KELS Official Newsletter, KingSpeak is now available online!
April Edition, 28th April, 2016
April Edition, 28th April, 2016
Before we begin, let me paint you a picture. It’s the night before your Blood physiology viva and good ol’ Guyton’s been knocking you senseless for the past God knows how many hours. Then suddenly, a wild chart appears! You read the words scribbled in pencil near the chart saying “must learn all factor names”. You are horrified. How, in the name of all that is sensible, are you supposed to learn all of them and complete the gazillion pages left? Wouldn’t it be nice if you had a method for learning them in under a minute? Allow me to show you how you can tackle such annoying problems with the greatest of ease: by developing a trained memory.
Right now you’re probably thinking “Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat” but what if I told you could do it right now! So buckle in your seat belt and prepare yourself for a live miracle! I’ll show you how to use a memory technique called ‘link’ and demonstrate the potential of training your memory through the simplest of examples
Suppose you are going out for groceries and you need to buy following items:
- Eggs
- Milk
- Mushrooms
- A pair of cells
- A pair of scissors
- Scotch tape
- Coke
- Bubble gum
- A tennis ball
Now try to learn this list through your conventional methods. Most probably you’ll memorize it and forget it in the next 45 secs. This simple list can be easily memorized (and retained) by ‘link’. All you need to do is to associate the first word in the list with the word coming immediately after it in a ridiculous manner. However, before we begin to apply this technique, I must stress on the importance of using your own associations and imagination for the best results. For the purpose of demonstration, I’ve given an example but you should actively try to suite it to your needs. Lastly, you must set your imagination free; let yourself ride in chocolate horses on bright yellow clouds if need be, just don’t hold back!
Association means that we will attempt to relate two items in our mind and with the power of our (under-worked) imagination, we will make that association stick. The more ridiculous the relation, the more likely it is to stick. Let’s begin our first link.
Read the following carefully, picturing all the detail in your mind’s eye.
- First of all, picture a grocery cart filled to the brim with eggs. Try to imagine the difficulty in moving the cart without dropping any of the eggs.
- Next, imagine a human sized egg with arms and feet drinking milk from a carton. Really form a mental image using not just your sight but other senses as well. Try to feel the rough texture of the egg and taste that all too familiar flavor of packaged milk. Take your time, just perfect the image in your mind’s eye.
- Next, picture a thousand small milk cartons running from a gigantic monster mushroom. Again, use as many of your senses as you like to perfect this image or better yet, come up with your own!
- Moving on, imagine putting mushrooms inside your Air conditioner remote instead of cells.
- Next, imagine trying to cut a cell with a scissors but the cell suddenly sprouts muscular arms and breaks the scissors like twigs.
- Then comes the scotch tape wrapped scissor mummy.
- After that picture drinking coke from a gigantic scotch tape shaped bottle.
- Next, try visualizing a bubble gum desperately trying to swim in a sea of coke and failing miserably.
- Lastly, picture using your bubble gum and a tennis ball to make a yoyo.
Remember to make every mental image properly. It may seem difficult in the beginning but with a day’s practice your imagination will be up and running.
Now let’s test your link! What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of groceries? If you made all the associations, it should be eggs. What do eggs remind you of? Recall the ridiculous image you formed and it should get you to milk. Milk? That instantly gets you to mushrooms, does it not? (I hope it does) Mushrooms should remind you of cells, the cells leading you to scissors. So on, you should be able to list all nine items. If you really want to surprise yourself, try remembering this list after a day has passed!
With this simple trick and a dash of imagination you can memorize and retain almost anything in a very short period of time. If you want to know how to learn all the clotting factors refer to the “How to develop a perfect memory” by Harry Lorayne and Jerry Lucas. Learning them is a simple application of the ‘peg method’. This book will also equip you with all the ammunition necessary to be a world memory champion (yes, there is such a thing). If that doesn’t satiate you, you can also try learning the ‘memory palace’ technique from Dominic O’Brien’s books. Now that you’ve been introduced to the wonders of a trained memory, I’ll leave you to experiment with your abilities!
‘They say, “Find a purpose in your life and live it.” But sometimes, it is only after you have lived that you recognize your life had a purpose, and likely one you never had in mind.’
From Kabul to Paris, from San Francisco to the Greek island of Tinos, Khaled Hosseini’s third novel is nothing less than a roller coaster ride across the globe- a topsy turvy one indeed.
“Kabul is... a thousand tragedies per square mile.”
The novel opens in Kabul, unveiling the life of two siblings, Abdullah and Pari. While the souls of the two remain eternally connected, the bitter realities of their lives make their physical parting inevitable. The grains of sand continue to trickle down the hour glass, as both live their own lives, unaware of each other’s whereabouts and even their reunion cannot fill the cavernous hole of their life. The message that ‘time leaves scars that are impossible to heal’ is embedded with such pragmatism that leaves the readers awestruck.
“Out beyond ideas
of wrongdoing and right doing,
there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.”
of wrongdoing and right doing,
there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.”
Not all of us are made for the society we live in and sometimes the clash of societal preferences and personal priorities can be nerve wracking. The author sheds light on the concept as he unfolds the lives of Nila and Mr.Wahadati. Nila, a woman who is too liberal, in terms of her lifestyle, feels suffocated by the conservative society around her and finds an escape from all the restrictions by fleeing abroad. Mr.Wahadati, on the contrary, develops infatuation towards his servant, Nabi, yet buries his desires for the sake of society. Different people have different approaches to a life they find anomalous- some adapt, others disregard.
“I suspect the truth is that we are waiting, all of us, against insurmountable odds, for something extraordinary to happen to us.”
Thalia’s story provides an insight into the verity that life may not always turn out the way we expect it to. The unanticipated mishap of being brutally bitten by a dog, resulting in a disfigured face, becomes the biggest reality of the girl’s life who spends her life concealed behind a veil. Yet, confronting the odds that life brings your way and moulding yourself accordingly is the key to survival and to the happiest life ‘possible’.
“It's a funny thing... but people mostly have it backward. They think they live by what they want. But really, what guides them is what they're afraid of. What they don't want.”
Whilst memory is sometimes a blessing that allows you to revive past moments that you cherish and hold on to for dear life, the author reveals a darker side of it. Memory is that curse that makes you relive all the pain you’ve felt, stumble repeatedly through all your struggles and live through the sorrows over and over again. Oblivion is not always a menace, sometimes it is the bliss that makes us strong enough to face the challenges of life that come our way. The stories of all the characters impart a tinge of this grave truth.
At any one place, at any particular time, there cannot be just one story; countless tales delicately intertwined into one another, with different alphas and omegas, and varying ups and downs. This sums up the crux of Khalid Hosseini’s thought provoking bestseller, ‘And the Mountains Echoed’.
They had started whispering around him now; he could hear them speak about him in hushed voices. He knew the mutterings and musings would continue and spread like a fire would through the driest hay. But he did not care. Standing there, on the foot of the bed that he’d come to fear all his life, he felt strangely comforted. It brought an approving thought to his head: they are right in what they think of me. Prying his eyes away from the bed, he gazed briefly at all those who had come to give false sympathies and deceitful respects. The women could barely look through the tears that came streaming from their eyes. So swollen and crimson were they that it seemed as if the angel of death had taken away from them their very own husbands or sons. They wept and they cried, doing what they usually did for a couple of hours before heading back to their homes and speaking highly of those who had wept the most over a hot cup of tea. He would certainly draw the ire of every woman who was in the room today; at least he’d given them someone other than their usual victims to speak of with a frustrated shake of the head. And yet he stood there with a face completely devoid of all expression, paying no attention to the disapproving eyes that looked at him in disgust, expecting some sliver of gloom from a face that seemed to be set in stone.
“You’ve had a long journey, sir”, a voice spoke calmly in his ear. “Please let me take your luggage.”
He turned around to see the welcome face of Amir, the trusted family servant, nearly the same as he was when he’d last seen him. His hair was a little grayer and though his dark eyes had lost none of the keenness about them, a certain red currently streaked across their whites. Only now did Bilal notice that he had a briefcase in one hand and a backpack in the other. This was no time for pleasantries; without a word, he handed them over to Amir and retired to his room. It was exactly how he had left it; the walls were empty and there was nothing in the room save a study table and a bed. A stranger here would have felt as if it had been emptied but it wasn’t much different when he’d lived here. The journey had been long and tiring while it lasted but now that he was home, the exhaustion had been lifted from him and the bed that used to be so enticing to him years ago had suddenly lost its charm. Nonetheless he sat down upon it, thinking about how long it had been since last he’d been here.
Eight years? Has it really been that long? I left as a boy and now return a man grown. They’ll say the prodigal son has returned, though not quite at an opportune moment.
There was a knock on the door and Amir entered. “I’ve had some of your old clothes ironed for you so you can slip into something more suitable and comfortable, sir. The food is ready, for whenever you feel like eating.”
“Thank you Amir, and I’ve told you before not to call me that”, Bilal answered softly.
“Force of habit, sir. Sorry I can’t do much about it now that I’m on the wrong side of 50.” He continued after a brief pause, “I do hope that you know how sorry I am about your loss. Words do not do justice to how great a man he was. He will be very dearly missed.”
The sentiment from Amir brought to Bilal’s mind the face of the man on the bed. Covered otherwise from head to toe in white, it shared his features: the brown eyes and wide sloping forehead, the Greek nose, the high cheekbones and the strong jaw. The face seemed to be at peace albeit devoid of all emotion as his had been while he stood over it. Even in death his father was as dignified as he’d been in life.
“Yes I know, Amir. Thank you for being there for him when no one else was.”
“It was my duty and pleasure, sir. Nothing I’ve ever done has honored me more than serving him and now you. You’ve been gone for so long that I’ve barely had anything to do around here. I wish you’d stay around now that you’re here, though I know you must shortly answer the call of duty. Speaking of which, how has life been treating you?”
“The States are different from here in some ways and cruelly similar in others, Amir. My practice is coming along nicely, but I’ve not found much else to my liking over there.”
“All the more reason for you to come back, sir”, insisted Amir.
“I’ll think over it but now is not the time Amir. When is father’s funeral?”
“Tomorrow, sir. 10 in the morning.”
“That will be all, Amir. Thank you.”
Bilal spent the rest of the day meeting all the cousins, aunts and uncles who had come to offer their condolences and every time someone embraced him a solemn thought would cross his mind: he was a stranger to every single one of them; his father had seen to it. Ever since he could remember, he had been in a boarding school of some sort. His mother had opposed the idea of sending him off to one so early but his father had been adamant about it. The experience left him with not much contact with close relatives other than his parents and being an only child merely exacerbated the situation.
The lamenting continued in the house but he was alone in failing to shed a single tear or to utter a single sob. Night eventually came and he returned to his room for some time, trying to doze off but sleep had distanced itself from him. He stayed wide awake, watching the stars fade away through his bedroom window as the sun came up.
He wore an old shalwar kameez and prepared himself for the burial. Making his way through the howling women with a cot on his shoulder, he headed for the cemetery. It was beautiful outside. The warm February sun shone down on him as a cool breeze blew across his face to signal the premature arrival of spring. The men beside him continued to recite for his father’s forgiveness but he was quiet. An old memory had gotten ahold of him.
He remembered a little boy sitting on a table as a man told him to write some words in Urdu and every time he was wrong a wooden stick would swiftly come down upon his hands and punish him for something he was too young to fully comprehend. He remembered looking through the boy’s teary eyes and trying to solve the dilemma that faced him: try to write and be whipped for it, or instinctively cry for his mother and be struck for that as well.
“Crying is weakness”, the man said firmly. “Don’t ever let me see you cry, son.”
The boy slowly said, “Yes”, to which the man said, “Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
The memory dissolved before his eyes as they reached the gate of the graveyard. After the funeral prayers had been said, the body was lowered into the grave and slabs of concrete placed over it. Bilal stood by, assisting the others in performing the burial rights and after a while took a handful of wet dirt in his hands and threw it over the slabs in a ritualistic consignment of his father to the ground below. Still as stone-faced as he’d been the previous day, he shed not a single tear nor betrayed any sign of the ‘weakness’ that his father had so much disdain for. Presently a crop of questions had begun springing up around him.
He wouldn’t have wanted me to weep over him. Would he? Deep down in his heart he knew that the consolation was but a glorified façade. Was he always like that? Deliberately ignorant of what a child might think or feel? Or did he just not care about me at all? He remembered the passing of his mother and how it had left his father broken. It was more difficult for me than it was for him. I was only a child for God’s sake.
The torrent of questions soon began to drown him in his own doubts and misgivings and it wasn’t long before he was trying to swim ashore in an ocean of long-forgotten memories. They were unpleasant to say the least, almost every single one of them. His parents leaving him at a boarding school for second grade was the oldest. His mother had wept, though his father had stood beside her, stone-faced and stern as always. Then followed the passing of his mother when he was only 12 and after that came memories of a broken man who would try to be a father to him but not realize that the boy needed a mother as well. He remembered the time when he broke the car’s headlights trying to skateboard and was put in his place by dint of a watering hose. He recalled playing with a couple of friends when his father intruded, sent off his companions and warned him of the consequences about doing anything but studying in his room. That was when he was only a boy. As he had grown older, his memories of home had become more and more hostile, until the last memory he’d made exactly eight years ago came back to him.
The beatings and the insults had built up inside of him, pushing him to the point where he was ready to erupt at the slightest of offences from his father. When Bilal told him he would be leaving the country soon he was met with another disapproving shake of the head and a scathing assessment of this decision. But Bilal had had enough; in his rage he blurted out everything that came to his mind: he spoke of the countless whippings, abuses, condescending glances and the persistent lack of support from his own flesh and blood. His father fought back and what had started out as an argument morphed into a conflict between the two men that threatened to break the fiber of the only bond that still held the two together: family. And break it did, sending the two of them on their separate ways, never to hear from each other again.
As he came to, Bilal realized that he stood all alone over the grave with a branch in his hand. He offered a prayer for his father, poured more water over the dirt and planted the branch in it. He turned to leave but had a change of mind. Turning back, he knelt over the grave, put his hand on the wet earth and quietly muttered, “I am sorry, father. I forgive you.” Walking out of the cemetery, he felt that his heart was lighter than it was when he’d walked in.
Back home he performed his duties of meeting with more people who had come for the funeral and arranging for their food and drink. After a couple of hours he was by himself in the house. He returned to his room, lay down on the bed and began to wonder what his father would have said to him if he’d been alive, seeing him back in the house he’d been banished from. I guess it’s too late now. There was a knock on the door and Amir returned. He held an envelope in his hand.
“This is for you, sir. Your father wrote it a few days before his passing. He instructed me to give it to you after the funeral was over.” He held out the envelope for Bilal.
Bilal took it in his hand and nodded to him. As Amir closed the door after himself, Bilal looked over the envelope. It was blank on the outside. Tearing it open he pulled out a letter from within, turned on his lamp and flattened the letter on his study table. It had been written with a familiar stable hand, with the words beautifully crafted on the thick, dry paper. It read thus:
Dearest son,
I write this letter to you while I still have some strength left in my body, though I lack the courage to face you while I am still alive. My health has progressively waned ever since that fateful night eight years ago and I fear I may not live long enough to see you come home of your own accord. I’m also afraid that I may not be able to convince you to come back except in death but know that I do not blame you for that. I’ve done much for the people of our city and through them gained everything that holds significance for young men: wealth, power and respect. But in the twilight of my life, I’ve come to realize that along the way I lost the one thing that should have been my most treasured possession: your love and respect. The loss of your mother drowned me in an abyss of grief and sorrow but I should have known that you were only a child and that the loss was at least as cruel, if not more agonizing, for you. Her loss blinded me to your needs and as such I was often too harsh on you. I will not say that I only had the best intentions for you in mind; that I believe is too clichéd. But I will say that I should have been a far better father to someone as tolerant and gifted as you. The eight years that you have been gone have been particularly distressing for me and during this time alone I have come to regret all the wrongs I’ve done to you. I write this only to say that I am proud of the man you are and that I regret and apologize for not giving you my love in life. I shall await your forgiveness in the life to come and I know you will not cause me much delay. I remember I used to belt you when you came into my bedroom without permission. You can go in there; no one is going to belt you now.
With love,
Your father.
Bilal finished reading the letter, turned off the lamp and left his bedroom. He held it in his hand as his feet instinctively led him into the room that he’d come to fear when he was a child. Father was right about the belting, he thought as he crossed the threshold and stood by the side of the bed.
The face that had divulged no emotions began to quiver now; the slightest hints that perhaps it was not all set in stone began to show. The rocks began to crumble, the lips curled upside down and the frowns began to set in. The eyes that had resisted a catharsis for so long shuddered and gave way, forcing Bilal to kneel on the floor by the side of the bed.
A single teardrop fell on the floor.
Water. That was the only thing on her mind as she ran around on the hot sand with broken chappals in her feet and holding her one year old son. The worn out chaddar that she had draped over them was doing little to block the fervent Sun above. She had wrapped the little boy in an additional sheet as well as she carried him in her Sun-burnt hands. She was utterly helpless, there was nothing but the neverending stretches of arid desert everywhere she looked. The dry searing air was only adding to their sufferings. Her sweat drenched body was tired and severely dehydrated. But no matter how much she wanted to rest, she could not. She could not bear to lose her Mithoo, her one year old angel. She looked at his face;
"Shh.. everythng is going to be all right", she said in a feeble voice, more to herself than the infant.
It seemed like only yesterday when the huge lorry had arrived to pick them all up, she and her neighbors, although several years had passed. Their Chaudhary sahab wanted them in his political procession. They were promised free food! How generous was he, she thought. Her chudhary sahab. It was a tradition in their family to cast their vote to him and to go whenever he needed them to show off his strength.
“After everything he does for us, he deserves our support!”, that’s what her father used to tell them. So whenever he sent for them, they went.
Everything was on fire. There was a terrible, constant throbbing in her head. Mithoo was burning up too. She needed to quicken her search for water. If she didn’t find it... If something happened to her boy... No! She couldn’t think like that. She made a small mound of sand with her hands and laid her son over it.
“Mamma will be back sweetheart. Mamma will be back with fresh water”, she kissed him softly on the head and then headed out in search of a well or a small stream, any source to provide them with some water.
She could still hear the tunes they danced to in Chaudhary sahab’s jalsa. There were patriotic songs as well as melodies signifying their leader’s bravery and honesty. She was in the front row. That was the first time she had come here without her father. She was so proud of herself. She was doing something so big and important all on her own! Their Chaidhary sahab needed all the support he could get, right? So she danced to the patriotic songs and raised slogans in his favour every time he made a promise to help his people and make their country better in his speech. And in the end, they all got free biryani! God bless the generous Chaudhary sahab!
She was sure he would come. After all, he had made all those promises, right? He would not abandon his people. The people who voted for him. She lied down for a moment. She hadn’t been able to find anything to satiate her thirst. The weather was getting hotter, if it were even possible. She had to get up. She knew her condition would only worsen with time in the blistering heat of the desert. She could not lie down. She ran towards her son to check on him, whispered comforting things to him and then again started searching for water. This became her routine. She would come to see if her Mithoo was ok and then again return to look for water.
How excited were they on their way back. She told everyone how the nation had found its true leader.
“God bless our chudhary sahab!”, she said, “my father told me if there’s anyone who’ll do anything for us, it’s that man. Look how honest he was! And he said all the things that we think and feel, hasn’t he Chacha gee? I’m telling you, he is the only true leader we have now!"
His true leader. When would he come, she thought? How much longer would she have to wait? They were his voters. They were his ‘people’. Surely he wouldn’t leave his people in such a peril without any help, right? No! He would come. She was sure that he would come.
She hadn’t heard Mithoo cry in a while now..
“Oh God.. no.. please"
She wanted to go and check on him. She wanted to make sure he was well. But couldn’t bring herself to do that. It was easier to hope and convince herself that her son was ok... and alive than to actually go and see why had he left crying. She couldn’t make herself accept the obvious truth here. It was difficult for an adult to survive this scorching sun in such a hot and dry weather, let alone an infant. Her Mithoo was gone but somewhere inside her she wanted to cling on to the fragile hope. The hope that she would find water and everything would be okay, that her son would grow up to become a doctor, that her Chaudhary sahab hadn’t deserted her.
“I’m here Mithoo, mamma is here. Everything is going to be okay”, she whispered to no one in particular. She needed to find water.
Suddenly her eyes fell upon something shiny in the distance. It almost looked like .. a bottle? A water bottle! She knew that the odds were heavily against her. The bottle was most likely going to be empty. But she forced herself not to think like that. That was her last hope. She knew she couldn’t go on for long. She gave her tired body one last push and started running in its direction.
“Water... water for Mithoo... Please God..” she hardly had taken a few steps when she fell. Her body was shutting down. Her dehydrated brain was refusing to go any further.
“Just a few more steps... I can...” she started crawling towards it. She had to get to it. Inch by inch, she propelled her body towards the rusty old bottle.
“Mithoo.... Chaudhary sahab... water...” She was dead before she reached the empty bottle.
__________
One year later.
Enrique's Tonight blasted through the bar as they sat together at the farthest table churning down their vodkas. The bartender had the whole bar cleared for them. The cameras both inside and outside this place were shut down. All the entrances and exits were covered by heavily armed security guards of those men.
A man came running through the door, yelling at the top of his voice.
“Chaudhary Sahab! Chaudhary Sahab!”
The man he was referring to looked up at the incomer.
“What is it, boy?”, he asked, completely drunk.
“The results have come in!”, he cried, “I have some really bad news sir. You lost by one vote.”
“What? By ONE vote?”, he stood up in rage and threw his alcohol bottle on the floor. The bartender immediately came to clean up the mess. The other men sitting at that table started telling Chaudhary sahab how sorry they were at his defeat and that they would stand by him no matter what.
“This is indeed a tragic news Chaudhary Sahab.. Just one vote and you’ll be on your way to the big house”, said one of them.
“Yes, Gulnawaz just one vote. Just one freaking person! One!" he said as he took a big swig out of the wine bottle.. “And you!”, he pointed at the bartender, “Bring some girls in here now! This liquor alone is not going to be sufficient now.”
Everybody ignored a small tv fitted on the wall opposite to where those men sat, on which a young news reporter was talking about the thousands that had lost their lives to draught in Thar and areas around it.
"Shh.. everythng is going to be all right", she said in a feeble voice, more to herself than the infant.
It seemed like only yesterday when the huge lorry had arrived to pick them all up, she and her neighbors, although several years had passed. Their Chaudhary sahab wanted them in his political procession. They were promised free food! How generous was he, she thought. Her chudhary sahab. It was a tradition in their family to cast their vote to him and to go whenever he needed them to show off his strength.
“After everything he does for us, he deserves our support!”, that’s what her father used to tell them. So whenever he sent for them, they went.
Everything was on fire. There was a terrible, constant throbbing in her head. Mithoo was burning up too. She needed to quicken her search for water. If she didn’t find it... If something happened to her boy... No! She couldn’t think like that. She made a small mound of sand with her hands and laid her son over it.
“Mamma will be back sweetheart. Mamma will be back with fresh water”, she kissed him softly on the head and then headed out in search of a well or a small stream, any source to provide them with some water.
She could still hear the tunes they danced to in Chaudhary sahab’s jalsa. There were patriotic songs as well as melodies signifying their leader’s bravery and honesty. She was in the front row. That was the first time she had come here without her father. She was so proud of herself. She was doing something so big and important all on her own! Their Chaidhary sahab needed all the support he could get, right? So she danced to the patriotic songs and raised slogans in his favour every time he made a promise to help his people and make their country better in his speech. And in the end, they all got free biryani! God bless the generous Chaudhary sahab!
She was sure he would come. After all, he had made all those promises, right? He would not abandon his people. The people who voted for him. She lied down for a moment. She hadn’t been able to find anything to satiate her thirst. The weather was getting hotter, if it were even possible. She had to get up. She knew her condition would only worsen with time in the blistering heat of the desert. She could not lie down. She ran towards her son to check on him, whispered comforting things to him and then again started searching for water. This became her routine. She would come to see if her Mithoo was ok and then again return to look for water.
How excited were they on their way back. She told everyone how the nation had found its true leader.
“God bless our chudhary sahab!”, she said, “my father told me if there’s anyone who’ll do anything for us, it’s that man. Look how honest he was! And he said all the things that we think and feel, hasn’t he Chacha gee? I’m telling you, he is the only true leader we have now!"
His true leader. When would he come, she thought? How much longer would she have to wait? They were his voters. They were his ‘people’. Surely he wouldn’t leave his people in such a peril without any help, right? No! He would come. She was sure that he would come.
She hadn’t heard Mithoo cry in a while now..
“Oh God.. no.. please"
She wanted to go and check on him. She wanted to make sure he was well. But couldn’t bring herself to do that. It was easier to hope and convince herself that her son was ok... and alive than to actually go and see why had he left crying. She couldn’t make herself accept the obvious truth here. It was difficult for an adult to survive this scorching sun in such a hot and dry weather, let alone an infant. Her Mithoo was gone but somewhere inside her she wanted to cling on to the fragile hope. The hope that she would find water and everything would be okay, that her son would grow up to become a doctor, that her Chaudhary sahab hadn’t deserted her.
“I’m here Mithoo, mamma is here. Everything is going to be okay”, she whispered to no one in particular. She needed to find water.
Suddenly her eyes fell upon something shiny in the distance. It almost looked like .. a bottle? A water bottle! She knew that the odds were heavily against her. The bottle was most likely going to be empty. But she forced herself not to think like that. That was her last hope. She knew she couldn’t go on for long. She gave her tired body one last push and started running in its direction.
“Water... water for Mithoo... Please God..” she hardly had taken a few steps when she fell. Her body was shutting down. Her dehydrated brain was refusing to go any further.
“Just a few more steps... I can...” she started crawling towards it. She had to get to it. Inch by inch, she propelled her body towards the rusty old bottle.
“Mithoo.... Chaudhary sahab... water...” She was dead before she reached the empty bottle.
__________
One year later.
Enrique's Tonight blasted through the bar as they sat together at the farthest table churning down their vodkas. The bartender had the whole bar cleared for them. The cameras both inside and outside this place were shut down. All the entrances and exits were covered by heavily armed security guards of those men.
A man came running through the door, yelling at the top of his voice.
“Chaudhary Sahab! Chaudhary Sahab!”
The man he was referring to looked up at the incomer.
“What is it, boy?”, he asked, completely drunk.
“The results have come in!”, he cried, “I have some really bad news sir. You lost by one vote.”
“What? By ONE vote?”, he stood up in rage and threw his alcohol bottle on the floor. The bartender immediately came to clean up the mess. The other men sitting at that table started telling Chaudhary sahab how sorry they were at his defeat and that they would stand by him no matter what.
“This is indeed a tragic news Chaudhary Sahab.. Just one vote and you’ll be on your way to the big house”, said one of them.
“Yes, Gulnawaz just one vote. Just one freaking person! One!" he said as he took a big swig out of the wine bottle.. “And you!”, he pointed at the bartender, “Bring some girls in here now! This liquor alone is not going to be sufficient now.”
Everybody ignored a small tv fitted on the wall opposite to where those men sat, on which a young news reporter was talking about the thousands that had lost their lives to draught in Thar and areas around it.
He was sitting there with me. Dejected, broken, disappointed. Everything, but hopeless.
"It's a tragedy. It happens. Bad things happen. It'll pass. Time will change. It always does."There are no tragedies, I said. But he disagreed. He seemed to have a lot of faith in humanity. I didn't argue.
"Yes, but he isn't here yet. You better take your child to a private hospital". He thought it was a good idea. At least until he reached the private place. There was treatment, paramedics, doctors, but not for his daughter.
Sir, are you listening to me?"
The next day, he took his landlady to the mall for shopping. Then to a cinema. Then to a restaurant. When finally they returned, he asked her for help. The family had all the means. But they refused to help. " Actually it's the last week of the month, so we don't have any money. I know you think we have a lot of resources but to be honest, we don't. But don't worry. You will get your salary right on time."
The next day was wedding of the son of his employer. The generous businessman invited him and his family. He was as much ecstatic as he was grateful to the old man.
Splendid wedding. Majestic display. Fireworks and everything. But back home, his 11 yrs old daughter fell mysteriously ill. She cried with insufferable pain for some time, going in and out of consciousness.
An ambulance was called and the kid rushed into the nearby hospital immediately. The father was standing alongside the stretcher of his sick daughter, shouting for the doctor.
Where was the doctor ?
"Where's the doctor?" he asked the staff on duty. "The doctor is not here. He hasn't arrived yet."
"Isn't it supposed to be an emergency hospital ? Isn't there supposed to be a doctor ?"
"Your daughter is suffering from a congenital disease. She is in a lot of pain. She will have to be operated upon. We can do it right away but you need to deposit Rs _____ .............
He had stopped paying attention. He didn't know whether it was good news or bad news. He didn't know whether to smile or cry. They gave him hope, and despair.
He didn't have one 10th of the amount. The only people he thought could help were the family he worked for. He was sure they'd help. After all he had been their driver for years
A thought crossed his mind. Is my daughter not worth it ? Are cinemas and designer suits more important? How come they have money for all of that but not for my little angel ? Are they actually willing to sentence my kid to death for a little, dirty money?
All the people he went to, all the people he thought could help, came
up with an excuse or another. The hospital refused to treat his daughter , saying he needed to deposit the money first. With no one left to go to, he went back to his little girl. Breathing heavily, labouring to catch every breath. He could feel her dying but there was nothing he could do. He could feel her soul leave her body but he was helpless. He held her daughter's head in his lap as her breaths became laboured.
She died in his arms. His little girl, his love, his family, his world, ending in his own arms. Can anything be more cruel ?
That night, He had a lot to think about. Who was to blame ? Maybe no one. Maybe it was a tragedy. Maybe it was all predetermined in God's plans. But what if he had the money ? Maybe the employer is to blame. Yes, it is him. It is his family. They killed my daughter. But what about the doctors? They could have saved her. I would've paid them later. They are the culprits too.
Later that night, he got a call from the good old lady "Be right on time tomorrow. It's Guriya's result". He told her he wouldn't make it. How could he ? He had to bury his own guriya.
He was sitting there with me. Dejected, broken, disappointed. No sparkle in his eyes, no plans in mind, no dreams in the subconscious.
"There is no such thing as tragedy. It's always someone's fault. Always. Some heinous ignorance, some gruesome deliberate act, some murderous overlooking .....
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What is tragedy really?
So we were watching a famous Indian movie. And we made sure to make it very special. Popcorns and drawn curtains. And hushed occasional whispers. And even those were few and met with reprimand. Our eyes religiously followed all that was happening on the screen. Before soon I heard a sniff. Warily I turned around to see my friend dabbing at her eyes with a tissue in an attempt to stem the flow of tears that gushed out of her eyes. Sure enough it was nearing the end. The sad, tragic, tear jerking end that makes up Indian classics. The same old plot involving a terminally ill person who for reasons unfathomable to anyone but the sadistic writer keeps his illness hidden only to have it get revealed at the very end. Minutes before his death. The originality of the plot was definitely mind blowing. So as I thought about what tragedy is really this was the only thing that crossed my mind.
Death. The ultimate tragedy we are all fated to meet.
So basically death is the saddest thing that can happen to any of us. And it is definitely tragic.
Ceasing to exist, having your existence wiped out from the world until eventually you become a mere memory, and then you cease to be that too anymore. You fade into oblivion. And this oblivion is inevitable. You cannot refute fate. But its universality is comforting. And it helps lessen the gravity of this affliction considerably.
So then what is tragedy really? If death isn’t.
And the answers start hitting me one by one.
The child walking barefoot on the road trying to sell a couple of coloring books. The child who has never been to school and never would either. Unless a miracle strikes but miracles are so hard to come by.
The woman whose face has been hardened by the circumstances she had to face, who had to endure so much suffering that she erected an impenetrable wall around her heart, preventing anyone from rousing her sympathy. Who goes around inflicting sorrow upon others because this was all life ever had to offer her.
The girl who aspired to be an artist, who loved bringing to life, mountains and blossoms and the night sky and sand dunes; by a mere stroke of her paint brush. But gave up on her dreams to fulfill her parent's. Who now wanders feeling lost and isolated. Who regrets not pursuing her goals. Who knows now that it is too late.
The man lying on the hospital bed staring at the dust mites and reminiscing about his past. Trying to relive memories of his children whom he raised so preciously. For whom he sacrificed his health, time, youth. Providing whom with all the luxuries of life had been his priority. Consequently he turned into a workaholic. And he let himself get immersed into the glories that came along with it. At the expense of witnessing his son’s first play, his children’s birthdays, their fears and fantasies and secret hiding places. And he realized too late that he should have strived for memories rather than possessions.
The brother and sister who had common ambitions, insecurities, desires. Their existences were entwined with each other’s. They fought but they could never bear to be apart. Where he went she followed. They made up stories and built fantasy worlds armed solely with their imaginations until eventually reality faded and their fantasy world became real. Together they were unconquerable. But then he left for boarding school. For once she didn’t follow him.
Years later she searched his eyes for a spark of recognition. The eyes that used to sparkle when hers did. The eyes that could read her mind, distinguish her emotions when no one else’s could. The eyes that now betrayed no signs of familiarity. Her brother had turned into a complete stranger.
And I realize death is not the biggest tragedy. It is when you forget to live while you are still alive.
When you let moments, years and then your entire life slip like sand in an hourglass, doing something you despise, never truly living to your full potentials. When you are deprived of the chance to live the life everyone else takes for granted. When you spend your years without spreading love, kindness and cheer. When you believe you are living your life fully but every inch of your body shouts out in defiance. When you exude lifelessness without even being aware of it. When you look back and you don’t have fond memories to smile at.
‘Tragedy’ how do u define it? Is it the loss of a loved one? loss in business? loss of a job? any other sort of a worldly loss? OR is it something MORE GRAVE than that..............
Loss of Imaan, Our Faith, Being Disobedient to Allah SWT!!! That’s what REAL TRAGEDY is! Everything else is secondary and temporary.
In fact, the ‘So Called Tragedies’ are a golden opportunity for us to ‘Become Closer to Allah SWT’…The Ultimate Goal of our life! If we seek Allah SWT in our hard times, we can get His pleasure. If Allah SWT is happy with us then that is the BIGGEST ACCOMPLISHMENT of our lives.
Each time that we disobey Allah SWT, neglect His injunctions and follow our own desires, give preference to dunya over deen, commit sins considering them trivial, spend time in ghaflah over futile things empty of the rememberance of Allah SWT …These are the times that are really tragic and miserable! We should mourn over such times and feel regret in our hearts.
Nothing happens in this world out of order! Everything happens for a pretty good reason. Behind every failure and every tragedy lies a LESSON to be learnt. If we manage to go knee deep into the wisdom behind all incidents in our life; then we will be able to mould ourselves into Better Humans, Better Muslims Insha’allah.
This life is just a like game. Initially, small hurdles come our way. Step by step, things start getting more complex. The more hardships we face, the more we are being tested by Allah. If we remain patient all along, higher is the reward awaiting us in Jannah .
Humans are hasty and impatient by nature. We start complaining about such trivial things that didn’t happen the way we wanted. We forget million and trillions of Allah’s blessing upon us and cry over just one difficulty that we come across. So ungrateful we are…
Allah SWT loves us seventy times more than our mothers yet He lets us experience tragedies…why so? Just because He wishes to Purify our souls! Gold gets purified of its impurities when heated at extremely high temperatures. Similarly hardships come to purify us of our negativities.
In short, these ‘Tragedies are Blessings in Disguise!’ Apparently we feel the Loss but in reality it is our ultimate Gain as long as we turn to Allah alone. May Allah SWT strengthen us in our dark times and help us get through with His Mercy! May He guide us all to the right path!
Ameen!
The 21st of May seems happy and harmless. Roses, chocolates and flowers! Candy hearts and balloons. Lots and lots of pink and purple. The whole atmosphere of Ushna’s house was giggling and dancing because it was the 21st birthday of Ushna’s daughter – Ayesha (an undergraduate of John Hopkins University). Ushna herself was a rich business woman and a beautiful person, both inside out.
Ushna’s life had never been easy for her-multiple times , Ayesha asked her about past life to which she replied, “I shall tell you all when times come.” Today she felt like telling her story to her daughter.
“Mom, what is life?” asked Ayesha as if a question popped in her mind all of a sudden.
“How can I tell you the meaning of this meaningless word-life? I think it is both beautiful and miserable at the same time. That is what I have learnt from my journey of life,” answered Ushna
“And what is that?” asked Ayesha.
“My journey of life had been characterized by highs and lows. First, there had been a traumatic childhood filled with an unquenched thirst for love. My heart aches began early on. During the first years of my life, my parents died in a car accident. I had no siblings.”
“I had to live with my grandparents. At least they were the only one who were ready to keep me in their house. It was about the time we used to live in Pakistan.”
“My grandfather was a very evil, vindictive person. His sexual abuse only compounded the trauma and added further layers of pains and suffering that haunted me in my adult life. I had to bear it all in order to have a shelter and to keep going with my studies. Despite my personal problems, I managed to excel in my academics.”
“Which school were you from?” asked Ayesha.
“I had been a Grammarian. Life at school till O-Levels was all fun. We had friends and moments of happiness and sadness. Now, I just have memories of that good time,” said Ushna with tears in her eyes.
“Memories play a confusing role in our life. They make us laugh when we remember the time we cried together and that make us cry, when we remember the time we laughed together”
“They are beautiful things to cherish. Aren't they?” asked Ayesha
Ushna nodded.
“But those good days did not last. I had to face same insurmountable challenges that filled my adulthood with depression and long-lasting scars.”
“I still remember the day when I was going to examination center for my final CIE. On my way I had a serious car accident. I had severe injuries and fractures. I was hospitalized for a year. Life hit me hard. All my friends were way ahead of me. I had a nervous breakdown. I was fed up of my life. I wanted every person on the face of the earth dead.”
“I was not well. It was in the deep trenches of a burnout, breakdown. I was dealing with my own demons. Life had not been nice to me. I had been a victim of sexual abuse and sexual harassment. My so called friends left me. I was discharged from hospital after two years. That was the time when I committed suicide. I attempted suicide, perhaps a part of me was alive,” said Ushna.
“You are strong, mother, very strong,” said Ayesha.
“At that time, I was not. I was wounded and I realized that the wounds that happened to me in my soul could only be healed by the Creator of my soul. I realized that suicide can never be a way to make your life better – it is just a way to end your life,” said Ushna.
“I pushed myself to religion. That was the first time I prayed to Allah. That was where process of healing started. Very soon, I realized that we in this world rely on supports which are themselves standing on supports. I feel like, if I take support of little ones, already dependent ones I shall fall soon. I had to take the support of the mega power – Almighty Allah.”
“I took a brand new start of life. I left O-Levels. I opted matric, I chased education and I was successful at it. I made an empire. It started from a little brick and I made whole empire. I moved on to America. I adopted you from an orphanage. But I have always loved you more than a mother,” said Ushna.
The doorbell rang and Ayesha wiped her tears and went to open the door for the guests who had arrived for the grand birthday party of Ayesha. She introduced her friends to her mother – Ushna, who was more than a mother to her. Ayesha realized that beneath every strong little girl who had learned how to get back up and to never depend on anyone.
Alina was so proud of Ushna. She went and hugged Ushna.The laughter echoed in the house as they celebrated Ayesha’s birthday.
