It's Mother's Day. I'm fortunate that my mother is still with me; though old and fragile, yet able to give me strength through her silent fortitude. I should be writing about her, thinking of her.. and I intend to spend time with her, cherishing every moment, yet on this day which should just be about her, I'm missing my father. But when do I not? Just four days back, May 10, it had been eleven years since he left us; quietly, sitting... And it has taken me more than a decade to be able to write about it. A friend recently told me he lost his mother one and a half years back. I didn't know him back then but I do know him now. I know that he must still be grieving deep down, although moving on with his life, yet a part of him not over what has happened. But then I can be wrong. I want to tell him and all those who were unfortunate to lose a parent recently, that it does NOT get better with time. You spend your entire life in mourning. You don't get over it! You just learn to manage the pain better but the memories come back and haunt you at the oddest of moments, when you are least expecting them. They just appear out of nowhere and go 'boo'! like a little child hiding behind the door. Many a times they tug at your heart, threatening to rip it apart and you feel that you just can't bear it anymore..but you manage somehow.
Someone very close to me asked me two days after my father's eleventh death anniversary "do you ever think of him" half-expecting me to say "sometimes". I don't know why he even asked me that. He has known me my entire life, he has been witness to my life as Papa's li'l princess; he has seen me in mourning for two years after he passed away; why would he even ask me that? I looked at him incredulously and blurted out "every time I cry, every time I'm happy, every time I need a shoulder or advice, which is often; every other morning, almost every night, every single time I pray, almost every time I write, every time I'm in pain, physical or emotional; every time I go to my mom's and his portrait stares back at me at the entrance asking me quietly "mera beta mujhe bhool tou nahi gaya"? (Has my baby forgotten me?); every time my brother goes through a rough patch or has achieved something; every time he's happy; every time my kids do something cute or funny and I think he would have been delighted; every time my kids do well academically and I think he would have sooo proud, he would have told everyone; every time I need something and can't have it; and every time I talk about what Papa and I liked the best..hot chapatis loaded with shavings of 'meway wala gurr' sent for him specially from Punjab, drizzled with homemade melted butter, YUM!!!
We had our disagreements but we mostly had such wonderful times together. He was not a conventional father; he didn't help us with our homework or take us to the park; he didn't yell at us when mad or carry us on his shoulders; he didn't keep a strict eye on what we were doing or ground us. He was a very conservative man in not some but most ways; yet I found it so easy to discuss things with him. He would keep us out of trouble if mom was upset with us.
We were generally very unconventional as a family also. We as children could stay up for as long as we wanted and get up late in the morning; not something I would recommend though.. I got my inclination towards literature from my parents who would sometimes stay up till four in the morning, discussing French and Russian literature and Urdu poetry. I remember my introduction to Mir and Dard and my profound love for Ghalib, very much approved by Papa; our late night discussions after we returned from 'mushairas'. Later, when I started taking a interest in Faiz, Sahir, Mustafa Zaidi, Amjad Islam Amjad, Perveen Shakir and the likes, Papa found a little friend in me. My introduction to Urdu prose was much later when I was around sixteen. I had already sunk in very deep in English literature and didn't think Urdu prose was for me; but Papa opened up new worlds for me, taking me on exciting journeys through the works of Qudratullah Shahab, Mumtaz Mufti and the travelogues and satire by Ibn-e-Insha. Such good days...
I want to be spending my days with my mom now, one of the biggest blessings in my life, with her mellow tones and warm eyes, silent demeanor and tiny petite frame; still puttering around the house; whose fastest technique to cheer me up when I'm feeling low is to have yummy things cooked for me and sending them in tiny containers (as if nobody else is supposed to have it but me).. oh how it makes me smile :)
I so want her to live forever, PLEASE GOD!!! And as for you Papa, you are in my heart, ALWAYS! I LOVE YOU BOTH!
My Two Lasts:
- The last book Papa gave me... 'Humsafar', memoirs of Hameeda Akhtar Hussain Raipuri; which was later translated as 'My fellow Traveller' and published by OUP.
- The last person to see him alive...ME...
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