Psychics?

“You need to let go of the past! You are too rigid. You need to move on,” he said as soon as he displayed my cards. “Put it behind you. You need movement.”

There were many things he told me, the tarot card reader who sits in a gypsy van at the Brighton Pier, that were eerily accurate. Or was it because they were ambiguous? Isn’t that what this is all about? Like horoscopes that can apply to a variety of situations? Or is it because we want to read into it; we want to believe that the person sitting across from us is like a celestial human being?

The truth is that I am a rigid person. I am indeed a person who was (at that point since this was in December) hanging on the past, enraged by it, irritated by my inability to deal with many things that I thought I had left behind despite the fact that I had moved away and changed my life. But… aren’t we all always haunted by our pasts in some way or the other? I know I am not alone. I know he could have said the same thing to many other people and it would “fit” for them too.

What I do know is that if any of the shamans I have encountered in my life are to be believed at all, my life should have taken various multiple turns by now depending on who I believed to be most accurate I guess. (Does that make any sense?) One man did my entire astrological chart three years ago told me things that I hope not to be true. He told me I wouldn’t be published until my 30s (not that they’re far now!) and that I would get married soon. That was then. Still not married (thankfully) but still not published. Another person told me I would get married twice; the first would end in my early 20s. Well… 27, almost 28 in fact, has proved that wrong. Out the bin quack! Oh, and apparently I’m psychic (some “cross of venus” nonsense), something that I have convinced a few people of. I know the trick… it’s not about being psychic at all− it’s about memory, it’s about knowing information they think you don’t know. And it’s fun to fool people for sure (especially students). This is especially easy in Lahore since it is a city filled with gossip where no one can have any privacy and everyone is connected.

Irrationality is part of the human condition. I wish I didn’t believe that to be true, but I think this because I too have fallen victim to this. It’s all too easy to believe that a series of coincidences have some spiritual purpose or force behind them: people don’t realise the strength and power of self-fulfilling prophecies. Perhaps like Macbeth’s witches, we are our own demons.

PS: I’m only writing this because I wish to understand why so many intelligent people I know fall victim to this nonsense!

Violence against teachers

No matter what one feels about a teacher, pushing one is totally unacceptable. Sure I had teachers I wanted to hit, throw shoes at and push off cliffs. But I didn’t because that would just be heinous, despicable…

Today one of my students shoved me more than once. Actually he’s no longer my student. My class had seven bad eggs who were pulling the rest of the class down. At first, the school wasn’t too bothered until one day when I just lost it. I was ready to quit. When I gave detention, they pet the kids and told them to behave. When I insisted, they told me not to because it would make me unpopular. Like I’m there to make friends. When I issued pink cards, they would, again, give the kids a warning (pink cards are complaints that go on their permanent records). Once I insisted upon issuing the pink card and it was given to the kid who in turn went home and wept. He created this whole fuss about how I was targeting him. So his mother refused to sign it and sent it back. The result? He was free to do as he pleased again.

Actually this student is quite a conniving little fellow and his parents let him get away with murder. At the parent teacher meeting, I expressed my concern and told them that he had a behaviour problem. They refused to believe me. They kept implying that I was lying and kept defending him. “You’re the ONLY teacher that has a problem with him!” they declared. I was left stupefied. If my teachers had said something like that about me, my mother would have hung me upside down from a fan and then switched it on full blast. In fact, they were so clueless and delusional about their child that they kept telling me how all the other teachers loved him and how he was the best thing that could ever happen. They told me to adjust my behaviour and they implied that I deserved what I got. What really pissed me off was the fact that I had heard three other teachers complain to them in front of me. I have severe issues with parents like that and I’m very glad I don’t have to deal with them anymore.

So, at the beginning of this term, I kicked out 7 boys. I was more than happy to be rid of them. It’s one thing to have a bad student, but it’s quite another to have a bad person as a student. They’re still royal pains in the behind though. They make a huge effort to disrupt the class and take ages to leave when I walk in. But today just took the cake…

I walked into class. The sports teacher gave the kids permission forms for something or the other. I don’t really care. The offender- the one who pushed me- grabbed all the forms and started pretending to distribute them. In reality, he was causing a ruckus and deliberately stalling. His teacher, for reasons unknown to me, doesn’t care if they show up late, so they feel free to wander around at will. That’s why they deliberately cause havoc and make a huge show out of leaving. They take ages to pack their bags. The kid with the delusional parents always yells and makes one hell of a lot of noise. Today, when I complained about that, he lied with such a straight face that I was left amazed. And I completely blame his parents.

Anyway, the violent child who was pretending to distribute the papers, had to be told off. He absolutely refused to leave. I took his bag and was going to put it outside so that he wouldn’t make a big fuss about the bag. He often takes about two whole minutes to hoist it on his back. He saw me take the bag and he grabbed it. Knowing that I had a firm grip on it, he grabbed it and started shoving me. I managed to hold on to the bag and I put it outside. Once outside, he started shoving the door into me. He knew I was standing behind it since it is mostly glass. He could see me quite clearly. He repeatedly shoved the door into me. Then he left.

I was livid. I couldn’t believe that a student would ever resort to physically abusing the teacher. Never did I think it would happen to me and I truly hope it doesn’t happen to another teacher. The Principal was very understanding. She gave him a tight slap, which was really quite satisfying to watch. Then she suspended him for 2 days.

The people who know me are as livid as I am about this. In fact, a few have suggested that this punishment isn’t enough. I don’t know what to think anymore. Private schools are equally to blame for this terrible attitude. They cater to the parents and the result- not to the actual development of the child. I don’t think they educate in the true sense. Yes, they are a far better option than our local government schools, but that’s not enough. It’s not enough to get good grades. A good education should teach you respect for humanity and the environment. I feel damn lucky to have been part of UWC for I truly got a wonderful overall education there. We need schools like UWC here desperately. I aim to open one as soon as I can save enough money. It’s a long way off, but I am adamant about making it happen some day. I certainly don’t ever want to see my siblings’ kids in any school that doesn’t provide them with a comprehensive education. The O level system is ridiculous. It’s based on gimmicks and points. I have personally taught kids who can hardly speak English, yet they got A’s. The system has been cracked and the leaks are soon going to burst. Anyone with me?

my anger through fists, into walls;

This is a post by Nuhzat Saadia Siddiqui from her blog “hooray for the 21st century;” (The blog is on my blogroll) I loved what she wrote, especially since her expression beautifully conveys what so many people are feeling at the moment. What is really pertinent about this is that Nuzhat is not a political person, but has, like most of us, been sucked into the current political situation and the many questions that come with it. I hope you like it!

Three days ago, while on my way home from work, I saw a banner in Model Town congratulating the ‘Lion of the Land’ (Musharaf) on saving the nation and the country with a sensible decision to impose state of emergency. For a second, I paused and wondered whether to take the garishly bold text seriously or to dismiss it as sarcasm. These days, everyone’s a cynic with his or her opinion about the current political upheaval in the land, so I tend to take every statement condemning or praising Musharaf with a massive pinch of salt. But this banner got me thinking: would it have been allowed to stay up if it condemned rather than praised Mr. General President? Maybe, maybe not. I have seen instances of tolerance and moments of impatience in the man who made a brand out of Enlightened Moderation, so even now, I am rather confused about how to comment on his mercurial behavior.

To be absolutely honest, my apathy kicks in when I hear about political fiascos these days. It is my version of Ginsberg reaching for his feather boa whenever he heard the word ‘democracy’. I don’t care about political tantrums and intrigues. I could not nod twice about the hypocritical, manipulative scheming of the likes of BB, Main Mian, The General President and Ran Khan et cetera. All I know for sure is that I am a citizen of this country. I am the common man everyone wants to talk about but not to. I am a part of the nation that has very spectacularly been look over than looked at by verbose but lacking civil and military dictators. I am the ‘awam’ that has been let down so many times it has mastered the art of passive aggressive nonchalance. So what do I understand from the current situation? What do I want?

I want a revolution. I want the inside of our heads and hearts out, finally, for good. I want the hungry to be fed and the naked to be clothed. I want the shamed to be awarded the grace they deserve. I want promises fulfilled. I want my say in the ideals that should be making a better future for this country. I want those who toil twelve hours a day, bare-foot and thirsty under the sun in the fields to have the same right. I want us to be informed about our rights and then be allowed the freedom to exercise them as well. I want to fulfill our duties and I want everyone in the football team in Islamabad to do the same. I want water and education, I want light and protection. I want doubt, religious paranoia and fear of every stranger to be exorcised out of me by some sensible souls who do it in halves, but hope to make it a whole one day. I want to not be trivialized by the world community and the government, and I want to not be the sensational piece of breaking news for the local media. I want some piece and quiet, and I want my damn country back.

Enough, as they say, is enough.

They are surely wiser than us. Look at them burning gold into their history pages while we collect the ashes.

I want the flame, not the residue.

Is it made of cheese?

Last night, my friend Amina and I went to the Avari bakery to buy a cake. All the cakes we liked turned out to be dummies. There were only a few cakes for us to choose from and they were actually quite disgusting looking. One was a honey cheesecake. Since we’d never heard of such a thing, we asked him:
“Is cheesecake mein kya hai?” (What’s in this cheesecake?)
He replied: “Jee cheese.”

I burst out laughing and had to leave the bakery, leaving poor Amina stranded, trying to keep a straight face.

Desertification

I went to Islamabad and Changla Gali last week. Although it was great to get away from Lahore, there were a few things that disturbed me. On the motorway, on my way to Islamabad, I saw that a vast amount of Punjab’s green fields had been stripped away to make room for concrete jungles. The whole motorway, in fact, was much less green than I remember it. Admittedly I haven’t been on it for years, but it was a huge shock.

Then, on my way to Changla Gali, I noticed that whole mountain – technically foothills, but taller than most mountains- have been stripped bare. There are no trees; they are completely and totally barren. All the pine trees have been cut down, for what I do not know, but it is shocking.

I remember the Muree hills as mountains that were lusciously green and beautiful. There are now also quite overcrowded. The house I was staying in was made after cutting down only 3 trees whereas many houses in the area, belonging to well known individuals, have been made after cutting down many, many trees and much destruction. The dark nights, which used to provide me with much solitude as a child, are not dark anymore- there is a lot of light from the numerous houses. I wanted to sit outside and gaze at the stars, and yes there were many more than one can see from Lahore, but it’s not as much fun as it used to be.

The trees need to be replanted. Those hills cannot remain barren. We cannot do this.

I need more than 24 hours in a day!

I’m very anxious about the current political situation and well, just about everything else. I’ve even lost my appetite. Those who know me will know how strange that. Also, I’m going to be doing two jobs until the end of this month and I have to try and finish my online course. I also have vocal training classes for two hours everyday. I wish I had more time! But my friends do tell me that it’s all my fault for taking on too much. It’s strange that when I do have some free time, I feel anxious about not doing anything. I know there’s some writing in me, dying to come out, but I need some uninterrupted hours to write. I think I’ll have to disappear for a little while. The blog shall also have to be neglected.
I’ll be back.

Alas!

My best friend, Reza, went to China on a business trip and fell in love with a Chinese woman. He is not coming back and is going to live in the countryside. Since him and his future wife can only have one child, he is going to adopt a couple of pandas. In a few years he plans on moving to the Gobi desert. He wants to teach her Urdu so he’s going to start with the word gobi (cauliflower).

You will be missed Reza! Lahore is not the same without you. Good luck raising your pandas in the Gobi desert.

Polka Parlour

I keep thinking of Polka Parlour, which used to be on Main Boulevard. It was one of the only ice cream parlours in town and my siblings and I were addicted to it. They were the only ones who had yummy waffle cones and they topped their ice creams with real whipped cream and caramelised nuts. My siblings and I always picked the same thing. My brother, Kamil, and I always had a double scoop of chocolate chip and my sister, Abeera, used to have a single scoop of coffee ice cream. I remember begging the waiters to cover every inch of the ice cream with whipped cream and nuts. Although Kamil and I would devour the cones whole, Abeera used to eat like a bird and her cone would inevitably end up in a puddle on the floor.

I remember frequenting Polka Parlour after spending as long as possible in Fun Land, which was in the basement of the same building. My brother and I used to let out our aggression towards each other through the bumper cars. I remember the motorised horse race, which was actually one of the main attractions. I don’t think I can ever forget the shooting area where you aimed at targets and they squirted water at you if you hit them. I remember there was a (not real) man with a gun and a hat. When he was shot at, he got up, picked up his gun and shot back, but with water. I remember being very scared the first time I saw the game. A few years later they also installed a bouncing castle and then that became our new favourite game.

I remember Kamil buying one rupee lottery tickets from Fun Land, convinced he was going to win. He didn’t…

I remember the Main Boulevard that Polka Parlour was on. It wasn’t the palm tree infested, wide open road it is today. It was a small, but long street. I wish I could picture it in my mind but I keep drawing a blank.

And for some odd reason I remember the anticipation of going to Fun Land and Polka Parlour. I remember the excitement we felt before going. When you grow up in a town where there isn’t much to do (other than eat), you learn to cherish the small things like an evening of bumper cars and ice creams.

I remember the smell of Fun Land- a damp basement smell, almost musty. And I remember the inside of Polka Parlour- everything was very shiny and inviting.

I remember begging my mother to take us to Fun Land and Polka Parlour. Eventually she became so sick of it that she just gave us money and sent us off with a servant.

Polka Parlour and Fun Land then shut down to make way for large offices and ugly buildings that look like someone threw up on them. Today there is no Polka Parlour and no Fun Land. Today, instead of Polka Parlour we have Marble Stones, Hot Spot and Gelato Affair but no one will ever compare. Good bye Polka Parlour and Fun Land. I never did say good bye before. Adieu and thank you for the memories.

Excuse me- there’s a horse tied to your car!

It’s always interesting to see a car with a horse tied to it. It’s even funnier when the car is driving at a slow speed and the horse is trotting behind it.

In memory

There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.

Memory, 7 years old, Lahore.

I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.

Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur.

Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.

Memory, 17 years old, Lahore.

I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.

Memory, 20 years old, Lahore.

Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.

It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.

Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.

But he is gone.

I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.

Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.

I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.

I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.

Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.

I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.

Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.

I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.

From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.

I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.

Love,
Nabiha Meher