticism that surrounded them. They created far greatest tributes to their imagination, than the menial imagination which runs rampant in current architects of the valley. She went on and on so engrossed that she forgot that she was about to leave for London when suddenly a field crew at the airport asked her to proceed for security check. Kashmir has been the highlight of my life, let alone this trip so far. Its paradise and its home. I hope to be back soon. I'll miss cruising in the dead of night through moonlit and abandoned parts of the old city, which heave and creak with character. I'll miss watching sun sets and sunrises, on the banks of lakes and rivers which are dotted all over the city. I’ll miss the warmth. I'll miss experiencing the real Kashmir and I'll be back for more before I take my final bow, said sarah, before entering the security area and they all waving at us. This is how almost all of my family, friends outside the state or country feel about Kashmir.

As it was getting dark I started heading back home not before I realised that this all belonged to us and we are the only people who can preserve the beauty of Kashmir in its original form. I felt like a son being caressed by his mother, a feeling of pride, a feeling of patriotism, a feeling that this is my Kashmir, my beautiful Kashmir. While driving back and watching flakes falling on my front mirror of the car only brought a smile to my face, I slowly opened my window and the feeling of a snowflake coming down and kissing your cheeks is something beyond words. Next time you look at the snowflakes gently dropping from heaven, purifying the earth of its sins, blanketing earth in its white embrace, remember that you are witnessing a kiss – a godly kiss.

Tanvir Sadiq