chand gharian yahi hain jo azad hain

I was lucky in life to have such cherished moments. 

 Waqt ki qaid main zindagi hai magar 

chand gharian yahi hain jo azad hain

 

A harsh truth of life

 Well…. She has widely metastatic parotid cancer, and should have been dead months ago. I think the financial toxicity is greater than moral burden what social work or patient advocacy can offer.

(A text)

Watch, Time and Living

I still kept the watch my father gifted me on passing metric exam

Every morning at 7:30, old Martin would open his tiny watch shop in the heart of the city. At 78, his hands were still the steadiest around. People said he fixed watches the way a healer tends to wounds—with infinite patience.

One rainy afternoon, Daniel, a 32-year-old executive with a face etched in stress, walked in. He dropped his luxury watch on the counter:

“I need this fixed urgently. It’s lost two minutes in a week and I have important meetings. Can you have it ready by tomorrow?”

Martin looked at Daniel first, then at the watch.

“Watches are like people,” he said quietly. “When you rush them too much, something inside starts to go wrong.”

Daniel glanced impatiently at his phone.

“I just need it to work perfectly.”

“It’ll take three days,” Martin replied.

“Impossible! I’ll pay double if you have it ready by tomorrow.”

Martin shook his head and put the watch in a drawer.

“Come back in three days. In the meantime, take this.”

He handed Daniel an old bronze pocket watch. Daniel took it reluctantly—he didn’t have a choice.

Over the next few days, Daniel noticed something odd. That old watch kept time differently: some hours seemed to last forever, others passed in a flash. During boring meetings, the hands barely moved. But when he had lunch with his little daughter, time flew.

On the third day, Daniel returned—intrigued and a bit unsettled.

“This watch is broken. Time moves irregularly!”

Martin smiled.

“It’s not broken. It’s tuned to your soul, not to satellites. It measures time by how you live, not just by numbers.”

He handed back Daniel’s repaired watch.

“This one will lose time again if you keep losing your life.”

Daniel stared at both watches, confused…

“People check the time a hundred times a day, yet never seem to have any,” Martin went on. “Perfect watches on empty wrists.”

“So what do you suggest?” Daniel asked, genuinely interested now.

“Understand that there are two kinds of time: the time that passes, and the time you live. My father told me: a watch can count seconds, but only your heart can count moments.”

“How much do I owe you for the repair?”

“For the watch, fifty euros. For the lesson about time… you pay by living differently.”

Weeks later, Daniel came back and left the pocket watch on the counter.

“Is something wrong? Did it break?” Martin asked.

“No,” Daniel smiled. “I want to buy it. I quit my job in the city. I’m opening my own business here, with hours that let me pick up my daughter from school.”

Martin answered:

“The most valuable watches aren’t sold. They’re passed down. Keep it. One day you’ll realize the most important punctuality is being present when life needs you.”

That winter, Martin passed away. In his will, he left the shop to Daniel with a note:

“To the one who learned that fixing watches matters less than fixing lives.”

Now, if you visit that little shop, you’ll see a sign on the door:

“We don’t sell time. We remind you how to live it.”

Sometimes we need our watches to stop—so our hearts can start beating again.

Saadequain poetry - without comments

 

Ultra-Short Story

 He trembled in his heart, and called after years.

She said with quivering voice: "wrong number"

Some Spouses

 Some spouses want their partner to walk behind. Frequently, they turn around and find no one!

One of the most hard hitting sentences from the English literature

“Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

On Parenting

 

دو چیخیں مارو تو بیٹی۔ ‏

 

امرتا: بچے پیدا کرنا کونسا مشکل ہے ، ایک چیخ مارو تو بیٹا اور دو چیخیں مارو تو بیٹی۔

‏کیرت: بیٹی کی دفعہ دو چیخیں کیوں؟

‏امرتا: ایک چیخ درد کی اور دوسری غم کی۔

‏(امرتا پریتم) 

Viktor Frankl

 Viktor Frankl, an Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist, used his profound Holocaust experiences to create one of history’s most impactful psychotherapy approaches – logotherapy. His harrowing journey through concentration camps significantly shaped his work and philosophy, making his life and career a testament to the human spirit’s resilience even in the darkest times.

Born in 1905, Frankl had always been fascinated by the human search for meaning. As a young psychiatrist, he believed that this quest was the central force in human life. This belief was severely tested when, in 1942, Frankl and his family were deported to the Theresienstadt concentration camp. Later, he was transferred to Auschwitz and other camps, enduring intense suffering and the loss of his parents, wife, and siblings.

Despite the brutality, Frankl found that those who maintained a sense of meaning – even under extreme hardship – were more likely to survive. His own survival in the camps and his ability to find meaning in his suffering led him to develop logotherapy, a psychotherapy approach emphasizing the importance of finding meaning in life, regardless of circumstances.

After surviving the Holocaust, Frankl returned to Vienna and became a prominent psychiatrist, writing extensively about his experiences. His most famous work, "Man’s Search for Meaning," is a powerful account of his concentration camp experiences and insights into suffering, human resilience, and the pursuit of meaning. The book has sold millions of copies worldwide, inspiring readers to find purpose and strength in their own lives.

In logotherapy, Frankl emphasized that while we cannot control our circumstances, we can always control how we respond to them. He argued that even in the most hopeless situations, like those in the camps, individuals could find meaning by focusing on their inner strength, relationships, or a higher purpose.

Frankl’s teachings resonated deeply with people from all walks of life, offering hope and inspiration to those grappling with existential questions or trauma. He believed that discovering meaning could help individuals not only survive but thrive, even after immense suffering. His work has influenced generations of therapists, spiritual leaders, and individuals seeking to find purpose in their own lives.

Viktor Frankl’s story is one of courage, determination, and the unbreakable human spirit. Through his work, he demonstrated that even in profound suffering, we can find meaning, achieve personal growth, and attain inner peace. His legacy continues to guide those facing life’s challenges, reminding us that the search for meaning is the key to healing and survival.

Beauties and the Beasts

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Quote - Men, Women and Peace

Men settle where there is peace, women bring peace where they're treated well. 

No! I didn't

 

Sheedaa Paindo!

(Shared by a physician at a doctors' group)

Once upon a time long time ago as it was story time for grandma to tell the same story every time over and over again. But grandma this is the same story from last night. Ok then make your own story . No knowing then as child that I will make my own stories one day. So many stories that time has printed in my mind.

The story of a eucalyptus tree in neighborhoods I wanted to carve my name on it and saved my spending money to buy a knife but I couldn’t hurt the tree housing hundreds of birds and bees. But I wanted to write my own story as grandma told me every since long time ago when life nascent and air was fragrant with wild flowers.

Neighborhood was sparsely populated. Morning time was of empty street as all of us were gone for the day to schools. We all had our jute bags to carry around as sitting mats. Late afternoon was playtime kicking football and winning everything. A bunch of us kids had our neighborhood to ourselves and no one from across the railroad tracks could come and play with us. We believed we were a superior class and didn’t want those inferior kids to play with us.

And then there was Sheeda Paindo.

He did not want to play with us and we didn’t care . He told us that Bashir Bhai told him not to play with us. Bashir Bhai was a lorry driver and we his hero but meant nothing to us the superiors. Sheeda was a skin head and a silly smile the hallmark of his face. We all went to the same school and after fifth he was gone and we did not miss him and his silly smile. He was inferior to us and not worth anything anyway. Life unfolding and time had its own story,, our own stories  Our gang was dispersed and we had our fate and destinies to follow.

All of us went our ways and I forgot to carve my name on the eucalyptus tree. I gave my pride possession, my knife to my younger brother. It made him happy and I didn’t want it anymore.

From Nishtar to New York was journey of hopes and dreams. Of trials and tears. Of torture of residency to triumph of making it happen.

Life had come a long way from dusty streets to glory of life.

My grandma was old and I had to see her one last time before her sunset . I wanted to hug her one last time that I was a big doctor in America. She did not know what America was and told me to come home to old street but I had my destiny and dreams to live. I had to write my own story like she used to tell me every night, make your story.

I needed a car visit her. Where can I rent a car ? You remember Sheedaa Paindo? He owns a rental car business. My jaw dropped. I must see him now and ask for a discount. My met him in his office. He was sitting in a stuffed chair and I was offered a cold drink out of a box. He was happy to see me and offered me a car rent free for the rest of my stay.

Thanks Bhai Sheedaa for the offer.

No Sheeda , I am Chaudhary Abdul Rasheed.

There was no silly smile on his face.

How life balance itself!

 

How we mature

 

Vestis virum facit

 I am not one of those for various reasons, but its nice to be well-dressed.

In Latin they says: "Vestis virum facit" 

means, clothes make the man

Fleas

 (shared by a colleague)

An old colleague in the residency days used to quip: "We internists are like fleas!" 

" How so?" I asked. 

"Well. When the patient is dying, and while we fleas preside over the death of the patient! We general internists, cardiologists, nephrologists, and infectious disease specialists are the only ones hanging around! The surgeons are first to sign off when they see a dying patient, the GI guy, after having scoped up and down, is nowhere to be found! The Family Doc mourns the loss of a patient from the practice, while the hospital admin celebrates fewer losses from the DRG."

(unfortunately, the way healthcare has evolved in USA, I have to agree with this).

Tolstoy says

 

Shareef Khokhy Walla

(Shared by a physician at one of the WhatsApp group)

It was always a drag everyday in summer time.

All my friends were gone for summer holidays visiting far away cities. Innocent letters were exchanged from far away places with strange names and silly stories, Occasionally a photo with a pride possession of a bicycle.

It was a small town and street were empty and silent. But there was a library with newspapers and ceiling fans. A water cooler in the shadow of old brick walls.

The Liberarian with a sullen face was always stuck in a chair next the reading room. Those were the times to seek refuge from hot sun and dusty streets. That was shade and shelter with lots of books .

What a hidden treasure.

First thing in the morning was to go nearby Khokha owned by Shareef Khokhay Wala, a watering hole in the morning to get a quart of yogurt with thick creamy layer of the top to be swiped on way home. A quick breakfast with lassi and prathaa was swallowed and morning cool evaporated by fiery sunshine. Next chor was to the bazaar  crossing over the railway tracks to pick up fresh vegetables from Abdullah Jan who always added free green peppers and coriander. On way back home a stop at Khokha was a  must for bottled soda and tiny bite of Barrfee the best in town and alway in short supply. Shared was a tall bulky guy and had gentle demeanor.

I had secretly account for my special treat depending on prices of vegetables to hide my little quarters hidden from my mother quoting higher prices. My mother never questioned the daily values of prices, she knew it all along but never questioned. Lunch was always on time as near by tandoor had time limit and I was the  guy to do it right…,always one roti short , one disappear mysteriously on way home.

One day I left home to go to Nishtar , never to go back home.

Every once in a while I visited home on vacations always had my bottle of soda and bite of barrier but now Shareef refused to accept any money because I was a Doctor Saab.

Many year later I met him in Queens , NY.

Shareef Saab , I did not pay you for last treat , I owe it to you. He smiled and said he remembered.

Time has vanished like fog after sunrise but I still remember Shareef Khokhay Wala.