A one year old me was requested to accompany him to his house where his sisters would wait for my arrival so they could play with me. They would comb my hair, dress me up, entertain me with goodies, even change my diapers if the need be. A three year old me would skip my way to the little tuck shop at the end of the street to get Chocco Chum. Some day I would lie down on the big mountain of sand outside some house and stare at the blue sky. A four year old me chased him with my gang, terrorizing, covering ground as fast as we could, and ending up being rescued by him after we got stuck in an unwilling situation.
"We live in the past," I remember Doctor Imtiaz say to us this one day.
I brought a foot out of the limits of my car to stomp on the wet night soil of the land that has claimed its maternity over me. It hummed my favorite lullaby. It was cold. Wrapping an edge of my shawl around the bottom half of my face I walked through the old post-partitioned lanes that breathed silently under a dark hood. The sullen, deserted street with houses that closely arranged themselves almost overlapping and forming an irregular but obvious distinction with the thick sky stood meticulously scanning me. I remembered them and I could tell they knew who I was, as well.
"Tum log sab nostalgia mein phansay ho," Aunt said to my father, Chacha Ahmed and me, last night.
"Ammi ne naam rakha tha Majid ka!" My father continued with the nostalgia.
"Daadi jaan Baoon Pesh kiya hota hai?" I questioned my grand mother repeating the word Baoon Pesh.
"Aray woh aaen baaen bohat karta tha," she answered.
Dad and Chacha Ahmed slammed their palms together in a loud thud, laughing and harassing their brother who wasn't present. I had to laugh.
"Aur aaoon baaoon kar kay pesh pesh bhi rehta hoga phir," Chacha Ahmed assumed.
"Nahi, pesh pesh to Shahid rehta tha."
"Doctor Majid Ali Syed Baoon Pesh likh kar laga detay hain un kay clinic kay bahar," I proposed.
The night towered into a fountain of laughter. We had food and sat in the living room when the vagary of discussing something other than the past had befallen upon us.
"Haan bhai, kis temperature per Celsius aur Fahrenheit baraber hotay hain?" My dad sat with my uncle discussing something, tilted his head upward and questioned Aunt who had just walked into the room.
"Aey bhai parhi likhi batein na karo abhi," Aunt uttered in a sixty year old tone and sat with her back to the two Philosophers.
"Haan bhai, parhi likhi batein matt karo." Chacha Ahmed seconded and dramatically shifted his position to one that emulated Aunt's, and I do as Chacha Ahmed do. We laughed slamming our hands, clapping here and there. We had dissected the party with only our united-backs that had been purposely turned against the Philosophers.
"Oye larhki, ek inch mein kitnay soot hotay hain?" Dad questioned my back turned against him. He decided to educate us any way.
"Soot?" I had never heard the term before.
"Is ka jawab dega ek jahil aadmi!" Chacha Ahmed announced being manipulated by the Philosophers and turning his back on us. We had lost the strongest member from our forward block.
"Scale pesh kiya ja-ay, bachi ko soot nahi maloom," Dad commanded and I was explained every detail from soot to a cubic meter.
"Yaar bajjo, har waqt pakwa deti hain aap!" Ali complained punching me in the arm as he whined while Dad and all the elders explained things we weren't really interested in and the actual divisions of the party remained as one being those that are from that generation and the second being us.
"We live in the past," I remember Doctor Imtiaz say to us this one day.
I brought a foot out of the limits of my car to stomp on the wet night soil of the land that has claimed its maternity over me. It hummed my favorite lullaby. It was cold. Wrapping an edge of my shawl around the bottom half of my face I walked through the old post-partitioned lanes that breathed silently under a dark hood. The sullen, deserted street with houses that closely arranged themselves almost overlapping and forming an irregular but obvious distinction with the thick sky stood meticulously scanning me. I remembered them and I could tell they knew who I was, as well.
"Tum log sab nostalgia mein phansay ho," Aunt said to my father, Chacha Ahmed and me, last night.
"Ammi ne naam rakha tha Majid ka!" My father continued with the nostalgia.
"Daadi jaan Baoon Pesh kiya hota hai?" I questioned my grand mother repeating the word Baoon Pesh.
"Aray woh aaen baaen bohat karta tha," she answered.
Dad and Chacha Ahmed slammed their palms together in a loud thud, laughing and harassing their brother who wasn't present. I had to laugh.
"Aur aaoon baaoon kar kay pesh pesh bhi rehta hoga phir," Chacha Ahmed assumed.
"Nahi, pesh pesh to Shahid rehta tha."
"Doctor Majid Ali Syed Baoon Pesh likh kar laga detay hain un kay clinic kay bahar," I proposed.
The night towered into a fountain of laughter. We had food and sat in the living room when the vagary of discussing something other than the past had befallen upon us.
"Haan bhai, kis temperature per Celsius aur Fahrenheit baraber hotay hain?" My dad sat with my uncle discussing something, tilted his head upward and questioned Aunt who had just walked into the room.
"Aey bhai parhi likhi batein na karo abhi," Aunt uttered in a sixty year old tone and sat with her back to the two Philosophers.
"Haan bhai, parhi likhi batein matt karo." Chacha Ahmed seconded and dramatically shifted his position to one that emulated Aunt's, and I do as Chacha Ahmed do. We laughed slamming our hands, clapping here and there. We had dissected the party with only our united-backs that had been purposely turned against the Philosophers.
"Oye larhki, ek inch mein kitnay soot hotay hain?" Dad questioned my back turned against him. He decided to educate us any way.
"Soot?" I had never heard the term before.
"Is ka jawab dega ek jahil aadmi!" Chacha Ahmed announced being manipulated by the Philosophers and turning his back on us. We had lost the strongest member from our forward block.
"Scale pesh kiya ja-ay, bachi ko soot nahi maloom," Dad commanded and I was explained every detail from soot to a cubic meter.
"Yaar bajjo, har waqt pakwa deti hain aap!" Ali complained punching me in the arm as he whined while Dad and all the elders explained things we weren't really interested in and the actual divisions of the party remained as one being those that are from that generation and the second being us.
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