A story posted on net

 I was in prison for killing a guy who had abused my 14-year-old brother. I served a 29-year sentence and finally got a release date. When I told my brother, he was so happy. I can still hear his voice saying, "I can't believe it! I'm going to talk to my boss about hiring you." Calm down, little brother, take it easy. I still have 16 months left. Anyway, eight months before my release, the captain called me into his office. It was full of guards. I was alarmed by how many there were. After a few minutes of them trying to convince me to sit down, I finally did, but only after they sat down first. They told me I could make a call. I called my brother, but he didn't answer. Then they told me my brother had died. I didn't believe them. I called again, his wife answered, and she told me everything. I was devastated. They asked me whether I wanted to speak with a priest or go to a private cell. I didn't. I went down to the courtyard, found a place where no one was around, and started to cry. It was the saddest moment of my life.

The “satellite child” and the “walking-stick child.”

(A forward)

Many of my parents' generation sent their kids abroad for better opportunities, and most stayed on; some came back, but the parents found themselves vulnerable in their old age. One such child has shared their family experience, and I think of all the ones in the same situation! 

In many families, there are two roles: the “satellite child” and the “walking-stick child.”

On the day of my mother’s funeral, I arrived feeling important. A rented luxury SUV, an impeccable black suit, and expensive sunglasses. I believed I was the pillar of the family. The child who “showed up.” The successful one. The one who never failed… at least with bank transfers.

I’ve lived abroad for thirty years. I did well. My own company, stability, comfort. Every month, without fail, I sent 400 dollars to my younger brother, Pablo — the one who stayed with Mom in the old house in our hometown. I kept telling myself: “Thanks to me, they lack nothing.” “With my money, Mom is fine.” I felt at peace. I felt responsible.

After the burial, I went into the house and started doing what many people do when they come back for a visit: judging.

— Why is the garden dry?

— The walls need painting.

— Why was Mom so thin in the coffin? Didn’t you give her what I told you?

Pablo didn’t answer. He was sitting in the kitchen, wearing an old T-shirt, with deep dark circles under his eyes and hands full of calluses. He looked exhausted. Defeated. Ten years older than me… even though he’s three years younger.

Then I offered “the solution” in a generous tone:

— I think it’s best to sell the house. I don’t need the money. We’ll split it 60–40; you keep more since you stayed here.

I expected gratitude. I received the truth.

Pablo slowly stood up, pulled an old school notebook from a drawer — wrinkled, stained — and dropped it on the table.

— Read, he said.

It was a logbook of everyday hell.

October 2: Mom didn’t sleep. She screamed all night, asking for you. I changed her diaper five times. She bit me when I tried to bathe her.

November 9: The money wasn’t enough for the medications. I sold my motorcycle.

December 25: She didn’t recognize anyone. She cried because “the successful son” didn’t call. I played an old recording of your voice to calm her. I ate a sandwich next to her bed.

January 10: The doctor says my back is damaged from lifting her. I can’t work this week.

I couldn’t keep reading. The lump in my throat was suffocating me.

Pablo looked straight at me and said, without shouting, without hatred:

— You sent 400 dollars, Carlos. Thank you. But you slept eight hours a night. You had weekends. Vacations. A life.

He touched his chest.

— I haven’t slept a full night in four years. I lost my girlfriend. I gave up my career. I stayed so Mom wouldn’t die alone or end up in a nursing home. Money doesn’t clean diapers. Money doesn’t endure insults from a sick mind. Money doesn’t hug a terrified mother at three in the morning.

He took one step closer.

— Sell the house. Keep it all. I’ve already paid my share. I paid it with my life.

And he went to sleep in Mom’s room — the first real nap he’d have in years.

I stayed alone in the kitchen. I looked at my expensive watch, my brand-name shoes. I was the financial provider. He was the son. I paid for the pills. He put them in her mouth. I sent money for the coffin. He held her hand until she stopped breathing.

That same afternoon, I went to the notary and transferred 100% of the house to him. It wasn’t a gift. It was the fairest retroactive payment I could make. And even so, I know I still owe him.

Don’t fool yourself: A check doesn’t change diapers. A transfer doesn’t cure loneliness. And if one day it’s time to divide an inheritance, remember this: The caregiver’s time, health, and life cannot be recovered. It’s recognizing who carried the weight when everyone else walked away.

Mo!

 Mo! has been my African-American friend for a long time.

One day, I asked Mo! - What a kind of nick is that?

He laughed and explained:

 "I am a Christian. After 9/11, I saw many of my muslim friends going through discrimination, teasing, and disrespectful attitudes from society. One day, at a coffee counter, I had a Muslim man waiting for his coffee. When his name was called Mohammad, there were many stares at him. He, as well as everyone, sensed it. Since that day, I changed my nickname from John to Mo! Every time I go somewhere, and they ask my name, I say, "Mo!" Followed by a statement, 'Mo for Mohammad.' I am still very Christian. Initially, I did this to support my muslim friends, but over time, I have really come to like my name. I feel this name soothes me. It has music in it. I just love it!

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)

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.

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.

Azra aur Murtaza ki kahani - Jaun Elia ki Zubani

 In one of his rare interviews, Jaun Elia mentioned a true story from Amroha, India. This account played an essential role in his personality formation.

In his neighborhood, a girl named Azra was engaged to a boy named Murtaza. Nikah was done, but rukhsati was pending. They were in immense, deep love with each other. One day, Murtaza died. When Azra learned about his death, she did not cry but went into isolation for months on the upper story of the house. Her food was served by servants and family there. She rarely came downstairs.

Woh mukkamal pathra gai

One day, out of the blue, she came downstairs in an extremely happy mood. She took out her favorite suit and put perfume and gajra on herself. Everyone was shocked and surprised and asked her what had happened. She said, "Murtaza came into my dream and said he would take me with him soon." Everybody thought she had gone crazy, but she died in a few days.

Jaun says this event enormously affected him and changed his outlook on love and life.

'A locket, a soldier, and a broken heart …’

It was a difficult decision for Eric Chinner to enlist in 1915. 

After all, Eric had recently kindled a romance with Gladys Dunn, a fellow clerk he worked with. The smitten couple had planned to marry. 

But then in the patriotic fervour of the Great War, droves of Eric’s friends had enlisted. How could he possibly refuse his country’s call? 

Before embarking, Eric gifted Gladys an exquisite gold locket that contained his hand-coloured portrait, an engraving of his initials, and his school crest. 

No doubt Gladys firmly clasped the locket as Eric’s 32nd Battalion marched through Adelaide’s streets toward the port.

Gladys cherished the locket during Eric’s long absence; it was a constant reminder of her ‘Laddie

By July 1916, Eric’s battalion had been transferred to the Western Front near Fromelles. ‘We are taking part in a great offensive,’ he wrote home. ‘We are the first to go over the parapet...Of course, I'm a bit shaky, but not very scared.’ 

On the night of 19 July, 2,500 British and Australian soldiers were slaughtered in a hellish attack upon heavily fortified German trenches.

Weeks later, Gladys received the news that Eric was missing in action. 

Eric’s father, Thomas, closely observed the grief-stricken Gladys. He watched her tightly clasp that locket while she pondered what had happened to her ‘Laddie’. 

Years slipped by with no news. 

Gladys would never marry. 

Gladys, who lived into her nineties, died in a nursing home never knowing what had happened to Eric. While she rarely spoke about him, she did bequeath the locket to her niece, Sue Leask. 

‘I’d often looked at the photo and wondered,’ recalled Sue. 

Then in 2008 a burial ground was discovered near Fromelles. It contained the remains of 250 soldiers, including Eric’s, which were eventually identified.  

After seeing newspaper reports about the discovery, Sue noted the striking resemblance between the tiny portrait in the locket and one of the soldiers - Eric Chinner. 

 

After an exhaustive search, Sue contacted John Guest, Eric’s great-nephew, and told him of their family’s connection. 

At an emotional meeting, Sue returned the locket to the Chinner family. 

That 100-year-old locket enshrined all the emotions of war: love, forlorn hope, deep grief, and reconnection. 

The Twists And Turns Of Life: A True Story

He was a dashing Pakistani Army Captain and she was an alluring Bengali Dhaka Medical College graduate training at CMH. (Combined Military Hospital).

It was February of 1970 when tensions were building in every corner of East Pakistan. The Captain and the Doctor fell in love when they met at CMH. But both their families disowned them. Marrying the enemy was not acceptable, emotions were raw and anger was overflowing.

Nevertheless, the young couple married and made themselves a cozy home in a rented house. Many were leaving for Pakistan and moved out of Dhaka.

Her family refused to meet her husband and his family sent letters of disdain from Pakistan but the young couple were in a state of euphoria.

Soon she was pregnant and he was ecstatic. It was the first week of December, the Captain was in trenches with his commanding officer who was a Major. The Captain told  his commanding officer that his wife was in labour at the CMH, if he dies during the heavy bombing, please give her this message that the last ten months have been the happiest time of his life.

Later that day the Major went for a field meeting only to come back and found the trenches been bombarded and the Captain has died.

The Major remembered that the Captain’s wife had been in labour, he rushed to the CMH. At the hospital, a grim faced lady Doctor informed the Major that the Captain’s wife has died in childbirth five hours ago and they were waiting for the Captain to come and take his baby girl home.

The Major had to make  a split second decision... if he told them the father is also dead, the baby might be given in care of strangers. Instead he calmly told the Doctor that the baby’s father was slightly injured and would not be able to travel for a few days but please take good care of the baby girl and someone would come and take her home in couple of days.

When the Major got home that night his wife was in a frenzy...packing a few things. She and their two sons were to leave in two days by a ship for Karachi. The Major told his wife what happened and there was no choice but to go to CMH and pretend to be an aunt of the new born baby girl and take her to Karachi. When the war will be over they will search for her family and hand her over to them.

The Major’s wife was bewildered but she did as her husband asked and left with the baby girl for Karachi. The rest is history!!

In the next few days, the Pakistani army surrendered and the Major became a prisoner of war. In the meantime, the Major’s wife now in Karachi, anxious and frightened for her husband was lovingly taking care of the baby girl and told her  relatives that this was her daughter.

Eighteen months later after the  release of prisoners of war, the Major returned home to find a happy and healthy baby girl along with his two young sons playing in the front lawn.

Over the next few years, there was no communications between Bangladesh and Pakistan. Finally after six years of trying to find any relatives of their adopted daughter  they gave up.

By now his wife was so attached to the little girl that any mention of trying to find relatives made her panic and cry.

Eighteen years went by, the baby girl had graduated from Karachi Grammar and was in college. The Major now a Brigadier General wanted to tell his adoptive daughter about her father but his wife refrained him from doing so.

Countless arguments and emotional exchanges could not make him change his mind. He retrieved the only worn out black and white picture he had of the Captain. The picture was taken at the Dhaka Cantonment Officer’s Club. He took it to the photo studio got it enlarged and framed.

The next week he asked both his sons, who were at university in other city, to come home for a few days. All three children were worried thinking their father might be ill. He asked his adopted  daughter to sit next to him as he held her hand. He wrapped his other arm tightly around his wife. Calmly he spoke of that day when a young Captain under his command told him about his Bengali wife, a Doctor, who was in labour at the CMH and if he died to tell his wife how much he loved her. The Captain died that afternoon and so did his wife while giving birth to a beautiful baby girl. Tears rolled down his face as he turned to look at his adopted daughter and handed her the only picture of her father.

The baby girl is now fifty plus years old, married and has a daughter...who is about to be married in a few weeks. A large picture of her biological father hangs on the drawing room wall. Every time she looks at the picture she wonders who was her mother. A young Doctor who defied her family and married her Pakistani father.

The Major now eighty two years old looks out from the window of his seventh floor apartment in Karachi and wonders if he did the right thing that fateful afternoon when he took the orphan baby girl and brought her up as his own.

P.S.

Real names are withheld for privacy reasons.

The Brigadier General and his wife have now passed away.

From the wall of Farzana Ursani

Kids of Parsi Colonies (Karachi & Global)

A quick glimpse of one life

 (shared by a friend at the dinner table)

Recently I met this Uber driver from Pakistan.

He was in Dubai for 2 years driving a cab.

Then in Jeddah for 14 years.

His Kafeel was charging him 300 Riyals a month.

Then 1300 a month.

He charged him when he went home for vacation.

He went to Azerbaijan for two years.

Went to Brazil and walked for six months to Mexico, beaten, robbed, and starved.

It took him

8 years to get a green card.

And he was grateful.

He was crying, and all I could do was hug him.

Ramzan Khan of Bollywood

(A forward on WhatsApp)

Ramzan Khan, a fifteen-year-old illiterate boy from a small town in Gujrat, always wanted to come to Bombay because of his fascination with the movies. He was brought to Bombay by Noor Muhammad Shipra who owned a stable and supplied the horses for the movies. Ramzan Khan started working as a horseshoe repairman in his stable. This was the era of silent movies. Horses were always needed in the movies because, in those days, most of the movies were based on old historical epics where horses were needed for battle scenes. Also, horse-driven tanga was the most common mode of transportation then. Ramzan Khan developed a good rapport with the horses. 

Once during the outdoor shooting, a horse got out of control. Ramzan Khan was there and was able to control the horse. Ardeshir Irani, the famous Indian movie producer, and director were very impressed by this young, handsome, and muscular man. He started giving him roles as an extra in the silent movies made by his Imperial Film Company. By 1931 ‘talkies’ were introduced. Ramzan Khan worked hard and got several lucky breaks. 

He ended up producing and directing several blockbuster movies. He, later, established his own film studio. By the way, he had changed his name to Mehboob Khan. He was totally illiterate. It is rumored that he couldn’t even sign his own name – not confirmed. He died in 1964 at the age of 56. Nehru was his ideal. It is rumored that when he heard the news of Nehru’s death, he had a heart attack (again not confirmed if he indeed had the heart attack for that reason). But, for sure, he died the next day.

Abbu

 A text from a friend - his father died, and he has to carry the body to the ancestral village in an ambulance.

"Despite efforts not to recall it, I repeatedly get images of his last moments. I put my phone next to his right ear for him to listen to 20 min recital of surah Yaseen. Then me going back, and my son repeated the ritual. We just took 20 min break as his vitals were improving. BP became 110/ 60.previously, it was on the lower side. We thought he would linger on till morning for my brother to arrive. I don't know how I dozed off. I woke up on hearing a knock .got up and opened the door. The Guard of the ICU was at the door,"Sir, aap ko icu mein bula rhy hain." I ran to icu. 

Entered and asked," kya hua ?" The attendant said," ap k father foat ho gy hain !!" I couldn't believe what I had heard. Then I looked at abbu's bed. He was lying there, and there was a straight line on the monitor. I ran to his side. Put my ear on his chest, my hands on his pulse. There was no sign of life. Then reality hit me, and I started sobbing. I had lost him forever. I feel guilty that I was not there when he breathed his last. I see him dead whenever I close my eyes. This is killing me. 

I accompany abbu to the village in the ambulance. I kept my hand on his hand. It was as if he was sleeping, and I was sitting on his side. Yesterday I had a thought. When I was born, abbu received me and signed my birth certificate. When abbu left this world, I received his body and signed his death certificate. How ironic."

That one haunted house

It is said that (at least in the USA) a person lives in 11 houses in his lifetime. There is always a place - which haunts a human for the rest of his/her life.

As we five friends discussed the above scenario, all of them believed that it is probably true.

In my case, I have a place I lived for three years, well inside woods and mountains in the far land of Northwest USA (now feels like my previous life) - periodically still haunts me. Nothing happened while I lived there, but it is almost 25 years since I wake up with either a nightmare or "not a good feeling." It includes a feeling of drowning, fear, or evil personalities around.

One of my medical school friends, who stayed back in Pakistan and now practices surgery in Islamabad, lived at many places while his father was posted at various places as an army commando. He still periodically wakes up with nightmares and beaten-up feelings inside one house in the remote mountain of the afghan area. Interestingly, he wakes up with bruises all over his body. Multiple times, all blood workups, including coagulation profile, etc., etc., turned out to be completely normal.

(Interestingly, as I was writing this post, his text messages appeared on my phone)

Any thoughts? Anyone?

Love at first sight

(Found this beautiful story on the internet: Sounds like a true occurrence: Author not known)

She watched him from a distance. He definitely looked lost, a lone brown figure guarding a sewer pipe. He stood out in the green field because of his color.

He would move forward a little, try to talk to passersby and then retreat back to his comfort zone, in front of the sewer pipe. She was drawn to him and watched every move of his with keen interest. 

Those around him were reluctant to approach him as they did not know what to expect from him? what he was trying to say? what he wanted? who he was and where he had come from? He looked too young to be wandering around on his own though.

She wondered whether he was asking for help. She knew that his behavior could become unpredictable but while all spectators watched, she felt an impulse to run down the field to comfort him.

She heard a commotion nearby as an animal control van screeched to a stop right next to where she was parked. Out jumped a pleasant young sheriff holding a neck collar. It was clear that this young man had been called to rescue this lost creature. 

She was expecting some sort of a reaction from her focus of attention but to her surprise, the creature displayed no agitation or fear but patiently waited for the young sheriff to approach him. 

The sheriff sat down on grass, right next to the lost soul, and appeared to be uttering calming words to gain his trust. The sheriff made several patient attempts to place the collar around this dog’s neck but the dog took this as a game and playfully jumped up and down for a bit. She wondered at this rare spectacle for this Pitt, was not being aggressive or combative at all. After several failed attempts, the sheriff was finally able to get the collar and leash around this dog’s neck. 

When the sheriff tugged at the leash, encouraging the dog to follow him, it was clear that the dog didn’t want to budge from his favorite spot. She wondered if he was trying to tell them something about his owner and felt a pang. 

The sheriff finally succeeded in nudging him to a small dog cage in his van. As the main character passed right close to her car, she saw him at close quarters. He wasn’t angry, he wasn't barking, he just looked defeated and melancholic with tears filling his eyes & his head hanging low. 

She had been afraid of dogs while growing up and for a good reason too. Her experience with strays back home had not exactly been favorable. But this was one dog that made her heart melt. As he passed at arm’s length from her, she wanted to reach out and pat his sad and remorseful head. 

She offered to help the sheriff look for anything that was bothering this sad creature. However, even after a thorough search of the sewer pipe and the surrounding field, the officer found nothing that could be holding this dog back. She felt saddened as she sensed there was something amiss but was unable to do anything about it.

The young sheriff assessed the dog to be about a year old as he was drooling and looked nervous. This dog was one of the mildest and gentlest creatures she had ever set eyes on. She felt so moved by this incident and the personality of the dog that she wanted to bring the dog home. 

She surprised herself with this irrational thinking. Was she really physically and mentally able to take this responsibility? Wouldn’t there be religious connotations of having a dog? No one in her family liked dogs, particularly her mother who had been bitten by a stray once. 

For some reason, this trapped, doleful animal reminded her of herself. Of late, she had been asking people to help her with the care of her mother when in the past she had been able to handle most of such challenges herself. Now, some unavoidable circumstances had rendered her helpless. 

She was informed that the dog would be taken to the animal shelter where an attempt to find a chip on him (and thereby his owner) would be made. If no owner was found for 15 days, he would be given up for adoption. She wished that he would either find his owner or another loving home. 

She noted that during this time, all worries and stressors had left her and she had felt as light as a cloud. In those few moments, she had felt united with a kindred spirit.  

She promised herself to find this lost creature home. If she couldn’t care for him herself, she would beg her friends to do so. This was indeed love at first sight and her restless soul wished to see this kindred spirit again. Their connection was unexplainable and all she could gather from this incident was that her destiny had brought this dog into her life to fill the chasm left by those who she had once held dear and those who were soon to leave her...

Mera Lahore

(Received as a forward. A true account written by Dr. Naeem Siddiqui at California)

It was the last show ending at midnight. Three of us just left the Regal Cinema after we enjoyed our last movie together. Our lives were in limbo. Dreams, fear, and uncertainty of the future were clouding souls. We all wanted to do something big but did not know what that big thing was? I had just finished my medical school and Ahmad wanted to go to NCA, just wanted to see girls. Anis had finished his BSc in Physics. His father had passed away and he inherited this tea stall at the corner of Mall Road near Pak Tea House. We had one bicycle and had to go to Sanda. Two of us got on the bike and the third one had to push it to turn by turn. It was midnight and Mall Road was lonely except for three shadows on a bike. We made it to his home and had to feed ourselves. Not much to eat except leftover beans and few naans. The food was cold but we were hungry. Anis was always quiet and never shared his thoughts except to crack a joke occasionally. I had my dream to come to America and for me all that mattered. 

America America! why are you so far? 

Early in the morning, we headed to our homes to face another day of hope and a foggy future. I wanted something to happen but time was indifferent to my plight and plans. I had a dark moment hanging over my head like a swarm of bees. I needed money and that is something I had never my life. I used to live like a prince at Nishtar with a nonstop supply of books to boots and socks to sweaters from England where father was working in a steel factory, night shift to earn more for our education. I had graduated and wasn’t going’s to ask my father to bail me out. 

The next day was another day with Anis and Ahmad for our midnight ritual. It was midnight and dark and I could hide my face or at least I thought so. Anis, I am very ashamed but I need your help. I need some money. With batting an eye he handed me all that he had earned that day selling tea in hot summer next to a kerosene stove. 400 Rupees and that is all he had. A few months later I left Lahore not to return for another 10 years. 

Life has its own plans overriding ours. I had to find Anis but his brother had taken over the tea stall he was not in contact with Anis. I lost Anis and Ahmed had gone to Germany. Back to NY and the endless brutal fight to survive and succeed in a residency had consumed my time and life and I forgot Anis. Another ten years filtered through my palm like dry sand. I had to find Anis but he fell off the face of the earth. 

In my rare moments of solitude, I kept his kindness alive and finally, I found him. 

He was married and had a daughter, doing odd jobs in Lahore. Hello Anis,,,, this is Naeem. I owe you some money. I don’t remember, he said. But I do and told him about midnight escapes and watching the Movie Collector. I am paying you back and I don’t have words to say what I want to say. 

That is what friends do for friends. You owe me nothing. 

That is the Lahore ... My Lahore. 

PS:  The Tea Stall is still there on the mall next to Pak Tea House. It is bonded.

ایک واقعہ

:ایک معلمہ کہتی ہیں -

میں نے طالبات کی ایک ٹیم کو سال کے آخر میں ایک پروگرام میں انکی ماؤں کے سامنے ایک نظم پیش کرنے کیلیے ٹرینڈ کیا   تیاری اور ریہرسل کے مختلف 

مراحل کے بعد بالآخر پروگرام کا دن آ گیا 

 نظم شروع ہوئی 

مگر انکی اس خوبصورت کارکردگی پر اسوقت پانی پھر گیا جب ایک بچی جو اپنی سہیلیوں کے ساتھ نظم پڑھ رہی تھی اچانک اپنے ہاتھ، جسم اور انگلیوں کو حرکت دینے لگی اور اپنا منہ کسی کارٹون کے کیریکٹر کیطرح بنانے لگی. 

اسکی ان عجیب وغریب حرکتوں کیوجہ سے دوسری تمام بچیاں پریشان ہو گئیں 

:معلمہ کہتی ہیں 

میرا جی چاہا کہ میں جاکر اس بچی کو ڈانٹ پلاؤں اور اسے تنبیہ کروں کہ وہ 

ڈسپلن اور سنجیدگی کا مظاہرہ کرے  مجھے اس پر اتنا غصہ آیا کہ قریب تھا کہ میں اسے سختی کے ساتھ ان بچیوں سے کھینچ کر الگ کر دوں  لیکن جوں جوں میں اس کے قریب جاتی وہ پارے کیطرح چھٹک کر مجھ سے دور ہو جاتی  

اسکی یہ حرکتیں بڑھتی گئیں اور وہ سارے لوگوں کی نظر کا مرکز بن گئی 

 وہاں موجود تمام خواتین اسکی ان حرکتوں پر زور زور سے ہنس رہی تھیں 

میری نظر پرنسپل پر پڑی جنکی پیشانی مارے شرمندگی کے پسینے سے شرابور تھی  وہ اپنی سیٹ سے اٹھیں اور مجھ سے کہنے لگیں 

اس بدتمیز اور بیہودہ لڑکی کو سکول سے نکالنا ضروری ھے  میں نے بھی انکی اس بات کی تائید کی 

لیکن ایک چیز نے ہم سب کی نظروں کو متوجہ کیا کہ اس پورے وقفے میں اس بچی کی ماں کھڑی ہو کر اپنی بچی کی ان حرکتوں پر تالی بجاتی رہی، گویا وہ اسکی حوصلہ افزائی کر رہی تھی کہ وہ اپنا یہ فضول کام جاری رکھے 

جیسے ہی نظم ختم ہوئی  میں جلدی سے اسٹیج کیطرف بڑھی اور اس لڑکی کو زور سے پکڑ کر کھینچا اور بولی 

تم نے اپنی سہیلیوں کے ساتھ نظم پڑھنے کے بجائے یہ اول جلول حرکتیں کیوں کی؟ 

:وہ بولی  

اسلیے کہ پروگرام میں میری ماں بھی موجود تھی  مجھے اسکے اس ڈھٹائی بھرے جواب پر بڑی حیرت ہوئی. 

:لیکن مجھے اسوقت بڑا دھچکا لگا جب اسنے آگے یہ کہا 

میری ماں بول اور سن نہیں سکتی 

میں نے گونگے لوگوں کی زبان میں اس نظم کا ترجمہ اپنی ماں کے لیے پیش کیا تاکہ دیگر تمام بچیوں کی ماؤں کیطرح میری ماں بھی اپنی بیٹی کی کارکردگی پر خوشی کا اظہار کر سکے  

جیسے ہی اسنے یہ وضاحت کی وہ دوڑ کر اپنی ماں کیطرف بڑھی اور اسکے 

گلے لگ کر زار و قطار رونے لگی. 

جب وہاں موجود سارے لوگوں کو حقیقت معلوم ہوئی تو سارا ہال سسکیوں سے

 گونج اٹھا 

واقعے کا سب سے خوبصورت پہلو یہ ھے کہ پرنسپل نے اس لڑکی کو اسکول سے نکالنے کے بجائے اسے انعام سے نوازا اور اسے "مثالی طالبہ" 

کا خطاب دیا 

 وہ لڑکی جب وہاں سے نکلی تو سر اٹھا کر خوشی سے اچھلتے ہوئے جا رہی تھی 

بعض مواقع پر جلدبازی میں رد عمل ظاہر مت کیجیے، 

دوسروں پر حکم لگانے میں جلدی سے کام مت لیجیے 

محض بدگمانی کی بنیاد پر ہم ایک دوسرے سے نفرت کرتے ہیں، 

ملنا جلنا کم کرتے ہیں،  رشتے ختم کر لیتے ہیں. 

اللہ سے لوگوں کے ساتھ حسنِ ظن کی توفیق مانگیے کہ اسی میں دلوں کا سکون اور سینوں کی سلامتی ھے.

Tom & Delma

Elderly couple married for 62 years die together while holding hands

Their first date of sorts happened when Tom had to “just move his car.”

“They drove around two, three different blocks or whatever and they came back and they parked and he said he reached over and he grabbed her hand and he said, 'I don't know what made me do it.'

Three weeks later, they were married. Two daughters soon followed, then grandchildren and then great-grandchildren. It was a life filled with love and laughter.

Then, in April of this year, Delma fell ill and did not recover. A few days later, Tom too fell ill. “We got him over to the nursing home with Mama. They had pushed their little beds together and Mama was laying right there, facing him. She was asleep and Daddy goes and he reached over there and he grabbed ahold of her hand and he just laid there with her, and it was so sweet,” Nichols said.

 Not long after, Tom died. Delma followed, not even an hour and a half later. Their lives ended the same way their relationship began – holding hands.

Read real life love story from Texas here:

https://www.click2houston.com/news/after-62-years-of-marriage-couple-dies-together-while-holding-hands

Uber Drivers

I always enjoy talking to uber drives as most of them are driving uber as part time to make their ends meet. In the last few years, I met several students, retirees, a refugee from Rwanda genocide, and many many interesting human beings - men and women. I learned immensely from their lives and experiences.

Last week I was out of town and had to rely on uber to avoid parking in the downtown area. This middle-aged man told me his story:

"I was laid off after 30 years working in a telecommunication company as they decided to close landlines. As I drove my car out of the parking lot, I didn't want to go home and tell my wife. I didn't know what else I can do in my life as for 30 years; I did one work set under a given protocol. As I was parked on the side of the road not knowing what to do, someone tapped on my window and asked: "are you, my uber driver?" I said: "No, Sir! I don't drive uber". The gentleman walked away, and I said to myself here you go! Let's drive uber."

Then he added: "Sometimes, people come in our life for a few seconds, but I believe for that given moment they are angels send from heaven."

Dinesh Mohan's incredible story

Koi aap ki aulad le jaaye, phir woh wapas aaye, aap nai mohabbat ke taane baane bunain - aur woh piyara aap ki zindagi se chala jaaye........

(closed captioning is available in case you want to read the transcript)

Any map will do

This is the story of a reconnaissance group of soldiers lost in the Alps on a training mission. It was winter, they had no maps, and they seemed hopelessly lost. They were preparing to die, when one soldier found a map crushed down at the bottom of his pack. With the map in hand, they regained their courage, bivouacked for the night, and proceeded out of the mountains the next day to rescue. Only when they were recuperating in the main camp did someone notice that the map they had been using wasn’t a map of the Alps at all; it was a map of the Pyrenees.

This is the story to point out that sensemaking is an act of its own, valuable in itself, and independent of any notion of reality. This story raises the remarkable idea that, when you are lost, any map will do.

(Story from the papers of Professor Karl E. Weick)