2018 in words

When a year is ending, it starts to look like a palpable unit of time that in turn becomes the measure of our success or happiness.

If I look back at my year, I realize that on my worst days, I used words as my weapons. On the best, I received words that shifted me, ever so slightly but significantly.

My year started with the news of a serial killer – one that was surmised for years by people who had no authority. By way of my job and role, I became an insignificant part of the stories of the people he had (allegedly) killed and dismembered. I dissociated to a certain degree to be functional and resisted going to my time in Karachi in the 80's and 90's. And then one day, a member of one of the victim’s family flew in with a simple request – wanting to tell people good things about their brother. What he loved, his favourite music and activities. They wanted to humanize the lost brother – as often the public narrative dehumanizes victims of violence who are not rich, straight, or white. My dissociation collapsed to those words, to that request.

Another day and time – someone who was homeless, beaten up, and delirious from the injuries resisted going to the hospital for help. There are many reasons for resisting, especially when you have been rejected or hurt by the system itself. But that resistance manifested itself through an immense fear of loss. It was that television set they were holding on to so tightly. It was the only thing they owned. How can they leave it behind? Those words left me worthless.

My daughter sent me a text while she was away for the summer. She said she was glad I was raising her the way I was. The 7-year journey from I hate you to this has been amazing. The surprise validation that I never expected, and those words would forever be the best text message I have ever received in my life. Even when she’s older and she denies or contradicts these words, they would always hold the moment I received them.

And then on one of my lowest days, I impulsively signed up for basic tabla lessons, just to see if my lost childhood dream was merely a story I like to tell. And I started receiving and learning new words in a new language… ghe na ghe na, ghe ge na na, ghe na ghe ge, na ge ghe na.

These words are my measure. It has indeed been a significant year.

First Year of Death - پہلی برسی

Posing - my brother's wedding

I sat in the Annual General Meeting this time last year, taking minutes, making sure all the slides were transitioning according to the words I had written. I was finding it challenging to keep focus.

An ASL interpreter I had been communicating with on email the week before came up to me and said hi; said she was curious to meet me as we both share the same last name – ‘Mahmood’. I think I smiled faintly. She said her father’s name was Mahmood. I said, my father’s name is Mahmood too.

That chance interaction was powerful for me in that moment in time. Someone said my father’s name on the day he was being buried six thousand miles away – as I sat all alone, in a room full of hundred people.

It has been a year.

I recently asked one of my sisters to share a photo of his grave with me. I felt the distance, and my absence in his moment of death when I looked at the photo.

And in the very next moment, I felt frustration that it wasn’t a good photo. The gravestone cuts off right at the top. The composition and angle are simply poor to say the least. I chuckled as I witnessed my own contrasting thoughts.

Final resting place

I have realized that it is hard to lose a parent you love. Even if you understand that it was their time. Even if you know that death is a reality of life.

I have also realized that it is hard to cope with death when you are absent from the time of pain that precedes and follows.

The last time I was present when my father had come very close to death was when I was 16. I had sneakily sabotaged my arranged marriage by writing a nasty letter to the groom's family. I had also lied to my father and applied to a business school instead of following the expected path of enrolling in Home Economics College for (good) girls. He suffered a massive heart attack, his third, and the doctors had asked us to say our final good byes. His words to me on his presumed deathbed were ‘I am dying because of you.’ 

I am so thankful that he lived then. And that his real final words to me, even if only in text, were I love you beti. There is consolation, if not closure, in that.

I still have you on skype. I still have you in my whatsapp messages. 

I love you too Abbu.

When I was cute

On my daughter's 6th Birthday

Strict father, gentle grandfather. I was forever jealous

Eid, 2005

My graduation, 2001. He was mad at me for chopping my hair off.
He noticed my bare arms as I discreetly unravelled them from under
my dupatta for the photo. I got into a lot of trouble after to say the least

My first wedding, 2003 - he thought my trouble-making days were finally over.
He was so wrong

Until It Happens

I drove through a riot – I had no choice. There were bullets being fired; there were stones being hurled; there were tires being burnt. I had a silver car. My 2-year old was wearing a blue dress. Her hair was tied up in two tiny ponytails. She was curled up in a ball on the floor of the car. My left hand was crushing her – pushing down much harder than it should have. We made it through without a scratch. I made a cup of tea after getting home. She watched Dora the Explorer.

We didn’t get shot in the car.

We were coming back from a day on the beach. We were stuck in traffic in a white car. My 3 year old was sitting on my lap. There were more people in the car than seatbelts. We saw a frantic man with a gun robbing cars. We waited for our turn until it came. My brother on the driving seat handed him his wallet – it was empty. The gun seemed angrier as did the man behind it. I took out all the money I had and threw it at the man. He left for the next car.

My brother later joked about my gesture of throwing money at him like we throw money at singers and dancers – sometimes to express our awe for their art, sometimes to show our lust for their acts. That day, it was to submit to the fear of the gun.

We did not get shot in the car.

Just like I had always imagined that we would never get shot. I always believed that we would defeat the gun at every encounter – like in movies with a happy ending.

I never realized that everyone imagines the same outcome, believes in the same happy ending. Until their child gets shot in the car.

A sermon for my people

At the risk of being patronizing, I wish to raise my arms and give a ‘quaint’ sermon of sorts to my people living away from their origins:

Even your version of God is referred to as the kind and the merciful. Even in your version of truth, you believe that we the humans are bearers of the divine spirit, as much as we reek of putrid clay.

Dear aliens of my kind – let’s try to be kind to each other. And know that kindness is not only limited to stuffing your guests’ faces with delicious curries and naan. It is not so much an act, but a state of being. Here are some tips: 

If you visit my home and exclaim every time how small it is especially compared to my home in Pakistan, please don’t ask me where the washroom is. That just shows that you are stupid, unable to find the only washroom in my tiny tiny home.

When you complain about not having cheap labour available for scrubbing your toilet(s), look in the mirror. You are the cheap labour – please gain some (self) respect for those who toil below a living wage.

You and I are various stereotypes in this country. You may be a practicing conservative Muslim (aka terrorist); I might be the ‘non-practicing’ kind who doesn’t ‘look’ Muslim, and is oh-so-brave. You and I are often mascots of ‘diversity’ in group photos or impact stories, and we will always be. The rage you feel every time that happens…hold it deep in your hearts and feel its burden and pain. And then, choose not to do the same – to your own kind or others.

When you see my face and tell me that I have grown so old since my immigration, or my skin has gone bad, or that I have gained weight, or lost weight, or am the same fucking weight  – please be assured, I know. And please take your disapproving eyes off my lovely cleavage. There are so many other things we can talk about or focus on. I can educate you about weed. You can tell me about how to cook the best biryani in the world. The options are limitless.

The best justification we have learnt in our religious culture is the power of intention (neeyat) – the so-called foundation of every action. Please also educate yourself about impact and don’t excuse your acts of unkindness with good or not-so-bad intentions.

Also, if my words (or cleavage) offend you and make you feel like I am tainting the good pieces of our mascot identity – please know, it is not my intention.

Muahahah.