Tag Archives: family

I didn’t lose my Mother. I lost my child

Posted in Essays by

‘Who are you?’ She whispered from behind the thick fog of dementia.

Her simple question felt like a blow. I am 52 years old, but those three words shattered my sense of emotional security.

She was sitting on the bed, her back supported by pillows. I was sitting on the carpet, moisturizing her calves and feet. It was our daily routine.

‘What do you mean, Mama?’ I asked, desperately wishing I had misheard her words.

‘Who are you?’ She repeated her question, oblivious to my intense discomfort.

‘Mama, don’t you recognize me?’ I asked in a desperate plea, underscoring my query.

She was looking down at my face with empty yet curious eyes. I stared back, trying to jog her memory with all the love I could muster.

‘I do love your face. I know you are someone very dear to me.’ She spoke carefully, choosing each word with care. ‘But I do not recognize you.’

I felt as if she were somehow aware of my emotional discomfort and wanted to lessen the cruelty of her questions.

‘Who do you think I am, Mama?’ I asked, my fingers delicately kneading her wasted muscles.

‘You are either my father or my brother or perhaps….my son.’ She answered slowly, and a few lines of anxiety furrowed her forehead.

‘Who would you like me to be?’ I asked her back after a while.

During the last two years of her life, I had developed the habit of always offering her a choice instead of making decisions on her behalf or announcing them to her face. She was starting to lose her abilities of rational thinking, but I didn’t like to see her growing helpless. I wanted her to always choose instead of being dictated, till the last day of her life. I wanted her to die like the Queen she really was.

‘I think…’ She lost the words while thinking.

‘Yes?’ I coaxed her on. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think, you being my father, would be nice.’

‘That settles it.’ I smiled at her with love and understanding. ‘From today onwards, I will be your father.’

She looked back into my eyes, and there was the shadow of a smile — a smile being born out of gratefulness, perhaps.

From that day onwards, my mother became my baby. Although thankfully, she always chose to address me by my name. That was a blessing. It would have felt absurd otherwise.

There lies the answer to my dilemma. She was my mother, old, sick and frail. She was supposed to die one day, like all the other mothers. Her passage was an eventuality I had always foreseen and was aware of. But what I didn’t ever realize and what I could never foresee was the intensity of my own grief. Her death has devastated me.

I have always been comfortable with the concept of death. I view it as the only sure fact in life. Our birth is a product of many factors and preconditions, but our death is always sure. I have been exposed to the naked and cold brutality of death, more than probably all of you combined. Being an active participant in many wars, I have killed, I have faced death myself, I have prepared countless bodies for burial, and I have buried several friends and even a few enemies. But burying my own mother was an act which completely drained me, both emotionally and physically.

I didn’t allow anyone else, even my own beloved brother, to handle her body. I shifted her from the ambulance stretcher to the bier myself. I carried her to be washed, and I carried her back. And finally, I held her in my arms and placed her gently inside the grave. I looked around at the cold and merciless concrete walls, and I felt the bony contours of her shrunken face with my fingers. I squatted and remained in that position. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t leave her alone. Not because she was my mother. But because she was my baby.

Unfortunately, we two had never been emotionally close. There were many factors responsible, and the most significant of them all was my own stupidity. I never saw her as a human being. Instead, I saw her as an indomitable goddess of sorts, who could brave any storm and who did not need the expression of my love. But I loved her, and she loved me.

Our relationship was a strange one. Being the elder son of a single mother, I bore the brunt of her emotional frustrations and depression. Life during childhood was a series of days filled with beatings and emotional outbursts. She was always loud and a firm believer in corporal punishment. I was strong and enjoyed a high level of pain tolerance, and I was a firm believer in remaining respectfully quiet in front of her anger-filled tornadoes. Interestingly, I understand that I deserved all those beatings. In fact, I deserved to be hanged for some of my escapades. But thankfully, she was a loving mother, and she could never think of harming her son.

Our relationship was strange, not because of emotional turbulence or anger outbursts or my calm submission. Our relationship was strange because whenever she was in pain, she always chose to have me by her side. It was an honour, and I will always wear this medal with pride.

It all started in 1989, when she developed severe arthritis. The disease first brought pain — intense pain that made my strong mother cry loudly. There were days when even a single step became extreme agony for her. But the nights were even more torturous. She tossed and turned, but no angle or posture could provide her any relief. And when the pain became unbearable, she used to call or wake me up. I always responded. It was not a matter of choice. I felt as if I was destined and programmed to respond to her call for help.

I still remember that I had my secondary school exam the next day, and my habit was to keep on studying all through the last night. That night, I was following that routine when my mother called me from the bedroom. When it became clear that her pain necessitated my constant presence and massage, I took the book along. I placed it open on her legs and kept on studying and massaging her simultaneously.

It was by no means a sacrifice or great service on my part. As I have said earlier, I felt as if I was ordained to serve her when she was sick. In fact, her sickness, however evil it may have been, served an important purpose — it bonded us close. It bonded us and sometimes provided opportunities for humour.

It was a few years ago when she was admitted to a hospital in Islamabad and was suffering from the consequences of an undetected clot following a major surgery. Her condition was deteriorating fast, and I was alone with her in the room. The doctor visited and informed me that it was probably her last night. I thought of calling my brother, but then could not. He was suffering from a severe backache due to his constant stay in the hospital and was finally resting at home on my insistence.

‘I am afraid.’ My mother announced dejectedly.

‘What are you afraid of, Mama?’ I got up from the chair, walked to her side and held her hand.

‘I am afraid of dying.’ She opened up her eyes and looked at me. She had probably either overheard the doctor or had guessed it from my pale face. I was her son, and she could read my face anytime with great ease.

I removed my shoes and joined her on the bed. I cradled her head on my arm and hugged her close.

‘There is nothing to be afraid of. Death only brings peace.’ I am not a fan of ritual religion and was unable to deliver a sermon to fulfil the dictates of her faith.

‘I am afraid because I don’t know what will happen and where I will go when I die.’ She said with her eyes closed.

‘That can be a troubling thought indeed.’ I caressed her cheek and straightened her hair. ‘But fortunately, you have your son with you, who can tell you exactly what will happen.’

‘What do you think will happen?’ When she was sick, my mother chose to believe my every word.

‘I do not think, Mama. I simply know.’ I didn’t feel even an iota of guilt for lying to her. She needed comfort and morality, and ethics could go to hell.

‘The moment you close your eyes in this life, you will reopen your eyes in another life as a baby. Life will simply restart.’ I said slowly and deliberately, while looking up and beseeching God to have mercy on my lying soul.

‘No!’ She trembled with anxiety in my arms. ‘I do not want another life filled with pain.’

‘Ah! But the next life won’t be filled with pain at all. Instead, it will be filled with laughter and peace and countless joys.’ I spontaneously mustered up an explanation. “God is merciful, and he counterbalances the pain in one life with joys in the next.’

‘Are you sure?’ She asked, slowly drifting into sleep.

‘Oh, very much. That is why I am not troubled at the thought of your departure. If I didn’t think so, I would’ve been crying. Don’t you think so?’

There was no answer. My mother was sleeping peacefully.

She made it that day. She was shifted to another hospital. Her clot was detected and dissolved, and she became well again. But she always shunted me properly thereafter, for interfering with her faith when she was vulnerable. I used to laugh it off. I was proud of myself for helping her fight her fear.

But thankfully, I was much older and wiser and more respectful of her faith when her time really came around. I felt her death approaching fast when her body started jerking, and I immediately started reciting Quranic verses in her ears. I also played her favourite Quranic verse on YouTube. I chose to set aside my own beliefs for the sake of her belief. I am proud of myself for acting in accordance with her beliefs.

I visit her grave almost every day and, before gossiping with her, make sure to offer the customary ritual prayers. This is not a matter of my respect for my mother. This is a matter of my love for my mother.

I admit that I had never been a good son to her. I never disobeyed her clear commands. I never even once raised my voice in front of her. But I harboured many reservations in my heart. However, all our issues and conflicts and points of contention vanished when my mother became my baby. From that point onwards, I thought of her and treated her like my child.

She loved flowers and greenery, and she loved sitting under the winter sun. She loved music. She loved her two sons, and she loved massages and pampering. During her last months, we focused on these factors only.

We took long walks in the colony park in the evenings. She was speaking less and less with each passing day, but I constantly tried to engage her in conversations. I drew her attention to the trees, gently swaying in the breeze. I invited her to enjoy the beautiful colours of the spring flowers. I made sure that she smiled at the children playing their own silly games, and I made sure that she breathed in the fresh air and soaked in the winter sun as much as possible.

We even took a drive when possible, and I took her along to visit her ancestral home. It is not there anymore — replaced with ugly and congested houses. But she found the streets familiar and even recognized the small house she had built herself. And we enjoyed great music on the way. I had compiled a playlist of her favourite songs and held her bony hand while I drove.

I checked the texture of her skin every day and moisturized her when needed. I dressed her bedsores and focused on pampering her and providing her comfort in every way possible.

For the last almost two years, my complete day revolved around my mother. Sometimes, I visited her only for a few minutes, while on most days, I spent the day at her place. But each of my activities was planned around her, and was planned with her in mind. So when she left, I lost the anchor of my life.

For a few days after her death, I was bewildered. My days were aimless. But now, when I visit her grave almost every day, I behave as if she is still alive. I ask if she is feeling well. I inquire if she needs moisturizing or a massage. I share gossip with her. Somehow, this practice has stabilized me to some extent.

My mother finally left us on the 26th day of February this year. I still feel as if I am dreaming a bad dream. I wish I were dreaming. I wish when I wake up, I find my mother awaiting my daily visit. I wish when I wake up, I am able to smell her sweet smell and the comforting warmth of her lap. And I wish, when I wake up, I find an opportunity to apologize to her for all the hurt I have ever caused her. I so wish I were dreaming.

I am not mad or crazy. In my heart, I know she is gone and is silent forever. I never wanted it to be so, but it is so. But I am sure, somewhere beyond the material confines of this world and maybe in another dimension, she is sitting on a rocking chair and reading a book in a small garden. The garden is filled with colourful flowers and hovering butterflies. There is the warmth of an eternal winter sun, and her favourite music is constantly playing by her side.

I wish I were able to join her comforting and loving company soon. I wish we were together once again.

I love you, and I miss you, Mama. Without you, my life will never be the same again.

Past, Present & Future — The Sacred Triangle

Posted in Short Stories English by

‘Past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’

A lyrical philosophical tale spanning ancient Damascus to the desert mountains of Balkh, exploring humanity’s relationship with time through the teachings of a defrocked priest and the mystical wisdom of Maga, an enigmatic desert woman. The story weaves together the concept of the “sacred triangle” - where survival, love, and desire intersect within the singular reality of the present moment.

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‘Jawdat, please listen to me, son.’ My old father requested me, while we sat on the dunes, watching the long worms of caravans, leaving and entering Damascus.

‘Jawdat, my darling son, everything in this universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds - they all speak. But to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’ My father said in his usual poetic manner.

He was a strange man - my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad, and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his unceremonious ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together, and took long walks in the golden deserts surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.

It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look past the obvious. He had seen the true light, and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.

‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.

‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.

‘Does the light speak too?’ I asked thoughtfully.

‘Yes, it does, and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head, and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.

‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing. Even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’

‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’

‘But what do they say? What do they tell us - the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.

‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff. ‘The first corner of this triangle is survival, the second corner is love, and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements - a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival, a crowned heart for love, and a snake for desire.

‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him as to me, the soul encompassed all.

‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within. ‘The scared triangle with all its three elements, exists within a real moment of time.’

‘All moments of time are real, Father.’ I laughed.

‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly. ‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a vague possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the sacred triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’

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I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist, and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in, but it all drained out.

I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.

‘Tell me, O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.

‘What is the most significant of the past, the present, and the future?’

‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The reds and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads. ‘What do you think, child? What do you believe is the most significant of these three?’

I looked up at her. She was silent, but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.

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The old woman was strange. Maga - that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.

I found her in the desert. Rather, it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst, while each night burnt me with her cold, freezing fingers.

Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh, and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was moistening my lips.

Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision - an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.

We were inseparable thereafter, though Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except that sometimes she chewed on some dried roots and mushrooms.

Maga was my scared triangle - in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire, when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.

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‘So what do you think, child? Maga asked, breaking my reverie.

‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.

‘What is the most significant of these three, the past, the present, or the future?’

I thought hard before presenting an answer. ‘My past has made me what I am, and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.

‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered back into them, and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me. ‘Past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real - as real as it can be.’

‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.

‘That is possible too, of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am.’ I confessed.

‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands, and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows. ‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, the present, and then the past, in turn. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’ She finished her brief lecture and smiled at me.

‘Maga?’ I asked her, ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’

‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child.’

I sat down on the cold sand, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us, and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon, it became just a yellow shadow in the West.

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‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear, and I opened my eyes.

The night had enveloped us completely, and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down, and the lonely stars were sparkling silently - witnessing our present.

I looked at her, and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears.

Shadows were hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming human forms. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.

I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.

‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.

I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled underneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:

‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties,

caress my eyes, that have dreamt a million dreams

Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties,

and run in my veins, that once pulsated with extremes

But no more, my friend, no more, no more,

I breathe no more, I am dead for sure

I am a lonesome traveller, walking a dark path,

my fate is unsure, my end is all vague

There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath,

my heart silently suffers - loneliness is the deadliest plague

I was a man once, but now I am just a bundle of flesh,

the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink

I wish I could start my whole life afresh,

I wish I had more time to ponder and to think

Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief,

but her tears are drying up really very fast

Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief,

I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past

Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons,

they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope

Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only stuns,

for their future is bright, as they will slowly climb the rope

Listen, my friend, and listen carefully,

my time has come, and yours will come soon

Listen, my friend, and listen attentively,

I am now dead, and you too will die soon

Life is a dew drop, vanishing once kissed by the sun,

dust on a moth’s wings, only ash once kissed by a flame

So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun,

for in the end, there’ll be nothing left but regrets and shame’

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‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what have you understood?’ ‘That past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’

The Father, the Dragon, and the Little Man

Posted in Short Stories English by

Introduction

A touching slice-of-life narrative capturing the playful power dynamics between a father and his two children during their daily school routine. Through a series of humorous “rounds” - from hair-tying battles to music preferences and shaving debates - this warm family story explores the tender push-and-pull of parent-child relationships. The tale beautifully illustrates how love manifests in everyday moments, revealing that in the gentle war between parents and children, everyone ultimately wins through understanding and affection. A relatable portrayal of modern parenting that celebrates the small victories and defeats that define family life, ending with the profound realization that parental love transcends all daily conflicts.

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ROUND - 1: Monday, 7:30 AM

‘Please tie your hair.’ I politely request my teenage daughter, while unlocking the car.

‘Why?’ She asks defiantly.

‘Because your hair looks shabby.’ I comment, trying my best not to get angry.

‘Baba is right, you know?’ My son tries to interfere, but one look from his elder sister is enough to silence his efforts.

‘I will tie my hair later!’ She informs me nonchalantly.

‘You will tie your hair now!’ I muster up the strict disciplinarian hiding somewhere deep inside me and pass the order.

She stares at me, and I return the favor. The war of stares begins. We keep on staring at each other. I win. The Dragon ties her hair, while the Little Man smiles with satisfaction.

The Father has won the first round. I am quite proud of myself.

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ROUND - 2: Monday, 7:35 AM

‘Baba?’ The Dragon sitting beside me growls.

‘Yeah, my love?’ I sense lightning crackling in the belly of invisible storm clouds.

‘Why haven’t you shaved?’ There is no fire yet, but the Dragon is all ready.

I look at her from the corner of my left eye. She has one eyebrow cocked. It is a sign of danger. It is almost always a sign of danger, but this time I choose to ignore it. Fatal mistake!

‘I want to grow a van dyke.’ I declare and caress an imaginary growth on my chin. ‘I think it will suit my persona.’

‘I concur.’ The Little Man announces from the backseat.

‘Please shave today. A bear won’t suit you.’ Her voice carries a deadly finality.

‘I am an independent person. I believe a van dyke would suit me. I am keeping one.’ I desperately fight for my independence and dignity.

‘You are also my father. I have an image to take care of. I don’t want you to look like a mullah. You will shave it today.’ The Dragon is beginning to sound more and more like her mother.

‘I will certainly not. I will keep a van dyke. I will also get one ear pierced and wear a gold ring like a pirate.’ I announce.

I hear snickering. I look in the rearview mirror. The Little Man is trying to hide his mouth with his hand. He knows what is happening, and he knows what’ll be the outcome. He is wise beyond his years.

‘I want to see you shaved once you come to pick us up in the afternoon.’ The Dragon finally breathes fire.

‘Okay.’ I admit defeat meekly. I am afraid of the fire.

The Father has lost the second round.

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ROUND - 3: Monday, 7:45 AM

We are on the way to school, and the Dragon is watching me closely. I can feel the heat scalding my left cheek. I ignore it and keep on nodding my head.

‘Please change the song and stop playing an imaginary electric guitar on the steering.’ She requests with cold politeness.

‘I need my morning dose of Pink Floyd.’ I keep on strumming the guitar.

‘I love Pink Floyd too.’ The Little Man announces.

‘I need my morning dose of Justin Bieber.’ She changes the song and then turns and addresses her brother, ‘You are too young to love Pink Floyd.’

I hate Justin Bieber, but I am helpless. I roll down the window as a protest.

‘What are you doing? It’s cold. Roll it back up, please.’ She requests again.

‘I need to throw up. I am allergic to Bieber.’ I announce victoriously.

The Dragon keeps on staring at my foolish and exaggerated gestures of gagging and throwing up, while the Little Man offers no support. After a while, I realize the futility of my actions. I smile sheepishly and roll the window back up.

The Father has lost the third round, too. I admit my defeat graciously.

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We have reached their school. I kiss their heads, and they both get down and disappear into the school gate.

I turn the car and take a deep breath. The car is filled with their young, vibrant smells. It is the smell of menthol from their toothpastes. It is the smell of lemon from their bath sponges. And it is the smell of their school books and stationery.

I inhale their marvelous smells and cherish them. I am already starting to miss their absence.

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The day is over soon. It is time to pick up the Dragon and the Little Man from school.

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‘Hello!’ I greet them both with a smile.

‘Hello baba!’ The Dragon is cheerful, and it makes me happy.

‘Hey!’ My son waves at me casually, trying to act all adult. It makes me happy, too.

The car is flooded with their smells again. I inhale their smells and cherish them. These are the smells of their childhood, and I want to save them somewhere.

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ROUND - 4: Monday, 2:30 PM

‘By the way, you are late again!’ The Dragon launches an accusation. She is right. I am late.

‘Yeah, I know. Please accept my heartiest apologies. I got busy.’ I know when I am wrong.

‘No, you forgot because you are growing old.’ She smiles at me lovingly and then examines my head. ‘You have got some white hair. Why don’t you dye your hair?’

‘I don’t think you are old.’ The Little Man tries to support me. I look back and acknowledge his bravery with a smile.

‘I don’t want to dye them. White hair has a certain character……….’ I prepare myself for a mildly philosophical lecture, but she has already lost interest. I swallow the lecture.

The Father has lost this round.

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ROUND - 5: Monday, 2:35 PM

‘Baba?’ The Little Man from the rear seat suddenly pokes his bushy head in between the two front seats.

‘Yes, sir!’ I run my fingers through his coarse hair.

‘I scored ten marks in the science quiz today.’ He declares proudly.

‘Ten out of what?’ I inquire.

‘Ten out of ten.’ He chews his words deliberately.

‘Why not eleven?’ I am curious.

‘Because you cannot get eleven out of ten.’ He sure has a point there.

‘You can if you have perfect handwriting. The teacher can always give you one extra mark.’ I insist.

He gives me an exasperated look. He is getting bored with my dry humor. He tries to pull back his head, but I grab hold of it.

‘I am proud of you, buddy.’ I kiss his head.

‘I am not proud of you at all.’ The Dragon says cruelly. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘It is a big deal.’ I look at her sternly. ‘I believe it is a big deal and I believe we should all be proud of him.’

The Dragon doesn’t respond. The Father has won this round.

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ROUND - 6: Monday, 2:45 PM

‘I am changing the song. You know it very well that I don’t like these teenage singers.’ I inform the Dragon in advance and change the song.

There is an audible and desperate grunt from the back.

‘What?’ I peer into the rearview mirror and look at the Little Man.

‘It is Selena Gomez.’ He informs me.

‘Who is she? Perhaps, a relative of ours?’ I inquire sarcastically.

‘He has a crush on her.’ The Dragon points at her brother and adds to my knowledge.

I do not speak for a while. Then I change the song back to Ms. Gomez.

‘Why? I thought you didn’t like teenage singers.’ The Dragon is surprised.

‘My son has good taste.’ I don’t look back. I know the Little Man is blushing, and I do not want to add to his discomfort.

The Little Man has won this round.

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We reach home. The day passes quickly. They have their lunch and go for a nap. Their tutor comes, and a marathon starts.

It’s nighttime. They have their dinner and go for some more study. They have my sympathies.

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ROUND - 7: Tuesday, 12:00 AM

I softly open their bedroom door and peek inside. They are both asleep - the fiery Dragon and the proud Little Man. I tiptoe to their side.

The Little Man is dreaming a bad dream. He is grimacing, and his hands are shaking. I bend down and kiss his cheek. I correct his blanket. He senses my presence even from across the threshold of sleep. The bad dream recedes. His face relaxes and grows peaceful.

I look at the Dragon and her flaring nostrils. Her beautiful, luscious hair covers her face. I run my fingers through her hair and rearrange them. She murmurs something. I bend down and kiss her brow. Her lips move, and a small smile appears on her sleeping face. She, too, is somehow aware of my presence.

We have all won this round.

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In fact, when I look back, I have won all the rounds today. I won all the rounds every day. I won when they submit to my will, and I also won when I submit to theirs. They don’t realize this. But they will when they have children of their own. They will learn that there is never a war between parents and children. There is always love.

The Collector of Dead Butterflies

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‘Baba!’ My ten-year-old son pulled my hand, ‘Was it very difficult?’

‘Was what very difficult, my love?’ I asked, while smiling into his curious dark eyes.

‘Was it very difficult becoming your own father?’ He chose his words carefully.

Instead of answering his question, I looked afar. I looked towards the place where time and space ceased to have a meaning - the place where all was obscured under a slowly falling, golden dust. This is from where a few memories smiled back at me, while the others were wrapped in the grey shrouds of sadness. It was a magical place - a place where dead butterflies rested forever in the glass jar of nostalgia, but their colors remained immortal. I have always had this glass jar, tucked away safely within the folds of my heart. It is my most valuable asset and also a friend who keeps me company.

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Past, Present & Future – The Sacred Triangle

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‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what have you understood?’

‘That past was a dream, the future is a fantasy, and the present is all that ever matters.’

Read more: Past, Present & Future – The Sacred Triangle

‘Jawdat! Please listen to me, son.’ My old father used to request me, while we sat on the sand dunes, watching the long lines of caravans leaving and entering Damascus.

‘Jawdat my darling son! Everything in the universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds – they all speak. But in order to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’

He was a strange man – my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together and taking long walks in the golden desert surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.

It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look beyond the horizon. He had seen the true light and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.

‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.

‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.

‘Does the light speak too?’

‘Yes it does and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.

‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing – even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’

‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly.

‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still, it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’

‘But what do they say? What do they tell us – the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.   

‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff.

‘One corner of this triangle is survival; the second corner is love; and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements – a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival; a crowned heart for love; and a snake for desire.

‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him. To me, the soul encompassed all.

‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within.

‘The scared triangle with its elements of survival, love, and desire, exists within a real moment of time.’

‘All moments of time are real Father.’ I laughed.

‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly.

‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the scared triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’

I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in but it all drained out.   

I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.

‘Tell me O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.

‘What is the most significant of these three: the past, the present or the future?’

‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The red and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads.

‘What do you think child? What do you believe, is the most significant of these three?’

I looked up at her. She was silent but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.

She was strange – the old woman. Maga – that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.

I found her in the desert. Rather it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst; while each night burnt me with her cold freezing fingers.

Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was wetting my lips.

Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision – an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.

We were inseparable thereafter. Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except sometimes I saw her chewing on some dried roots and mushrooms.

Maga was my scared triangle – in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.  

‘So what do you think child? Maga asked breaking my reverie.

‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.

‘What is the most significant of these three: the past, the present or the future?’

I thought hard before presenting an answer.

‘My past has made me what I am and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.

‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered into them and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me.

The past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real – as real as it can be.’

‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.

‘That is possible too of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’

‘Yes! I am.’

‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows.

‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities, is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, present, and then past. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’

‘Maga?’ I asked her. ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’

‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child!’

‘Hmm!’ I sat down on the cold sand and she rested her head on my shoulder.

I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon it became just a yellow shadow in the West.

‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear and I opened my eyes.

The dark night had enveloped us completely and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down and the lonely stars were sparkling silently – witnessing our present.

I looked at her and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears. 

There were shadows hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming a human form. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.

I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.

‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.

I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled beneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:

‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties;

and caress my eyes, which have dreamt a million dreams

Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties;

and trace my veins, which once pulsated with extremes

But no more, my friend; no more.

Now I am a lonesome traveler, walking a dark path;

my fate is unsure, my end is all vague

There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath;

my heart silently suffers – loneliness the deadliest plague

I was a man once, but now am just a bundle of flesh;

the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink

I wish I could start my whole life afresh;

I wish I had more time, to ponder and think

Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief;

but her tears are drying up really fast

Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief;

I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past

Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons;

they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope

Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only momentarily stuns;

for their future is bright as they will slowly climb the rope

Listen my friend…….and listen very carefully;

my time has come and yours will come soon

Listen my friend…….and listen very carefully;

I am now dead and you too will die soon

Life is the dew drops, evaporating fast once kissed by the sun;

dust on the wings of a moth, turning to ash once kissed by the flame

So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun;

for, in the end, you will be forever alone with your own regrets and shame’

‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what have you understood?’

‘That past was a dream, the future is a fantasy and the present is all that ever matters.’

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