Adult Visions : As a kid, you must have imagined what it was like to be an adult. Now that you’re a grownup (or becoming one), how far off was your idea of adult life?
Life is a lot of things when you are a child.
Happiness is an ice cream cone.
Pain is a bruised knee.
Sadness is when a friend ignores you in school.
Fear is the dark of the night.
Hope is just a fancy word.
Adventure is rescuing a lost puppy.
Love is a mother’s cuddle, a father’s hug.
Loss is a misplaced toy.
Life is also a lot of things when you are an adult.
Happiness is an endless search. Even though you now own an ice-cream shop.
Pain is a bruised heart.
Sadness is when you can’t remember the last time you spoke to a friend
Fear is the dark of your mind.
Hope is everything.
Adventure is watching a rescue mission on television.
Love is family. And money.
Loss is a misplaced soul.
True stories are the best. All the academy awards in the world cannot do justice to real life depictions. This is just one of those hazy reviews of a life greatly lived, topped of course with some necessary touches of fantasy and fiction, for you; the readers.
A 10 year old girl with the world’s hope and dreams trapped in little soulful eyes, hurried home from school so that she could get back to her homework. The dilapidated mohalla where she lived with her parents and siblings reeked of poverty yet the smell of love overpowered it all. Tiny pathways connected all homes, like a stringent network of capillaries. Voices skipped from one room to the other in such closely placed houses. Laughter and cries; gibberish and screams.
She loved how words connected on paper. She adored school. All those books about fairies, Jinns, Castles transported her to places she could never even dream of. These dreams were as short-lived as a person’s childhood. She was taken out because it was time to migrate to another land. People in her country had been clawing at each others throats for a long time. Muslims vs. Hindus; British vs. Muslims; Hindus vs. British. Same people – Different combinations. Now it was time for a new land.
Everything was a hodgepodge. Kind of like the spicy curry ingredients her mother cooked in her huge steel pot. How could you just get up and leave your country just because everyone was doing it? For safety reasons, she heard from relatives. You will be a free Muslim there, she was told by her parents. She was confused. She prayed five times a day and no one ever stopped her. How freer could she be? She just held on tightly to her small dupatta and gathered her few belongings, her heart fluttering as she thought about the long train ride ahead.
After a restless and dangerous ride of many hours, she was told they had arrived. Many people had not made it alive. Trains had been ransacked and people brutally murdered like useless insects. But they arrive in one physical piece, but with hearts divided in two. Pakistan was her new home now. She looked outside of her window, waiting to see some magical land of flying horses, fairies dressed in gold, angels giving away sugary flat bread. Nothing. It was all the same. Barren land, disheveled people dragging their belongings, with frightful, bloodshot eyes. Some even had blood on their clothes and faces.
She accompanied her family to some distant relative’s place,which was equally depressing. Her enthusiasm died a slow torturous death, like the goat that was sacrificed last year on Eid. She did not like what she saw as she peered outside the buggy, on her way to her new temporary house. It was far worse than her little cupboard containing a few broken dolls she had left behind in a waterfall of tears. The entire city was like an abandoned circus; as if someone had left in a terrible hurry. It was all there but nothing looked right.
They acquired a small place of their own, in a cramped neighborhood. The people were friendly, especially to a 10 year old. As she grew up, they were not so friendly any more. She turned 15 and all the friendly smiles turned to obnoxious stares. It was time for her to get married, which to her meant only one thing; no more school. Her academic life was over for good this time. She was wedded to an unknown man whose face she saw the day of their wedding.
At a young age she had realized the power of being thankful, no matter what. Her gratitude stood resolute in front of all the setbacks that followed. A huge family of typical overpowering in-laws, a suffocating house, and a 15 year old daughter-in-law who only new how to cook potato and meat curry with roti. Her rotis were the best. Her mother took pride in that fact. In the years to come, her cooking left everyone with exploding bellies, licked fingers; still asking for more. She then learnt to sow and stitch, to weave and crochet, to clean, to give,…and to give some more. Who was to know, this was something she would be doing all her life. Give, that is.
She gave birth to a daughter the very next year. The minute she laid eyes on her daughter, she knew she was going to do one thing, and one thing alone. Send her to school, and never deprive her of such a blessing. After that a long line of children arrived, three of whom died in infancy. She was left to take care of seven children on a meager income and a husband who was hardly ever around. She was a disciplinarian when it came to school. Although not educated enough herself, she ensured that her children got the best possible education. After years of blood and sweat, the family finally left their archaic neighborhood and moved to greener pastures. She had her own beautiful home. She could finally sit on her own porch in those glorious mid-morning hours; when the soft sunlight greeted her plants as she ate oranges with sprinkled salt, and read the Urdu newspaper.
All her children went to universities and adopted the best professions of the time. She knew how to be a friend and took great care of the friends she made during her life. Wherever she went, she was the life of the room. Her contagious laughter, her interesting anecdotes and amusing vocabulary made her presence difficult to ignore. She had incredible general knowledge; about politics, about celebrities, about her religion Islam. She was a voracious reader with an uncanny memory. Despite the world’s problems stubbornly gnawing at her feet, her charming smile never left her thin lips. She never stopped thanking her creator.
She is over 75 years old now. She still loves weddings, praying, putting chameli (Jasmine) flowers in her ears, music, reading, and a good joke. A true patriot; despite having the option to move out with her children who are happily settled abroad, she chooses to stay back. Living with a bad heart and extreme pain all over, she is peaceful and content. I have never once seen her complain or whine about her health.
She is my beautiful grandmother; the most brave and strong woman I know. She gave a large part of her love and prayers to me too, and for that I will forever be grateful. There so much that I can say about her, yet it will never be enough. Behind her wrinkled face and a joyous smile remains a life ingrained with years of hard work, faith and the ability to make the most out of what you have.
If you ask her, she will tell you how her life has been God’s beautiful gift to her, which she chose to wrap with her own bows of strength and determination.
If you ask me, her life story is worth all the stars in the world. Not just four stars.
Daily Prompt Challenge: Four Stars: Write a review of your life — or the life of someone close to you — as if it were a movie or a book.