Always preserve your childhood

This post is specially those who have gone past their prime youth age and stepping in to the rather serious stage of their life. It is also applicable for me as I have already entered the age of  senior citizen.

When one is old, one has two choices – shroud oneself in the old age or while still behaving like an old man, doesn’t let the child inside die and keep him giggling. It is the second type of oldies who live a meaningful, vibrant and happy old age. In fact those who preserve their childhood never grow old – they are always young at heart, which keeps them healthy and happy.

In his book "I'm OK - You're OK" psychiatrist Thomas Anthony Harris presents a practical guide to transactional analysis as a method for solving problems in life. According to him, each man's life is composed of three segments: Parent, Adult and Child. And man reflects these segments of his life every now and then. And it is the last segment child that is the subject of post today. 

So be a child much too often. One may still wear a short and go out and play in the rain – one may still like to wear gaudy colour clothes one wore in the childhood and crack jokes and move about heartily. Although one should not be like a child all the time, but occasionally recalling one’s childhood has no harm. and to do that, one must never quit the family of school or college day friends for it is they who help has reminisce our childhood and recall days of our innocence or should I say golden period  of our life. A life that is long past but can be relived when with friends of our childhood. 

Zurich, Switzerland - 2014 (Photo: Jalal HB)

I saw this young couple in their 60s, wearing colourful clothes and glasses with rectangular and round frame, enjoying their childhood youth merrily. They giggled and laughed and held each other tight with a passionate kiss. I saw them enjoying while standing outside a nearby shop and took this photo. How often do we do this - perhaps very seldom.

The choice rests with us: Live a dull and boring life, mostly clinging to our reclining chair, reading newspapers full of hair raising news and then feel helpless for not having changed the world, or go out and meet friends and make our life joyous and health for hearty Laughters raise our spirits and in turn keeps us healthy.

Social media is one such forum where once can find lost friends and lost childhood happiness. I for myself was found out by a school day class fellow and then the chain was not ending as through him I found out many other class fellows I haven't met or even talked to for good about four to five decades. I  have already shared my experience of finding out lost friend in one of my earlier posts: School days friends: Lost and Found.

And these reunions even took me to Groningen, Holland to meet a friend of school days and had hearty laughs with him recalling our school days, our mischiefs - something that made our families smile too, seeing oldies laughing like kids.

Would you like to relive your childhood in your old age?

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Once upon a time in Lahore

Once upon a time stories have always been fascinating as these always talked about beautiful princesses and princes, sometimes princes turning frogs too though. But their end was always charming and ending with kisses and love forever. 

I too grew up listening th the once upon a time stories and I wish I could go back to my childhood when may parents and all siblings were there under one roof and listen to those fascinating stories once again. But now with parents long gone and all siblings living their own lives scattered over different places, once upon a time is only a dream now.

And let me share my Once upon a time In Lahore [1], where I was born, raised (listening to the stories), and then left in search of my bread and butter to places far away never returning to live there again. But whenever I visit Lahore, I make sure I walk down on lanes and streets where I once walked with my family - now I walk alone cherishing the nostalgia of the days when love was in abundance and everywhere.

One of the roads we frequented with my family after sunsets was the Abbott Road. Starting from our house near once famous and thriving Lahore Hotel, we would go to Abbott Road truing left from where now Gulistan cinema stands. In those days, there was abandoned house surrounded with bushes and trees and looked like Dracula's house. In those Dracula films were very famous, or notorious I may say, and whenever we five brothers went past that place, my pace would speed up lest Dracula got out and suck my blood. But with my family and parents around, I felt no fear for my father was a fearless man and I know he would break Dracula's neck if he dared !!!

OK back to the Abbott Road, which like the abandoned "Dracula's house, was all barren, unlike its present screaming and congested traffic due to many cinemas that came up, was quite road with fields astride both side of the road. At the end of the road, there stood the Radio Pakistan building, the Television Station came a few years later in 1964. From here we would turn right to climb the once famous Shimla Pahadi (Shimla Hill). I do not know why it was called after Shimla, a beautiful tourist resort of northern India, but perhaps the presence of this raised ground reminded someone of Shimla and this small hillock was so named.

It was here that there used to be lot of fireflies and they would give their feint yet visible light and fly by us. My mother would catch some of these in her dopatta and I would cry with joy seeing these fiery creatures trapped inside. And could cry when my mother would let them go.

Now there is no Shimla Pahadi and no fireflies, and no once upon a time stories. All gone with the wind of the time and leaving behind the memories which saddens me for it reminds me of my parents and my elder brother who are no more, may they be blessed, and the galaxy of siblings living in their won smaller worlds, perhaps reading out once upon a time stories to their grandchildren.

Do you remember your once upon a time stories?

Photo : [1] Lahore is a thriving city in the Punjab Province of Pakistan
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From Uncle to Baba Jee

Life has a speed perhaps faster than the speed of light. It seems moving at a slower pace but in fact it is zooming past at a much higher speed than we can actually feel.

From childhood to teenage the period is so short that when one start to enjoy it, it is almost half way though and over in a few years time - taking us into a bracket of life when small children start to call us uncles. And then the 'uncle' stage continues for a pretty long time - to our late 50s. And then graying of hair sets in  - taking us into a transitory period of life between uncle and the old.

I too have been enjoying the uncle stage for quite some time now even when my hair had become grey and mustaches almost white with a few black hair here and there. But still I was uncle.

But last night, my transitory stage came to an abrupt end. I was sitting in a store while my wife and son were busy shopping. Next to me were sitting a young father and her angel like doll baby girl, eating potato chips. While I was not actually looking it at her and was trying to find my wife and son, suddenly the doll touched my arm and in her sweet still learning voice said: Baba Jee, Baba Jee (or in other words Old Man, but with respect) !!

Well that was the first time anyone addressed me with Baba Jee - it was both amusing and interesting. I smiled at her who by then was again busy devouring on her pack of potato chips. When my wife and son came and I told them what had happened to my status and naturally they were all smiles. 

But her addressing me Baba Jee suddenly took me from the middle age to the beginning of old age, which made me wonder how swiftly the life has gone by and it has been two years since I stepped into my six decade age bracket - the last age bracket of my life which can abruptly end anytime. But till it happens, I intend to enjoy someone call me Baba Jee for it is both amusing and loving.

Photo: Pixabay
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Lamenting Scars of the Soul – A rejoinder

Sometime back, I narrated a real story that carried in itself the hidden cries of a young woman, Yasmeen (who once worked in our house as a maid), the cries she tried to hide. But there were times that when her anguish could be visibly seen and felt. She would invariably break down and cried in front of my wife. Although my wife would cajole her and try to comfort her, it was she alone who was to bear the grief and sorrow that befell on her and her family on 8 October 2005 – the day a powerful earthquake struck the northern areas of Pakistan. Her lamenting tale was but one of the many such heartbreaking realities that still echo in the valleys and villages where life is now returning to normal.

We had hardly recovered from the shock of that dreadful earthquake, that yet another calamity fell on us last July. Though far less deadly (in terms of human losses) than the earthquake, it is far more devastating in terms of damages to communication infrastructure, houses and buildings. Other than that, it has affected over 20 million people all along the length of the Pakistan from the north till the southern edge of the country at the mouth of the Arabian Sea. Of the over 20 million people that have their fragile houses washed away along with their lifelong possessions, are some six million children whose laughter has also been drowned in the ravaging muddy flood waters.

Recently I heard a story of a boy who saw his house crumble like a pack of card right in front of his eyes and then vanish forever. Riazuddin, a boy of around 10-111 had a one room house on the bank of Swat River before the July floods, where he lived with his parents happily. He played with other children of the area, threw pebbles in the river and brought water for domestic use. Life had been happy for him since he was born. Though very poor, he was happy like any other child, always hopeful of the future and had fewer expectations from life. He didn’t have many possessions as a child, but a bat and some other broken toys he collected from the garbage.

Then July 2010 came. There have been unusual rains and he along with other children bathed in the rains and made merry. But at the same time, the water in the river started to swell and rise. He heard his father saying that the river seems to be in floods. Then the otherwise clear water of the river started getting muddy and muddier with its level rising very rapidly. But no one had any idea how wicked it would turn into. Soon the water was touching the brims of its banks, but little Riaz’s one room house was still a few feet higher. The night came but the roar of the gushing water made everyone sleepless. From a friendly river since his childhood, the river had become monstrous. He along with his father went out and saw the foamy water was almost touching their door. Alarmed by this development, his father ordered everyone out and with all they could grab, they left the house and moved to the higher ground above their house. And then it happened. The water became more violent and soon Riaz’s house was inside the water and the very fast current pounding on all its sides. Right in front of his innocent eyes, suddenly his house gave in and crumbled like a pack of cards and in seconds was washed and eaten away by the river – leaving none of its traces back.

For Riaz, it was as if his best had been lost. A friend, who nurtured him, protected him and his family from weather hazards since he was born, and perhaps was his best childhood friend. With the house, his bat and broken toys were also washed away – leaving him nothing but the memories of the good days. Today, he lives in a tent village, hoping to get back one day, where his father may rebuild the house once again. But his toys will never come back. And he will remember the days before the floods and the flood day that took his dreams away.

This is just one story – there are countless stories of similar kinds buried in the hearts of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and husbands, who lost their near and dear ones. Though they continue to live on, the scars of the soul will never be healed for God knows how many years.

Related Reading: Lamenting scars of the soul

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Time changes

My friend SAJS is very nostalgic about his past – his childhood days when he would jump in the canal flowing next to his village, like all others kid of his village did in the summers. He would watch children playing pebbles, a favourite game in the villages, or perhaps he also joined in and bagged all the pebbles from others (or perhaps lost all of his own and went sobbing home).

When he grew up, he was put to the village school that was the day when a writer was born far away in a small village near Mandi Bahauddin. He would often write small words on the sand, which probably made a theme for him to write a book later in his literary life. He had a passion for reading and writing since his childhood, I would say and this is what reflects from most of his posts. Perhaps for this reason, he loved writing letters and sending eid cards to his friends and family when he moved out of his village for higher education. In one of his recent posts, he has expressed his love for these greeting cards and has also displayed a greeting banner I once drew and posted on the notice board of our academy where we both happened to be undergoing training.

Now that the times have changed, and so have the habits and way of life of people even in the rural areas. People who once used to listen to the songs from the Urdu and Punjabi films on the radio and commentary on cricket and hockey matches played in and foreign lands are now glued to the 24 hours run TV channels. Listening to radio is no more the priority. During Shirazi’s youth, the black and white PTV only aired its programmes from 6-11 PM with a weekly break on Wednesday perhaps. We had few good prgrammes to watch everyday rather than the Urdu dramas full of family feuds and intrigues by the otherwise not-doing-anything women folk of our families.

Those were the days when life was simple and compassionate. People loved to write letters to their near and dear ones and waited for the postman to deliver the replies or “re” of todays. And we also send greeting cards on Eid. Children would throng the greeting cards stalls opened on every corner of the street and buy cards on behalf of their families. And am sure so did SAJS.

But now times have changed, as these change in the lifespan of every generation. Fashion has changed too. We now see women wearing long shirts, lose from bottom, as did women in the 50s. The LPs that we grabbed in our youth and played on the turn tables have been replaced with CDs and even USBs directly inserted into car AV paying devices or even stored in the cell phones. While once we waited for the post man for letters and eid cards - now we wait for SMSs and E-Mails instead, as technological developments have overtaken human emotions.

This change is necessary as inertia in life leads to boredom and stagnancy. So let the life take its own course. But at the same time it is also good to recall old memories and feel nostalgic about it as this is what remains when one has gone past its prime youth.

So say good bye to old habits, traditions and way of living - who knows what is in the store for next year?

Related Reading: Greeting Cards

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Even if your waves touch my feet a million times….

Every time a natural calamity or a catastrophe hits the mankind, it leaves behind sorry heartbreaking tales of human sufferings and miseries that take a long time to heal. Pakistan had had hardly recovered from the devastations caused by one of the most severe earthquakes that hit Pakistan’s northern areas in 2005, that Nature struck again two months back with one of the deadliest and powerful floods that is still ravaging the lower parts of Pakistan. These unexpected and flash floods have displaced some 20 million people from north to south, which also includes six million children.

Although, the human losses are not much, some 1800 lives washed away into the cruel water waves, but there are lamentations of children who have lost their parents, of parents who have lost their children, of elders of who have lost their young ones and of youngsters who have lost their elders. The scars are deep and tales of human loss will be many.

Yesterday I came across a post by Syed Asghar Javed Shirazi whose one lined post sent a cold shiver in to my spine. The post describes a phrase written on sand by a small boy who lost his parents in the flood and reads, “Dear River, I will never forgive you; I will never forgive you, even if your waves touch my feet million times.” Although fictionist, it is the true reflection of the sentiments of a child, and all those children who experienced the similar loss.

Even other than the loss of one’s parents, the flood waters washed away innocence from those six million children who have seen their homes, possessions and streets being washed away. I remember I once had a small wooden box in my childhood which had all my “belongings” in it. My comics, a small photo albums, stamps, and other small possessions of a child. And whenever we had a fight among us siblings, I was threatened by my elder siblings that they would take control of the black box, and I used to give in just to save my possessions and the black box. And now I think of many such possessions belonging to these children that must have been lost forever in the ravaging flood waters - a loss that would have taken away all the childhood memories for ever. And here I am remembered of that famous dialogue of the epic movie “Gone with the Wind,” when it was said “An entire generation gone with the wind (or words similar to these).” In this case, “Entire childhood possessions, memories and relations washed away by the floods.”

The post also reminds me of a similar incident that I shared with my readers awhile ago (Lamenting scars of soul) regarding the loss of two little dolls of our maid in the earthquake of 2005. Although, years have passed, the scars on her soul may take a a lifetime to heal.

Times would pass; the displaced people will go back, rebuild their houses and start afresh. But lost relations and possessions will never come back. And even if the waves of the nearby flowing river touch the feet of those who suffered, will never be forgiven – never ever.

Photo: HiSpek

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The Wolf and the Lamb – My earliest surviving birthday gift

Memories of the past are always nostalgic and one’s cherished treasure. Yesterday, while going through my old books and souvenirs, I found something that was presented to me on my birthday many many years ago when I was perhaps seven or eight.

In those days, Chinese printed books for children had recently arrived in the market and on my birthday, my mother bought this beautiful and coloured storybook, “Wolf and the lamb.” I do not remember how many times I read it over the years that followed. And I loved this so much that I always made it a point to preserve it while cleansing my junk, which would always swell in days. I had a black wooden box where I kept all my belongings. And whenever we had a fight among the siblings, my other brothers always threatened me to loot my treasure box. And per force I had to give in to their demands to preserve my possessions. And it took me quite hard to preserve at least this gift – the only surviving treasure from my black box.

And when yesterday I saw it, tears rolled in as the one who gifted it is no more with us now. Mothers are always special – their memories bring tears whenever one sees something that is attributed to them when they are no more. I read it again yesterday and said a thank you to my mother and I am sure she must have heard me saying so sitting far above in her heavenly abode.

Today, on 14th of August, while the Pakistan celebrates its independence day, I also join my family to pray for my mother, who left on this very day in 1997. May she be blessed. Ameen. 

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On the Street where I Lived

Today while I was just listening to my old collection of songs, the famous song “On the Street Where You Live” from the all time classic and melody film “My Fair Lady” started playing. While it is one my best favourite, it took me back to the street where I lived as a five year old child, grew up there and then moved out as a young man to find avenues for my future life. And this post is all about the Street Where I Lived.

While I was born in Lahore, but it wasn’t after five years that we finally came back from Sargodha and Karachi to live my next fifteen years in a house that my father owned on the street I am going to talk about. Just adjacent to the famous McLeod Road of Lahore, it was a non-paved street ( as were most of the streets then in the very early 60s). So everybody would sprinkle water in front of their houses in the evening, and being the youngest in the house, it was my duty when I was about 10. In front of our house was an old “Haveli” where an assortment of people lived. It was a small community and everyone knew each other well. In those days, the Sui Gas had not found its way to our street, so we fueled our kitchen with the kerosene oil or the coal. Nor the present AC (alternate current) thing had found its way to most part of Lahore, so instead we had DC (direct current), something that perhaps many a people today won’t even know of.

Life continued as few years passed by and then one day we heard that our street is going to be paved. There was lot of enthusiasm and excitement when we also heard that before the work on the road began, the Sui Gas line will also be laid and connection provided for domestic use. So the machineries moved in, earth dug up and gas pipe line laid along with a Fire Hydrant, something that I did not know before so my father told me that this device is to be used for filling up fire brigade vehicles in case of fire in the area which would save them from bringing water from long distances. And then the road was laid and there was no more sprinkling of water as the dirt had gone and so I was relieved of my daily duty.

As roads bring development in the area, one day I found carts and trucks coming and people living in the Haveli across “the road” moving their luggage and belongings and moving away. It was a touching moment as people I knew since my childhood were going away for good as I was to come to know that the Haveli was being demolished to make way for a multi story building with shops and flats. Once the vacation was completed, there came a platoon of labourers who starting dismantling the building and by and by the entire structure was raised to ground and over a period of time, the Haveli was replaced by a three story building. The beautifully carved wooden doors and “Jharokas” were replaced by steel shutters and glass windows. The road robbed from us the romantic neighbourhood with modern structure. New people moved in and by and by we started recognizing our new neighbours, as the memories of the old ones started to fade away.

The time came for three of us five brothers to move out of Lahore. The eldest Gul Hameed Bhattil left for Karachi to become a cricket man, married Razia Bondray (later Razia Bhatti ) and settled in Karachi forever. The second eldest and I the youngest moved north, me to join the Pakistan Military Academy and Zafar to join the Pakistan Ordnance Factories. The twins, Kamal and Jamal, remained back in Lahore (both graduates of the famous National College of Arts). That was the time in between 1972-75 that our association with Lahore and the street where we lived dimmed as we three from then on were to settle outside Lahore and would come occasionally on leave to visit our parents and walk through the street. By then the street had become very congested as on the ground floor of the new building, many a shops had opened up and there was noise of people coming and going reinforced by noise of cars and motorcycles. The once calm and quietness of the area had been taken over by the business noises.

Then it was the same place where my ailing parents left for their heavenly abodes one by one while all us five brothers had already moved out to other places due to compulsions of our jobs. When after my mother, my father also bid farewell to the street where he lived, the house was one day also sold off, bringing an end to my old association with the place and the street.

Recently, one day I took my two sons to the place for a last visit as now I had nothing left but my memories of almost four decades – which will always be there till I am as nothing can replace one’s childhood memories ever, specially of the street where one once lived.

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Boiled Eggs and Ghunghrila Railway Station

Few would have ever noticed a small town of Ghunghrila  in between Jhelum and Rawalpindi – but I have a very vivid memory attached to it since my childhood when I was around12-13 years. In those days Subak Rafatar, a newly introduced two-bogie railcar had just started plying between Lahore and Rawalpindi and my father happened to be posted to Rawalpindi in Interpol. So every summer vacation, we would board the early morning railcar to Rawalpindi and came back after the vacation in the three-o-clock returning railcar. It was fun traveling and enjoying the ride in the brand new train.

Now here enters Ghunghrila. During one of our travels to Rawalpindi, this time in the winter vacation, the railcar stopped at Ghunghrila railway station for a crossing. The sky was overcast and it was drizzling. The over grown grass in the nearby terraced field was swaying with the blowing cool breeze. The scene was so fascinating ( now I would call romantic – but then I was too young to have it called so) that I still remember the entire scene. To add more to it, there came a small boy selling boiled eggs “Garam Andays” and our mother ordered one for all of us. The nearly hot boiled eggs eaten with pinch of salt and pepper added much more the scene I was already enjoying.  
Now even after decades, whenever I pass by Ghunghrila on my way to Rawalpindi, I slow down my car just near the place and I imagine a railcar parked by the same place and a little boy looking out enjoying the travel and the scene. My two grown up children laugh at me for still recalling the gone old day as I have narrated the same thing to them a dozen of times – but they would never be able to comprehend the enjoyment their father had when he was a child.

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