Energy, mass, matter, momentum, charge… they are just a few elementary quantities from the lexicon of physics. So different if you take their worldly meanings, but so similar if you consider them as something beyond their usual concepts. They are all physical quantities that can be measured and in this world, they always thrive as “the always conserved” quantities. Their amounts in the whole universe remain conserved. A constant throughout eternity, just static and stagnant-stuff that never change… but I’d always thought that everything changes. After all, nothing is permanent and plausible but change; right?
My physics sir once said-these concepts take you nearer to the ultimate, the supreme; what some would call God. Imagine, science, which usually shows the big finger at religion, actually takes you nearer to God. But I love the idea. Through science, towards God.
When people began dividing things, they reached to the atom, which they considered the indivisible, non-creatable, and indestructible. But then as a blow to Man’s pride, came the neutrons, protons and the electrons. But then came the gluons, quarks and all the other divisions of the atom. Now the electrons have been promoted to the position where the atom once was long back. Maybe one day, they will be demoted and another particle will take their place. The fact that such a big universe has such tiny specks of particles which cannot even be predicted is itself a big ultimate truth and the mysteriously gnawing pain is that we going farther and farther away from the truth by reaching nearer and nearer to the basics. Just as we feel we’ve reached our goal, some new discovery is made which demolishes all our previous beliefs and we somehow end up in square one. But then Man is as curious as a cat, so we keep trying and thinking and finding. Maybe one day, we will get to it, get it right…
Maybe, science is the pathway to the superior...
Thursday, June 11, 2009
SUCH A BOHR!!! (TO BOHR OR NOT TO BOHR)
(To all those hard-core Chemistry-loving people, read at your own risk. Please do not take it to your hearts. I’ve nothing against Chemistry as such. Just that, I loved the heading so much, I’d to write something under it.)
Have you ever sat in a Chemistry class? Of course, what kind of a question is that, right? Ever wondered why we are learning things that are not, in reality, quite right? As to why theories which have demerits or those which have been proven wrong ages ago are taught to us, and we like puppies learn them by rote? So many equations making rounds in our minds, i.e. till the exact moment the exam starts. When the exam begins, the whole of mole concept, quantum theory and mechanics and over a dozen other rules and theories go vamoose…evaporate into thin air. The only equation in chemistry I agree with is,
Electrons revolving around the nucleus = Stars revolving around my head.
The proof is for all of you to experience. Sit in any Chemistry class with the section dealing with quantum mechanics or any other section. I can guarantee that you will see stars revolving around your head with a similar motion of electrons around the nucleus in the Bohr model of atom.
What do you say about that? Being a Chemistry loving person, I love knowing things as well as learning Chemistry as long as you don’t have anything to learn by heart. When I was a small kid, when anyone said Chemistry, the idea I got was all about 2 test tubes and inter-changing/inter-mixing their contents and there occurs a blast. But here I am in 11th and what do I come to know… there’s no mixing-matching, no explosion, just learning about this Bohr guy and that
To me, all these Bohr-Rutherford-Dalton and a few Heisenberg-Schrödinger guys are the same…proving this, disproving that! What’s the ultimate result? We, poor, poor students have to learn all their mistakes, misjudgments and miscalculations. And here’s another Chemistry equation I believe in,
Cranky students with splitting headaches who turn into grouchy adults.
That’s my goodbye present for you people…happy at last, eh, you ungrateful wretches??? Me too, for I don’t have to make you read my high-standard articles again as I understand they are too high for your low-down brains to digest. But I feel you should be grateful that I have said what you feel, anyway,
Thank you…
PS: - (Don’t you dare not read this…it is a Post Script, for god’s sakes!!!)
No electron or atom or scientist has been harmed during the making of this article. Only this paper and the author’s keyboard have endured a few damages, not serious as such. All ideas, views and conclusions are purely a work of genius and this work is not to be supposed to be a work of a lunatic. The consequences would be dangerous since anyone doing so will be arrested and/or fined under Self-Proclaimed Genius Act 2006.
Thanking you for your co-operation,
Yours scientifically,
A self-proclaimed Genius.
CONFESSIONS OF A TEENAGE BATHROOM SINGER
Well, I had just sent an article of mine to the Woman's Era. And guess what? It got published... I am just putting it on the blog for those people who wouldn't be getting the issue in hand... lol!
The real thing is that my bathroom is cluttered with stones, sticks, chappals, shoes and even one of a pair of beautiful new high heeled shoes and you goddit, I am waiting for the other shoe, for not only am I a bathroom singer, I am also the world’s stingiest person alive (of course, next only to the Guinness record-holder…even I don’t collect soap chippings and create a new soap.). Let’s face it; I don’t waste my money on things I can get for free. My singing has led to our colony winning ‘The Noisiest Colony’ Award… but do they give me credit? Uh-uh…no way and they say I am the stingy person here!!! Tightfisted colony!!! Really, my neighbors have pleaded, begged mercy, prayers, fought, showed fists, then given up and, guess what, finally joined the cult of BSA!!!
Have you not heard of BSA, not the bike folks--more like, Bathroom Singers Association—more like Bathroom Singers Affrayoonion! Well! I am its President…my bad luck! And tomorrow I am gonna resign from the “Prestigious Post of Presidentship”, i.e. PPP. With that, I am free like a bird. As if! (I luv saying those words, man!!!)
Actually, I am the President of the teenage wing of our dear old BSA, and did you know that this “Celebrated and Deemed Organization” gets the “Best Debating Team” Award too…as I said insiders call it the AFFRAYoonion. The Presidentship is a highly sought-after and lucrative post…yes, you do get paid! Our aim is ‘the betterment of human beings, but primarily that of the bathroom singers from all the nook and cranny of this earth’. And my ambition, as an up and coming ‘Restroom musicist’ (our other word for the same), is to become one of the greatest and to conquer the earth with my power of making music in the restroom, plus to earn the fresh wads and rolls of those sweet-smelling, crisp and papered greens…you know what I mean!
Anyways, I am not just a Bathroom Singer. I am also a Thinker, more of a Big Potty Thinker…I know-it’s gross, but when I do Big Potty Thinking, I get great ideas like that of the telescope… Hans Lippershey and Galileo … really great people, talented too. So talented that they took off with my idea many years before I was born!!!
Anyways, the BSA legacy has deteriorated due to the world’s mammoth water problem and this led to world’s careful use of water and a reduced amount of shower time. This meant a significant drop in our activity. So to all of you who are reading this terribly written, but (!!!I hope!!!) informative piece, that you try and uphold this legacy of using the greatest instrument God has given you, your mouth. Sing a ding in the bath as if it’s your last. God has given you a mouth for a purpose. If you are ashamed of it in public, God has given you the even more valuable gift—the Bathroom. So enjoy…
PS- For a membership in the BSA, contact 190-4425-BATH-01…
Signing off,
Yours faithfully,
The BSA youth-wing President.
Confessions of a Teenage Bathroom Singer
(Confessions as in confessions of my dreams, and not as in confessions of any thing, good or bad done by me, which are next to naught, zip, nil, etc.)
I am the greatest ‘Bathroom Singer’ of all times…you wanna know why? One day, as usual, I was having my bath, and naturally I was singing. Turned out that my singing was so loud that even my neighbors could hear it. At that time they had a guest, a music director by fluke, who loved my song. He came over and signed me for one of his forthcoming films. My joy knew no bounds…as if!!!(Confessions as in confessions of my dreams, and not as in confessions of any thing, good or bad done by me, which are next to naught, zip, nil, etc.)
The real thing is that my bathroom is cluttered with stones, sticks, chappals, shoes and even one of a pair of beautiful new high heeled shoes and you goddit, I am waiting for the other shoe, for not only am I a bathroom singer, I am also the world’s stingiest person alive (of course, next only to the Guinness record-holder…even I don’t collect soap chippings and create a new soap.). Let’s face it; I don’t waste my money on things I can get for free. My singing has led to our colony winning ‘The Noisiest Colony’ Award… but do they give me credit? Uh-uh…no way and they say I am the stingy person here!!! Tightfisted colony!!! Really, my neighbors have pleaded, begged mercy, prayers, fought, showed fists, then given up and, guess what, finally joined the cult of BSA!!!
Have you not heard of BSA, not the bike folks--more like, Bathroom Singers Association—more like Bathroom Singers Affrayoonion! Well! I am its President…my bad luck! And tomorrow I am gonna resign from the “Prestigious Post of Presidentship”, i.e. PPP. With that, I am free like a bird. As if! (I luv saying those words, man!!!)
Actually, I am the President of the teenage wing of our dear old BSA, and did you know that this “Celebrated and Deemed Organization” gets the “Best Debating Team” Award too…as I said insiders call it the AFFRAYoonion. The Presidentship is a highly sought-after and lucrative post…yes, you do get paid! Our aim is ‘the betterment of human beings, but primarily that of the bathroom singers from all the nook and cranny of this earth’. And my ambition, as an up and coming ‘Restroom musicist’ (our other word for the same), is to become one of the greatest and to conquer the earth with my power of making music in the restroom, plus to earn the fresh wads and rolls of those sweet-smelling, crisp and papered greens…you know what I mean!
Anyways, I am not just a Bathroom Singer. I am also a Thinker, more of a Big Potty Thinker…I know-it’s gross, but when I do Big Potty Thinking, I get great ideas like that of the telescope… Hans Lippershey and Galileo … really great people, talented too. So talented that they took off with my idea many years before I was born!!!
Anyways, the BSA legacy has deteriorated due to the world’s mammoth water problem and this led to world’s careful use of water and a reduced amount of shower time. This meant a significant drop in our activity. So to all of you who are reading this terribly written, but (!!!I hope!!!) informative piece, that you try and uphold this legacy of using the greatest instrument God has given you, your mouth. Sing a ding in the bath as if it’s your last. God has given you a mouth for a purpose. If you are ashamed of it in public, God has given you the even more valuable gift—the Bathroom. So enjoy…
PS- For a membership in the BSA, contact 190-4425-BATH-01…
Signing off,
Yours faithfully,
The BSA youth-wing President.
Exams....Listen 2 me crib :-
Right in the middle of the exams and I am here writing this blog. sad situation. and to say my marks are going down would be an understatement.Finished 3 of my exams-chemistry, computer and math. Chemistry was actually better than i expected; computer was good, but my god i make the silliest of all mistakes--just kick me and as for math it was like being in a whirlpool. saw the 1st question, ran to the back of the question paper. saw those questions and just had to keep turning the pages to get a question which i knew or at least had seen before. at last the mission was accomplished. when i came out of the exam hall, i could say that i'd done the exam well. at least i wont flunk.
Tomorrow, its english. therefore its time for me to sit back and relax not that you'll ever
get marks in this. at least you dont have to worry cos worrying will never help. Went through the thw lessons and all, but its all luck based tomorrow, and of course the ma'am's mood when she's correcting our papers.The last exam is physics. that remins me... i've to go and learn that now itself. so see ya. will crib later!! take care till next time! ummmmmaaaaaa.
my pilgrimage
Here's a poem i wrote. it was for a competition at school... hope u like it!!!
My pilgrimage…
It wasn’t to Mecca or Medina;
It wasn’t to Varanasi,
Nor was it to the Vatican.
It was going back home
To my Amma, to my family;
Going back to India,
To the place I still consider home.
Staying away for years
From the native soil,
From my Amma’s soulful love,
So divine and holy and only for me.
In the flight back home,
My memories overtook me…
Took me to the past, to where I grew;
To the colors, fields, dances and lullabies.
Incomplete was I…
For so many years I was away…
Amiss was Amma’s curries, spankings, cajolings and nagging;
And Appa’s thrashings and bashings and the teeming yet hidden love.
The endless 2 hours had now ended;
The pilot announced the arrival of India…
I, a pilgrim, spiritually yet selfishly,
Had reached the place that created me.
I got down—on thick concrete grounds.
What would I have not done for the moist native soil??
Not disheartened, I took the taxi to my village.
I saw going apast me many years of change…
I soon saw my house before me, unchanged.
Thankful was I for the time’s patient wait.
Outside stood Amma, to usher me in,
Telling me that I’d grown ill and thin.
Appa and Amma hugged me tight;
Tears welled down my cheeks.
I’d reached my destination.
Isn’t my pilgrimage a pilgrimage in itself too?
My pilgrimage…
It wasn’t to any spiritual centre…
It was to my parents, to what created me.
It was to the place that completes me.
My pilgrimage…
It wasn’t to Mecca or Medina;
It wasn’t to Varanasi,
Nor was it to the Vatican.
It was going back home
To my Amma, to my family;
Going back to India,
To the place I still consider home.
Staying away for years
From the native soil,
From my Amma’s soulful love,
So divine and holy and only for me.
In the flight back home,
My memories overtook me…
Took me to the past, to where I grew;
To the colors, fields, dances and lullabies.
Incomplete was I…
For so many years I was away…
Amiss was Amma’s curries, spankings, cajolings and nagging;
And Appa’s thrashings and bashings and the teeming yet hidden love.
The endless 2 hours had now ended;
The pilot announced the arrival of India…
I, a pilgrim, spiritually yet selfishly,
Had reached the place that created me.
I got down—on thick concrete grounds.
What would I have not done for the moist native soil??
Not disheartened, I took the taxi to my village.
I saw going apast me many years of change…
I soon saw my house before me, unchanged.
Thankful was I for the time’s patient wait.
Outside stood Amma, to usher me in,
Telling me that I’d grown ill and thin.
Appa and Amma hugged me tight;
Tears welled down my cheeks.
I’d reached my destination.
Isn’t my pilgrimage a pilgrimage in itself too?
My pilgrimage…
It wasn’t to any spiritual centre…
It was to my parents, to what created me.
It was to the place that completes me.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
MUSES
MUSES
I looked up at the night sky… the breath-taking view of the stars… the huge moon—beautiful with its starry backdrop.
The night is my best friend, for now. With its silence engulfing me, my mind becomes free.
It has been long since I used my pen, since I wrote anything. But today, all I want to do is feel my pen on the paper, the ink seeping into the paper for all the tonnes of blood and sweat drained out of me over the years.
Sitting in my garden right now, under the night sky, as I put my thoughts onto paper, I see ants scurry past—a few trudging up my wrinkly old legs only to be pushed down. One lucky ant scurries past my pen. The darkness somewhat gets dissolved by my dearest little stars.
Clinging onto my beliefs, I still those stars to be my friends—long gone—looking down onto me.
As I look up, I see the old oil lamp flicker at a distance. It’d been a gift from my mother-in-law, a family heirloom, it seems. Customary as it is, I’d lit it as the sun had gone down. The oil would get over any moment now and I’d have to go take the lamp inside.
I see my granddaughter, Aditi; play with her mobile phone. I’ve never understood the intricacies of this piece of metallic plate, but you wouldn’t fine me complaining. This girl, she does all sorts of things with it. God knows what she does. The extent to which things have changed. It’s just that all this makes me feel older than my age—ancient antiquity, I suppose. A person I respect a lot once told me, this is generation gap, dear. Children can’t wait for and parents can’t keep up… and then grandparents just don’t exist…
When I was young, about 10 or so, I’d been to school. All because of Acchan, who raised me and my sister just as if we were kids and not a bad omen as people considered girls then.
Anyway duty-bound to Acchan, we did learn. We put our heart and soul into it, but only for 5 years, because Amma wanted us to get married as we had reached the age, she said. By that time, we’d learnt enough to read and write. I wrote. My pen was my treasure. My mind, my thoughts, all spoke through my pen rather than my mouth.
A shrill noise shattered the velvety silence, the calm of the night… and of course, the stream of thoughts. That’s Aditi’s, I mean, Ady’s rock-punk music or whatever she calls it. What do teenagers’ get by shredding their beautiful meaningful names into such words… and rock punk music??? Ah! music! Music was what Acchan used to sing at sunrise and what Amma used to make with the veena. What do these youngsters of today know about music! Music is not about breaking nerves; it’s about soothing them.
I’m feeling so distant from everyone in the house. In the humdrum of office and school, both my daughter, Suhasini and my Aditi were never to be seen. They were almost lost to me. The only time we got to see and talk and have fun with each other is during the filling up of our stomachs. I love those certain family times. My son in law, Bhaskar… They were happy, you see. My Suha and Bhaskar. And Aditi stands testimony to that fact. But I can’t help wishing for the times before, when we had evenings to spend together. Our whole family of aunts, uncles, everyone… at the time of dusk… Drinking hot cups of coffee or tea at times. Steamy hot coffee in the chill of the evenings. Aah….
Just the thoughts of an old woman—who cares about her! Just then, surprised I was to feel something on my back. My Aditi had just come near me and covered me with a warm blanket—to protect me from the cold, she said. I felt warm inside. No, not the blanket; it was love. A young innocent heart still worries about an old wretch like me… May God bless the kid!
There’s still love. Maybe it’s just that the way it’s shown is different. My Suha makes the best ginger tea for me, everyday after she comes from work, how much ever tired she is. Does she listen to me when I tell her to rest! No! Aditi, she does such tiny, tiny things that touch my heart ever so much. Bhaskar had passed away. Suha never did re-marry. My stubborn streak is recited in her, I suppose. She’d said she had loved Bhaskar so much that she could never imagine anyone else in his place. She said she could never imagine Aditi calling anyone else father. Well, I never forced her to, for I was too old for that. Thank god, for her job. It was a huge relief. She had become an independent woman. She touched me by saying she wanted me to help her look after Aditi. That made me feel I wasn’t a reject, that I wasn’t a dependent person. I got to bring Aditi up, love her, see her grow up to a frisky adolescent, help my daughter take care of this lovely home and be there for them. I feel as if I wasn’t just furniture for decoration; I gave back as much as I took. At least they made me feel so.
I’ve felt lost in old age, so many times, and she’s always rescued me back. Today, my birthday, she, Suha gave me a beautiful fountain pen. My eyes stung with tears. That was the best present anyone had ever given me and that was the best moment in my life. I don’t have anything to complain about… Now, with my pen back in my hand, I feel as f I’ve reached somewhere—even if it is just the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning… but at least, old age, so dreaded wasn’t so bad, after all. After all, I was happy…
Friday, January 11, 2008
REDEEMING MY LIFE…
Here's something I almost value like my life... It is my first full story. Hope i really hope you people like it...
I am Maimoona Ali Hakeeb and this is the story of my life… or rather a part of it!
Being born in an orthodox family, that too a Muslim one is not my chai ki pyaali. The struggle; it might be too grand a word to use, but I can’t find any other word to use instead; took away half of my strength to fight… that too just to grow up. Maimoona Ali Hakeeb!!! My name… this name, it still gives me goose bumps.
My mother, my Ammi, loved me. She always used to make those lovely coconut burfis that still makes my mouth water. She used to give me the first burfi she makes. I never could make my burfis come out like hers… there was magic in her hands.
Ameer, my younger brother… We were like 2 peas in a pod for Ammi; but for Abhajaan, we were poles apart. He loved us, no doubt. But in front of Ameer, I was always forgotten. I was left in that deep, dark corner. I always felt unloved, even though I knew somewhere that I was loved… just that it was a bit less! I used to wonder why?? Silly and stupid me! But I was a bit too small to understand these ways of the world!
I have had the basics of education… the 3 R’s. I was, and maybe still am, good at painting and sewing. It was said or rather my Ammi said that by the age of 16, I’d become the best cook in the whole of our village, ——pur. But then, I would have rather had Ammi’s haath ka khana, than anybody else’s, not even mine! Her rajme ki sabji, roti, chaaval and those sweets… it would be a feast within one and a half hours…
My childhood was just like any other girl’s in ——pur; with helping Ammi with the housework, playing for sometime, learning housework and the like. It wasn’t full of hardships or anything; it was ok. But I’d become a woman before my childhood ended.
I was 17 and 17 was the age to get married in ——pur. A girl past the age of 18 was not worth marrying. Many people came to “see” me. But none liked me — too thin, too tall, too dark, and too modern. Can you imagine? Me and modern going hand in hand. But my Abhajaan must have got a shock of his life. For from then on, I wasn’t allowed to step out of the house. My last ounce of freedom was taken away from me. And I truly was bonded. It soon became clear that none wanted to marry me or rather I wasn’t that appealing. So it was quite shameful for my parents. It was said that my name should be changed to Main-hoon-na, because I’ll always be around for someone to marry! The insult!
I was 18 then and Abhajaan came in, he was so happy! In Shah Allah!! It was also the first time that he hugged me before Ameer. It came as a surprise that after all those rejections that he still had some love left for me… He called out, “Ameer ki Ammi, come out…” My Ammi came out and it seemed as if she understood what Abhajaan wanted to say even before he said it! I didn’t understand what was going on until… Ammi said to me, “It’s time for your nikhaah, my dear.” She turned to Abhajaan and asked him who was to be her beloved’s husband…
That was the turning point in my life. I didn’t ask to be married to a man almost 40 years older to me—married to the 56 year old, drunkard Rasheed. But who was I to go against my Abhajaan’s word. I knew Abhajaan’s word was like writing on the stone—indelible and as legible as fine print. Ammi disapproved of the match but she knew that she couldn’t do anything. A woman has no right to contradict a man—her father, her husband or her son…
Now what is one to do??? Life goes on… As for me, I was in suspended animation. Life never moved fast enough now; mainly because I didn’t want to live—finding no enjoy in anything. My nikhaah was a big affair in my village, because my father was a big man. After the marriage, after saying kabool, I was no longer Maimoona Ali Hakeeb. Instead, I was just Maimoona Rasheed. I was being taken to a new village, ——bad; a new house, maybe a home or not… a totally new life!!! My new life was different. I was bonded for life and my black burqa signified this.
Even though I had been very young when I got married, as compared to the marrying age now, I did have dreams of my marriage, like every other young girl. A tall, dark and handsome man on a white stallion, who had enough respect and love for you! But then I’d forgotten that I, the not-so-pretty one, the dark and thin (mind you, thin not slim) one, had no right to dream!
Our first night was… I would rather cut myself that tell you, but… Rashe… We, women aren’t supposed to call our husbands by their name… a mark of respect or is it again a belittling reminder of bondage???... I had to get accustomed to this… He came in… in a drunken haze. That night I understood how one can use a body as a doll, a punching bag and a sex-toy all rolled into one. It was disgusting to me… still is. Saying it is almost like swallowing your own vomit! I screamed. My nails must have really injured him because he yelped like a street dog and then I was used just as if I were a punching bag… I was officially his…
Days passed. Nights came. Nights were nightmares to me without me shutting my eyes! Every night was like the rerun of our first night! How could I have lived through all that???
My life was over; I thought… but then like a ray of light of happiness and hope came the news… I was pregnant. Hearing this, he didn’t say a word nor did he even nod. But the atrocities on me got reduced, though his drinking continued. How could my Abhajaan have chosen such a man for me??? Maybe he was compelled to just marry me off to somebody, just to take away a burden and the shame on his family! I wish I would die… but then another life was in me now—I had no right to kill it too.
9 months quickly flew past. My belly was huge. My baby was ready to come out. It was early in the morning when my water broke. A midwife was called. The pain! It was unbearable. The only thought that was going through my mind was that I was going to die and how come I was still alive. My baby was causing me so much pain. That ache! “Push, push, push”—cried a far away voice. I obeyed. I had a hand in my hand. I squeezed it with all my strength and pushed. What is the use of all this pushing if the pain isn’t going anywhere…?
After what seemed like all eternity and which afterwards I came to know to be just one hour, came a beautiful calmness… serene and heavenly. The pain had gone. I was all sweaty, dripping in the sweltering heat of a hot summer morning. But I felt cool and sedate after that struggle. The pain—it stopped as if it’d never started and it was then that I heard my baby cry. It was the most beautiful sound in the whole world. That cry. The baby, a girl, she was placed next to me. So soft, so pink, so beautiful, the bubbles she blew… All of a sudden all that pain I bore was forgotten. I wanted to live now. I needed to live. It was then that I understood what a woman was. Next to God, she was the only one capable of giving birth to life. She was important. She was divine. She deserved love, respect and everything else. I promised myself—I would never let my baby suffer like I did. I would never let her bear even a tenth of the unhappiness I bore. I will have her survive in this man’s world alone. She wouldn’t need a man to survive. She will be a woman… an independent woman! I looked at my girl again… the small projection where the umbilical cord had been slashed—searing her from me. She hadn’t been cleaned after her coming into the world from that warm hollow of mine. I was transfixed by her… how must she have felt inside me and what will this world give her???
Maybe God wanted my promise to be true… maybe God wanted my daughter to be happy… but why such means??? Even before my husband could hold my, ok… our daughter in his hands, he died. He died on the same day my baby was born. The Hakim who always cured the sick in ——bad was called in. He said that it was some heart problem which was due to all the drinking. But the waggling tongues in the village couldn’t extricate the two events—my baby’s birth and my husband’s death—from each other. Soon my baby—my unnamed one—was called the unlucky one and slowly the degree of insult heaped on us grew. And within 2 days of my baby’s birth, I left the village. I thought of coming back to my paternal house, my maayka, but I knew that my parents and Ameer would be the target of many more insults due to us; and maybe I wasn’t sure whether they would accept us. What was more shameful and insulting than a widowed daughter and an unlucky baby???
I knew I had to live—for my child. I took my baby and a few bare necessities, my jewellery and some money to the city. I shed my burqa and with it, I broke all the ties I had with my family, ——pur, ——bad and my whole past. I was a new person. It was a new life for me… for my baby! The city was one place which didn’t have any place for traditions or age-old customs. I’d once gone there to buy some material for our clothes with Ammi. I was so awestruck by the tall buildings and bazaars that I was rooted to the ground. I was almost lost when I stopped walking. Pretty soon I’d found a place there where I could buy what was called flats; apartments in a big building to live in! What was so flat about then I never understood… it was irony to the core. They were in the tallest buildings in the city. With all of my wedding jewellery, I bought one flat for us. It was ok for winters and the monsoon. But summers would be so hot that I get reminded of the heat of that deciding day of my life—the day my baby was born. Coming to the city helped me think over my whole situation. I felt grateful to God for a lot of things. Maybe, I felt liberated after the death of my husband. I had never felt love for him. I had always seen him in a drunken stupor which never commanded my respect. It was in his dark and unwholesome fear that I’d lived… but now, with no Him or rather no Rasheed, I was at last free. I had enough courage to call him by his name… Maybe it was God’s will that I and my baby live happily…
After 4 days of my baby’s birth, she was named… Zoya Maimoona Ali Hakeeb. Zoya… which means “life”. My baby, my Zoya… my new life!!!
And I was back to Maimoona Ali Hakeeb. I did not want even the shadow of my past to touch my dear Zoya. I didn’t want my Zoya to have anything to do with Rasheed, that man who had no respect for a woman or that distant village which had once called her unlucky.
She was my life, just as her name stated. She was my luck. She came into my life and my sorrows were numbered. She gave me happiness which had never even had place in my wildest dreams. Feeding her, bathing her, clothing her and all the motherly jobs took away my sorrows. The deep creases that worries and unhappiness had left on my dark and unhealthy skin went away. My skin’d attained a glow which only a feeding mother had. I was happy tending and caring my dear Zoya. I had forgotten my worries. I and my Zoya lived in a cocoon of self-content. But then of course my money started to drain out. I’d saved some money, but that wasn’t enough for looking after both of us... So I did all sorts of jobs, starting with odd jobs, sewing, and painting. When she was of age, I sent her to school—not the best school of the city, but a good one. I couldn’t afford the best school with my income. My baby, my Zoya looked special and sweet in her uniform. Her childhood was nothing like mine. It was full of fun and frolic. She knew nothing about the cruelties of the world, or its hardships. She was innocent and free. She had a life which I thought never existed. She was happy! Aah! My dreams were slowly taking shape. As my Zoya grew, we needed more money. It was then that I started a catering business with a friend I made in the city, my neighbour, Ruksaad, who was to become my best friend in the coming years; she, my support and I, hers… She had run away from marriage and with her lived a baby girl whom she’d adopted. Like me, she just had the basics of education and with this it was that we started our small business… our business was successful; successful enough to sustain the four of us. This girl, whom Ruksaad had adopted, was of the same age as my Zoya and her name was Ayesha. My Zoya and Ayesha went to different schools, but they became friends, thanks to their mothers. Ok, agreed not best friends. But they were more like sisters. They had their own lives but they knew that they could trust each other like sisters do.
Ruksaad and I were like this too. But we knew that we needed each other to survive this city; especially with the business. 2 villages had beaten me and I was prepared to let a city beat me now…
Getting up early to start cooking with the few people we’d employed; for a wedding or an engagement or just a party; had become part of our lives. We’d saved some capital so as to expand our business. We employed more people and we became big. We even started our own hotel—‘The Inn’—simple and leisurely. I must say it was a good investment because soon we could move out of the flat and bought a house which we shared. We’d become that close—me and Ruksaad. This was how Zoya and Ayesha became close… so close that they were inseparable. They passed school—ok, not exactly with flying colors, but somewhere in the top of their class. They were brought up in an environment put together by two scheming business women. So naturally, they wanted to go to business school; and that they did. To the same college too. Fate you call it and I call it careful development and perfecting their resumes that only a few businesswomen were skilled at.
College life was fun for them, I think, but also something new. They were shown the world there. The scheming, dog-eat-dog, man-eat-woman world. Ok, so I’m a feminist, I have a right to be after all that I’ve gone through… school protected them, and the college showed them what they were protected from. They were provided with education—the best tool against the world. It was then that I and Ruksaad found HSK or Harjeet Singh Kaur who turned out to be the best publicist ever and thanks to her, we’d a huge line of masalas and chutneys and sauces and all that in pretty little glass jars, with the caption of—“Bottled Temptation”; maybe farfetched… but it was a huge temptation to name it so. We now also had two or three branches of our caterers in the city. The city was big enough for them… really big. It’d been a long journey since I was married to Rasheed…
I and Ruksaad now felt that we had 2 daughters and not 1 daughter each… we loved Zoya and Ayesha…
Soon, it was time for their graduation. Convocation!!! The word is music to my ears! I was 40-something then… just 40 and I felt I’d lived for ever!
I was the happiest person in the world. Ayesha was called up and then came Zoya. They had graduated; this time I proudly say, with flying colors. My lovely Zoya whom I’d held in my hand like a sweet beautiful doll long back; my baby—the pink girl child, was on the brink of womanhood. In her robe and that hat with that string… forgot what it is called; she looked so lovely. Tears in my eyes… like when she, for the first time, walked without support and when she stood first in her class… so also now I had tears in my eyes. I was so happy I couldn’t control myself; I just had to stand and clap the loudest. I was content with my lovely Zoya. And I wasn’t just a woman. I was a success too. My promise was being fulfilled right in front of my eyes…
It was then that I noticed… My baby was wearing a black robe just like the black burqa I used to wear. But my burqa had meant bondage for me. But for my Zoya, this black robe meant freedom. I was happy. My baby, who once needed me to survive, could now survive on her own in this “man’s world”. She could dream. She needn’t kill her dreams like I once did. If she wants, she can marry; if she doesn’t, she needn’t. She can do whatever she likes—live her life as she wants… God bless her. My Zoya is a woman… an independent woman.
She’s a girl, but she isn’t a doll…
If she wants, she can do it all!!! —In Shah Allah!
I am Maimoona Ali Hakeeb and this is the story of my life… or rather a part of it!
Being born in an orthodox family, that too a Muslim one is not my chai ki pyaali. The struggle; it might be too grand a word to use, but I can’t find any other word to use instead; took away half of my strength to fight… that too just to grow up. Maimoona Ali Hakeeb!!! My name… this name, it still gives me goose bumps.
My mother, my Ammi, loved me. She always used to make those lovely coconut burfis that still makes my mouth water. She used to give me the first burfi she makes. I never could make my burfis come out like hers… there was magic in her hands.
Ameer, my younger brother… We were like 2 peas in a pod for Ammi; but for Abhajaan, we were poles apart. He loved us, no doubt. But in front of Ameer, I was always forgotten. I was left in that deep, dark corner. I always felt unloved, even though I knew somewhere that I was loved… just that it was a bit less! I used to wonder why?? Silly and stupid me! But I was a bit too small to understand these ways of the world!
I have had the basics of education… the 3 R’s. I was, and maybe still am, good at painting and sewing. It was said or rather my Ammi said that by the age of 16, I’d become the best cook in the whole of our village, ——pur. But then, I would have rather had Ammi’s haath ka khana, than anybody else’s, not even mine! Her rajme ki sabji, roti, chaaval and those sweets… it would be a feast within one and a half hours…
My childhood was just like any other girl’s in ——pur; with helping Ammi with the housework, playing for sometime, learning housework and the like. It wasn’t full of hardships or anything; it was ok. But I’d become a woman before my childhood ended.
I was 17 and 17 was the age to get married in ——pur. A girl past the age of 18 was not worth marrying. Many people came to “see” me. But none liked me — too thin, too tall, too dark, and too modern. Can you imagine? Me and modern going hand in hand. But my Abhajaan must have got a shock of his life. For from then on, I wasn’t allowed to step out of the house. My last ounce of freedom was taken away from me. And I truly was bonded. It soon became clear that none wanted to marry me or rather I wasn’t that appealing. So it was quite shameful for my parents. It was said that my name should be changed to Main-hoon-na, because I’ll always be around for someone to marry! The insult!
I was 18 then and Abhajaan came in, he was so happy! In Shah Allah!! It was also the first time that he hugged me before Ameer. It came as a surprise that after all those rejections that he still had some love left for me… He called out, “Ameer ki Ammi, come out…” My Ammi came out and it seemed as if she understood what Abhajaan wanted to say even before he said it! I didn’t understand what was going on until… Ammi said to me, “It’s time for your nikhaah, my dear.” She turned to Abhajaan and asked him who was to be her beloved’s husband…
That was the turning point in my life. I didn’t ask to be married to a man almost 40 years older to me—married to the 56 year old, drunkard Rasheed. But who was I to go against my Abhajaan’s word. I knew Abhajaan’s word was like writing on the stone—indelible and as legible as fine print. Ammi disapproved of the match but she knew that she couldn’t do anything. A woman has no right to contradict a man—her father, her husband or her son…
Now what is one to do??? Life goes on… As for me, I was in suspended animation. Life never moved fast enough now; mainly because I didn’t want to live—finding no enjoy in anything. My nikhaah was a big affair in my village, because my father was a big man. After the marriage, after saying kabool, I was no longer Maimoona Ali Hakeeb. Instead, I was just Maimoona Rasheed. I was being taken to a new village, ——bad; a new house, maybe a home or not… a totally new life!!! My new life was different. I was bonded for life and my black burqa signified this.
Even though I had been very young when I got married, as compared to the marrying age now, I did have dreams of my marriage, like every other young girl. A tall, dark and handsome man on a white stallion, who had enough respect and love for you! But then I’d forgotten that I, the not-so-pretty one, the dark and thin (mind you, thin not slim) one, had no right to dream!
Our first night was… I would rather cut myself that tell you, but… Rashe… We, women aren’t supposed to call our husbands by their name… a mark of respect or is it again a belittling reminder of bondage???... I had to get accustomed to this… He came in… in a drunken haze. That night I understood how one can use a body as a doll, a punching bag and a sex-toy all rolled into one. It was disgusting to me… still is. Saying it is almost like swallowing your own vomit! I screamed. My nails must have really injured him because he yelped like a street dog and then I was used just as if I were a punching bag… I was officially his…
Days passed. Nights came. Nights were nightmares to me without me shutting my eyes! Every night was like the rerun of our first night! How could I have lived through all that???
My life was over; I thought… but then like a ray of light of happiness and hope came the news… I was pregnant. Hearing this, he didn’t say a word nor did he even nod. But the atrocities on me got reduced, though his drinking continued. How could my Abhajaan have chosen such a man for me??? Maybe he was compelled to just marry me off to somebody, just to take away a burden and the shame on his family! I wish I would die… but then another life was in me now—I had no right to kill it too.
9 months quickly flew past. My belly was huge. My baby was ready to come out. It was early in the morning when my water broke. A midwife was called. The pain! It was unbearable. The only thought that was going through my mind was that I was going to die and how come I was still alive. My baby was causing me so much pain. That ache! “Push, push, push”—cried a far away voice. I obeyed. I had a hand in my hand. I squeezed it with all my strength and pushed. What is the use of all this pushing if the pain isn’t going anywhere…?
After what seemed like all eternity and which afterwards I came to know to be just one hour, came a beautiful calmness… serene and heavenly. The pain had gone. I was all sweaty, dripping in the sweltering heat of a hot summer morning. But I felt cool and sedate after that struggle. The pain—it stopped as if it’d never started and it was then that I heard my baby cry. It was the most beautiful sound in the whole world. That cry. The baby, a girl, she was placed next to me. So soft, so pink, so beautiful, the bubbles she blew… All of a sudden all that pain I bore was forgotten. I wanted to live now. I needed to live. It was then that I understood what a woman was. Next to God, she was the only one capable of giving birth to life. She was important. She was divine. She deserved love, respect and everything else. I promised myself—I would never let my baby suffer like I did. I would never let her bear even a tenth of the unhappiness I bore. I will have her survive in this man’s world alone. She wouldn’t need a man to survive. She will be a woman… an independent woman! I looked at my girl again… the small projection where the umbilical cord had been slashed—searing her from me. She hadn’t been cleaned after her coming into the world from that warm hollow of mine. I was transfixed by her… how must she have felt inside me and what will this world give her???
Maybe God wanted my promise to be true… maybe God wanted my daughter to be happy… but why such means??? Even before my husband could hold my, ok… our daughter in his hands, he died. He died on the same day my baby was born. The Hakim who always cured the sick in ——bad was called in. He said that it was some heart problem which was due to all the drinking. But the waggling tongues in the village couldn’t extricate the two events—my baby’s birth and my husband’s death—from each other. Soon my baby—my unnamed one—was called the unlucky one and slowly the degree of insult heaped on us grew. And within 2 days of my baby’s birth, I left the village. I thought of coming back to my paternal house, my maayka, but I knew that my parents and Ameer would be the target of many more insults due to us; and maybe I wasn’t sure whether they would accept us. What was more shameful and insulting than a widowed daughter and an unlucky baby???
I knew I had to live—for my child. I took my baby and a few bare necessities, my jewellery and some money to the city. I shed my burqa and with it, I broke all the ties I had with my family, ——pur, ——bad and my whole past. I was a new person. It was a new life for me… for my baby! The city was one place which didn’t have any place for traditions or age-old customs. I’d once gone there to buy some material for our clothes with Ammi. I was so awestruck by the tall buildings and bazaars that I was rooted to the ground. I was almost lost when I stopped walking. Pretty soon I’d found a place there where I could buy what was called flats; apartments in a big building to live in! What was so flat about then I never understood… it was irony to the core. They were in the tallest buildings in the city. With all of my wedding jewellery, I bought one flat for us. It was ok for winters and the monsoon. But summers would be so hot that I get reminded of the heat of that deciding day of my life—the day my baby was born. Coming to the city helped me think over my whole situation. I felt grateful to God for a lot of things. Maybe, I felt liberated after the death of my husband. I had never felt love for him. I had always seen him in a drunken stupor which never commanded my respect. It was in his dark and unwholesome fear that I’d lived… but now, with no Him or rather no Rasheed, I was at last free. I had enough courage to call him by his name… Maybe it was God’s will that I and my baby live happily…
After 4 days of my baby’s birth, she was named… Zoya Maimoona Ali Hakeeb. Zoya… which means “life”. My baby, my Zoya… my new life!!!
And I was back to Maimoona Ali Hakeeb. I did not want even the shadow of my past to touch my dear Zoya. I didn’t want my Zoya to have anything to do with Rasheed, that man who had no respect for a woman or that distant village which had once called her unlucky.
She was my life, just as her name stated. She was my luck. She came into my life and my sorrows were numbered. She gave me happiness which had never even had place in my wildest dreams. Feeding her, bathing her, clothing her and all the motherly jobs took away my sorrows. The deep creases that worries and unhappiness had left on my dark and unhealthy skin went away. My skin’d attained a glow which only a feeding mother had. I was happy tending and caring my dear Zoya. I had forgotten my worries. I and my Zoya lived in a cocoon of self-content. But then of course my money started to drain out. I’d saved some money, but that wasn’t enough for looking after both of us... So I did all sorts of jobs, starting with odd jobs, sewing, and painting. When she was of age, I sent her to school—not the best school of the city, but a good one. I couldn’t afford the best school with my income. My baby, my Zoya looked special and sweet in her uniform. Her childhood was nothing like mine. It was full of fun and frolic. She knew nothing about the cruelties of the world, or its hardships. She was innocent and free. She had a life which I thought never existed. She was happy! Aah! My dreams were slowly taking shape. As my Zoya grew, we needed more money. It was then that I started a catering business with a friend I made in the city, my neighbour, Ruksaad, who was to become my best friend in the coming years; she, my support and I, hers… She had run away from marriage and with her lived a baby girl whom she’d adopted. Like me, she just had the basics of education and with this it was that we started our small business… our business was successful; successful enough to sustain the four of us. This girl, whom Ruksaad had adopted, was of the same age as my Zoya and her name was Ayesha. My Zoya and Ayesha went to different schools, but they became friends, thanks to their mothers. Ok, agreed not best friends. But they were more like sisters. They had their own lives but they knew that they could trust each other like sisters do.
Ruksaad and I were like this too. But we knew that we needed each other to survive this city; especially with the business. 2 villages had beaten me and I was prepared to let a city beat me now…
Getting up early to start cooking with the few people we’d employed; for a wedding or an engagement or just a party; had become part of our lives. We’d saved some capital so as to expand our business. We employed more people and we became big. We even started our own hotel—‘The Inn’—simple and leisurely. I must say it was a good investment because soon we could move out of the flat and bought a house which we shared. We’d become that close—me and Ruksaad. This was how Zoya and Ayesha became close… so close that they were inseparable. They passed school—ok, not exactly with flying colors, but somewhere in the top of their class. They were brought up in an environment put together by two scheming business women. So naturally, they wanted to go to business school; and that they did. To the same college too. Fate you call it and I call it careful development and perfecting their resumes that only a few businesswomen were skilled at.
College life was fun for them, I think, but also something new. They were shown the world there. The scheming, dog-eat-dog, man-eat-woman world. Ok, so I’m a feminist, I have a right to be after all that I’ve gone through… school protected them, and the college showed them what they were protected from. They were provided with education—the best tool against the world. It was then that I and Ruksaad found HSK or Harjeet Singh Kaur who turned out to be the best publicist ever and thanks to her, we’d a huge line of masalas and chutneys and sauces and all that in pretty little glass jars, with the caption of—“Bottled Temptation”; maybe farfetched… but it was a huge temptation to name it so. We now also had two or three branches of our caterers in the city. The city was big enough for them… really big. It’d been a long journey since I was married to Rasheed…
I and Ruksaad now felt that we had 2 daughters and not 1 daughter each… we loved Zoya and Ayesha…
Soon, it was time for their graduation. Convocation!!! The word is music to my ears! I was 40-something then… just 40 and I felt I’d lived for ever!
I was the happiest person in the world. Ayesha was called up and then came Zoya. They had graduated; this time I proudly say, with flying colors. My lovely Zoya whom I’d held in my hand like a sweet beautiful doll long back; my baby—the pink girl child, was on the brink of womanhood. In her robe and that hat with that string… forgot what it is called; she looked so lovely. Tears in my eyes… like when she, for the first time, walked without support and when she stood first in her class… so also now I had tears in my eyes. I was so happy I couldn’t control myself; I just had to stand and clap the loudest. I was content with my lovely Zoya. And I wasn’t just a woman. I was a success too. My promise was being fulfilled right in front of my eyes…
It was then that I noticed… My baby was wearing a black robe just like the black burqa I used to wear. But my burqa had meant bondage for me. But for my Zoya, this black robe meant freedom. I was happy. My baby, who once needed me to survive, could now survive on her own in this “man’s world”. She could dream. She needn’t kill her dreams like I once did. If she wants, she can marry; if she doesn’t, she needn’t. She can do whatever she likes—live her life as she wants… God bless her. My Zoya is a woman… an independent woman.
She’s a girl, but she isn’t a doll…
If she wants, she can do it all!!! —In Shah Allah!
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