I’m in the downstairs living room, tv launch, saloon, I never
know exactly what to call it. It is unusual to be here for longer periods. Usually
I come down here to have my meals, breakfast, lunch, dinner. Sehri and iftar
until a few days before. I would visit mom’s room, humor directed chatter or
announcing of any news in an economical manner. Then I am up to my room. It’s
third day of Eid, already that is. So far eid has been pleasant, without any
major fluctuations. There hasn’t been any significant happy moment nor any
cause of serious displeasure. The chand raat was okay as well; Qamar had
arrived, played a few rounds of ludo with Saqlain being there too. When leaving,
the other mates arrived but I had decided to be in bed earlier that night. I came
home, shaved, cleaned the washroom, had a bath, reconnected the cctv to my
phone app, and then resigned to bed. Couldn’t sleep. It was 3am when I went to
bed, and over 5 when I might’ve actually fallen asleep. I was concerned: are my
days of waking up early, willfully, without any effort, pleasantly, readily –
over?
I was up at 7.30am, relieved about not getting ready, just
washing my face and putting on eid clothes and out for prayers. Prayers went
fine, (the totality of Islam’s 10 rules, and not just the easy bits) then I overpurchased
cakes for first eid breakfast. I overate as well when the breakfast was served.
Ifto joined for a video call, and from there began a pleasant, more importantly
‘kalm’ morning. I was sleep stressed, so by 12pm I fell asleep, woke up for
lunch, and then I had to remain up for the scheduled 4pm call with KB and Leon.
Sadly, I was led to bating in between. The call was peopled, but really approving.
KB posted on facebook, her joyous experience of the call; I was complemented
for my attire (white cotton dress with the blue waistcoat of the wedding). Guests
arrived afterwards: both the mami’s (zan mamai, people usually refer as) came,
and I realized how I had missed passing from Nafisa; even Sumaiya’s well rounded
character appeared paler to her bodied appearance. But I am being too visual as
always – har chand kahey k hain, nahi hain! Abdullah arrived with his family as
I was seeing off the guests, but I left nonetheless for Aman’s shop. A few
smokes and chatter there and I was called back for pizza dinner. Me was Wajji
went to bring the pizza, I brought rosh for mom: we were one pizza short and
the rosh was pathetic as per mom. With friends for ludo, and I was in bed by 12,
sleep deprived yet excitedly committed for tomorrow’s early rising. I didn’t sleep
well, precisely because I wanted to sleep instantly and wake up exactly at 6;
when the alarm went off the next day, I closed it, went to pee, and slept.
Second day, notorious for the in-laws’ day, we went for eid
day visits to mami and Shamsullah’s house. I remained composed and devoured on
my favorite dry fruits and tookhmak. Biking around on our way back with Wajji
and Arman was a pleasant experience, although I am being unfair to Sajjad and Ahmed.
A proper pairing I’d say: the former calm and providing, the latter rash
excited and demanding. The lunch was a dismal event: I skipped the daal-chawal
at home for ABC biryani, but had to wait almost an unpleasant amount of time. I
tried to remain up for leaving for Akram’s in-laws, but dozed for half an hour,
till the ladies were famously late to be ready. Again, I ditched Ahmed and Sajjad:
felt right by discipline, yet morally wrong. Perhaps, I was excited to see
Aiman (ah, her name flows sweet…). We arrived, the first rikshaw with ladies
and me alone on bike. The younger mother first to greet us, then came madam,
then the elder mother, then Mustafa… where is Aiman? I was almost sad and had
resigned to the other possibilities, when with the corner of my eye, I saw her
in her bright green, attractively simple, dress; over there greeting the elders.
I was relieved and averted my eyes; soon she’d be here to greet me, shake my
hand. She did come, did shake my hand. Her bony hands, that bright smile, the
tight lips, her glistening eyes… where is my eidi? I prematurely exclaimed, a
sign of my eagerness. ‘I’m kangaal myself’ she said, which madam overheard, but
I was happy that it didn’t become a talk. Apparently everyone believes there’s
something fishy between us, despite the unlikeliness of it in any serious
manner, yet everyone avoids it in open discussion, perhaps because of the very
unlikeliness of it.
She sat across me, and I found a similar boredom of a sad nature
on her face as I had noticed with Wajji. I tried to be objective and just
thought it’s the shadow effect of the extreme excitement we hold for eid. I,
however, do hope to deliver on such unrealistic promises as much as I can, for
kids and myself alike. Yet every time she got up and went, I felt an immediate
yearn for her to come back right away. It was a taunting business, looking at
her, yet averting my gaze the moment she returned it. I wanted to look at her,
to satiate my eyes off of her, as tommy had said. The devouring continued there
as well: dry fruits, cakes, that tasty cookie, and even two (not one) cups of
milk tea. I wanted to have a pleasant effect on them for whatever reason. But I
would look at her again, while being aware that no one else notices me noticing
her. My gaze, or ours, was a lighter one, a freeing one, showed an unfounded
interest, a desire; theirs was a scorning one, vigilant and dictating, one to
kill hopes and desires, to break the gaze altogether. But hey, I am making it
more than it deserves to be. Honestly. We left, and my heart felt sad at having
to leave her. We couldn’t even talk properly, now that we’re being hawked. I was
pleased that she took a few steps toward me to shake my hand again and say good
bye. Again: that bony yet firm hand, that tight lipped smile, breaking beautifully
at edges, the glistening of her pale-hazel eyes – you didn’t give my eidi, but I’ll
get it from you once you visit our house. And I insisted others to visit again,
in hopes that Aiman would come as well. I left her, but with a hope of seeing
her again. This is new for me. I shouldn’t give it much mind; that’s for the
better.
To Aman’s shop and I successfully stopped myself from
discussing her. As the in-laws’ day, Juma wasn’t around and Mustafa visited us
briefly to feel the brunt of the jokes for being married as well. We left for
mariabad, eight of us: dinner, joint, tea. Then home, and it’s already 2am. At least
I sleep without much hassle. The next morning, and it’s already 11am when I get
up. My guess of the hour, since my phone was plugged charging, was off by one
hour. Our estimated are biased too, it’s almost wishful. I came down here and
hasn’t left: breakfast, eggs with black tea; some reading, the coming wave; asked
friends for lunch, no luck; this writing and now eggplant for lunch.
Ramadan: a whole month that we celebrate, by which I mean
following the rituals; a whole month – no wonder it comes with such earnestness.
It came on Sunday this year, March 2: I remember visiting atwar bazar and
getting myself a pair of white sneakers, although the idea was to get Ali one. I
got myself some fruits, and remember having a calm walk under the not so harsh
sun. Of course, the exams were looming, yet the nearer they got, the more confident
I became: not in my preparation, but in my ability to face it whatsoever. I did
face it. I skipped three days of fasting, the middle one was not necessary in
retrospect, and attempted both the papers. I was disappointed in myself to have
performed in such arbitrary efforts and that too in numerical, tightly marked
exam. I wasn’t CSS and I wasn’t at buoyant, but the performance felt the same. Whether
it was my more dismal attempt in the second exam, or the unbearable lightness
of the unburdening of the exam – I was a sad person that evening. I visited sea
view beach alone, walked along its dirty shore, with my shalwar pulled up and
my socks and shoes inside the helmet. The sun wasn’t harsh again, even though
the temp was around 38 those days. And then the ride to Jabbar’s place: almost
empty roads, no traffic, no people, it was a rather complimentary atmosphere to
my gloomy mood. It was a pleasant enough after iftar with Jabbar; milk almonds,
mandi, green tea. I would’ve finally been allowed to be relieved, I felt sad
instead. The drama of phone repairing and approving completely destroyed any
and all such promises of a merry relaxation.
A mother cat at the opposite block’s top floor has given
birth to four little kittens. When I went to the outside balcony to smoke, post
iftar and sehri, I saw them: cuddled together, sometimes all at once, other
times a few, with little adjusting movement, otherwise peacefully still. It would
hours later sometime that I would come to the balcony again, and they’d still
be there. I would feel a mild terror at my own inability to exist a kitten, and
feel suffocated by my own ever-burning consciousness. Toward the later night,
the mother would come to assist the kitten downstairs, where they eventually
settled at the parking area. One particular evening, I stayed longer after my
smoke finished because I felt an innocent gay interest at watching the kittens
fool around while their mother was lying in an unbothered, secured, and even
proud posture. Except the one sitting among the stair-rails and watching, the
three others were involved in testing their hunting skills by playing a
provoking game of hide and seek. The mother cat wouldn’t even budge they jumped
and ran and land on her stomach, back, and even her head. She would only move
in minor efforts to adjust herself, and nothing more. She remained unbothered
when the little ones played with her tail and ears. Is it they can’t feel angry
or speak in a loud voice, or are cats superior at motherhood as well? Human
mothers can be hugely complaining of the very struggle that define, nurture,
and identify them. Not only ‘to suffer without complaint’, but to live owning
one’s suffering, forging meaning in it, and daring to not even repeating it to
oneself. Until my consciousness caused me to move along with my empty
post-iftar hours, or the fact that after smoking I become naturally restless –
that mother cat remained there, at total ease, feeling the comfort of the
security of her kitten and her job done well. She didn’t mind her kitten
disturbing her because it wasn’t disturbance for her, it was the fruits of her
efforts, which she knew couldn’t be taken away from her at any moment. Against such
utter helplessness, to maintain – nay, own! – an attitude of calm and
resilience, to bear life’s challenges without self-consciousness or without
even the idea of the self or without the very consciousness itself, to live as
if, to accept as is, to keep moving on, to being gathered and present, and to
do it all without even a hint of awareness (from which the disruption and derailment
eventually comes) – that’s what the cat taught me.
Rizwan proved to be a dear company every Sunday. The very
last visit, not on a Sunday however, proved to be a bad one. Leaving the next
day, I had fever and diarrhea at sehri; I calculated fate’s plans for me not to
depart the next day. I did. Sea view at 1am and that sehri at JDC – these were
the outdoorsy highlights of Ramadan. Our iftar party here, in comparison, proved
to be an un-sufficing affair. The intermittent reading sessions that stretched
till sehri were the proof of my ‘unbothered existence’ and a closure to my
unsatisfactory post-exam slumber; I was finally relaxing I guess. But terror
struck at 3am every other night: I suddenly felt lonely, scared, restless, and I
sought relief in madly going in and out of the social apps to find a temporary
company, in reading my old writings, in going for a smoke (a bad idea), in
distracting myself with YouTube, in bating which ruined it all – what hadn’t killed
me, was trying again. Micky 17, the buying of iftari and the bread for sehri,
the damned mosquitoes, okay tea and the craving for occasional biryani, a
reconnect with Safar, Hosseini’s a thousand splendid suns, severance season two,
music smoking and a drink at the roof… 2025’s Ramadan on the Karachi side won firmly
my approval: compared against the bustling iftar-to-sehri routine with friends
in 2023, it stands its ground in a winning manner of living successfully, by
which I mean sanely, with oneself.
The Ramadan on this side, the last ten days, was okay as
well. Iftari and sehri at home, more savoring; friends from 10pm onwards, yet
the hours prior being troublesome; the ludo that kept things interesting; the
cricket matches, the drama of semi and bitter loss of final; the admiring of my
room and the appreciation of the sun beans that entered through the window; the
failing of even attempting the reading of Quran’s English translation (still
lying there on the study table); and the for granted okay-ness and normalcy at home,
everyone being fine, no shouting or tension. Something that frightened me was my
inability to fall asleep at chand raat and again the next time; I was worried
my early rising quota had reached its end. But, no. I did rise at 6am, which is
way later than 6am of winters, and had a morning walk, just like before times. It
felt reassuring – and that’s what I need more of, reassurance!
It's 11.45am, April 5, Saturday. The sixth day of Eid, still
celebrated by those who found the Eid itself too busy. My Eid flew by. I don’t
regret it since it was spent nicely, but I once again felt the absence of friends
not visiting friends’ homes. I owe Tanvir, since he was the only one who tried
and I let him down. Relatives visited us, we visited them; dry fruits, cakes,
and tea were amply consumed in the process. While Eid does feel a proper reward
after the month of Ramadan, the at once resumed eating during the day with provocative
and recurrent meals of Eid day gives the stomach more than it can handle. The
stomach isn’t conscious, so it wouldn’t know what’s going outside, all it’d
know is how weirdly we’ve been providing it lately. Yet a proper reward, also a
fulfilling one, for those who strictly observe it. Ah, I miss those few Ramadan’s
when I observed it with innocent and earnest seriousness. Yet there’s only one
thing I managed well back then and I can’t right now, bating, that ruins the
whole rewashing of this month for me, every year. What happened to us counting
of our intended resistance? Now it happens on the smallest cues. Telegram and
the night before chand raat was a show of its full strength. We survive on one
hand, and lose every time on the other. Intent: that alone can rescue you.
Since I’ve written about it once already, why not again.
Aiman was here with her family yesterday, for what seemed a most extending and
exhausting stay, stretching up till 1am. I got to see her for the second time in
a week, blessed be Eid. And these two close encounters combined with a long
delay and distance – disillusioned me. And not in a triumphant and intellectual
way, but in my heart, with pain and sadness. She is indeed a child, indeed self-observing
due to being ‘laadli’ and lauded, indeed unaware of her surroundings, indeed
provoking only to be poked back, which we mistook for the ‘returning of our
gaze’. She likes being looked at, and to meet someone’s eyes while still on
her, but only and only to feel reassured of her beauty, of being noticed for
her expressions and self-directing attitude – and it is cute, I love her for
that. But I was disillusioned by realizing
my own mistake, my mistake of mistaking her self-appreciating gestures for ‘something
from her side’, a desire returned, a foundation hinted at. It was all
unfounded. An end of fascination as tommy put it. We must move on, as cats do.
I was proper sad last night. And I feared it leaking to my
overall demeanor. That now here, this sadness would spread over my perspective
like a cancer, and bit by bit, eat my good bits, in the process for the preparation
of the arrival of another depressive episode. But why am I so afraid of getting
depressed again? Is it another failure I am dreading? A no success at ACCA, not
in papers, but in job and my failure to adopt with the work environment? Or what
the postponement of careering and me losing it and falling on the ground again,
mourning my failures and making way for more? Maybe I fear people giving up on
me. People becoming impatient with me as I’ve become impatient with myself. The
lackluster applications for jobs and bearing out of its muteness in the uncertainty
of following days only reinforces my chronic doomed-ness at ever finding a proper
good, or the eventual careering therefrom. Oh, how I would ravel and bask in
the certainty of having arrived at a career path, and being so content and assured
at finding myself there, amidst of it, something that right now feels so bitterly
elusive. Have more faith, tommy says, be patient by being busy. Let’s not talk
about marriage or girls. I feel lonely but I can also disperse it just as easily.
I have not lost it, although I do constantly fear losing it.
Maybe when I have survived the summer: passing all exams, having had or having
still a job, or being reasonably unemployed, and still being content with
myself and life and at peace with the contents of life, and having my eyes
still set at horizon while being actively appreciative of what lies at my feet
and the air I feel against my face and the chirping of the birds I can hear;
and when the friends are still around and that I can start a vulnerable or
pleasant conversation, both with a sigh, after some quiet, and when the family
is still okay, functioning normally, without any persistent tension, and when I
am still reading, and watching, and listening, and of course walking – maybe
then I would know that I am not losing ‘it’ again. Maybe then I would find true
and permeating peace.