August 14, 1947
We, the children of Independence, rushed wildly and too fast into our future; he, Emergency-born, will be, is already more cautious, biding his time; but when he acts, he will be impossible to resist. Already, he is stronger, harder, more resolute than I: when he sleeps, his eyeballs are immobile beneath their lids. Aadam Sinai, child of knees-and-nose, does not (as far as I can tell) surrender to dreams.
My father was born on August 14, 1947. We don't really know where he was born, or at what exact time. We've assumed he was born in a refugee camp somewhere, as his family travelled from India's Punjab to cross the newly-created borders of Pakistan - trying to escape the ubiquitous chaos of partition.
My sisters and I have often joked that he could have been one of Rushdie's Midnight's Children - born on or around the eve of partition with special and mysterious powers.
Oddly, there was always a semblance of reality to our jokes. My father is just that way - mysteriously quiet, obviously brilliant and admiringly strong. There must have been some magic surrounding his birth.
And like the Midnight's Children, he had many parents. Two mothers, and a father who passed away at an early age, but not before instilling in him, a deep sense of courage and familial responsibility. His father was the Captain of the police force in his village. His photographs depict a serious and dedicated man. Afterwards, his birth mother, and his second mother (my grandfather took a second wife), lived together and raised 6 children on their own - unwitting partners who only separated on the death of my first grandmother a few years ago.
Still, my father seemed to want to leave Pakistan at the earliest opportunity. He came to America in the 70s, to pursue what he and many others had imagined as the American Dream. It was an alien and foreign country to him. He had not been encouraged to leave Pakistan. His mothers and siblings all remained there. His love interest, my mother, was also still there.
But he persisted. He sold encyclopedias and vaccums. He worked the day shift, the graveyard shift and overtime - all while completing his physics PhD.
And despite his lifetime longing to leave Pakistan, he was often homesick for the country. The simplicity, the home-cooked meals of rhoti and daal, the sugar cane he and his brother would pick and chew on the way to school...
I remember one story: In his first few weeks in Oregon, while feeling especially nostalgic for home, he stopped into a deli for a sandwich. He hadn't become accustomed to American food but thought he'd give it a try. But he didn't know what to order. When asked what he wanted on his sandwich, he simply replied, "Just put everything on it," - so, on went the relish and mustard and pickles and raw onions - ingredients unheard of for a Pakistani, but he bought it nonetheless. He took the sandwich and sat on a bench to taste the bizarre creation. He bit into it, and let the sour, crunchy, saucy tastes linger for a moment - and then, spit it out. And right there, on the bench, outside, on a sunny day on campus, in his bell-bottom slacks and crisply-ironed shirt - my father began to cry.
It's one of the few images I have, of my father displaying such outward emotion. He has always been the strong and silent type. But beneath the hardened exterior, lies this immensely coloured man - with so much passion and valour and diligence.
I have always been, and will continue to be in awe.
Happy Birthday Abbu.
My father was born on August 14, 1947. We don't really know where he was born, or at what exact time. We've assumed he was born in a refugee camp somewhere, as his family travelled from India's Punjab to cross the newly-created borders of Pakistan - trying to escape the ubiquitous chaos of partition.
My sisters and I have often joked that he could have been one of Rushdie's Midnight's Children - born on or around the eve of partition with special and mysterious powers.
Oddly, there was always a semblance of reality to our jokes. My father is just that way - mysteriously quiet, obviously brilliant and admiringly strong. There must have been some magic surrounding his birth.
And like the Midnight's Children, he had many parents. Two mothers, and a father who passed away at an early age, but not before instilling in him, a deep sense of courage and familial responsibility. His father was the Captain of the police force in his village. His photographs depict a serious and dedicated man. Afterwards, his birth mother, and his second mother (my grandfather took a second wife), lived together and raised 6 children on their own - unwitting partners who only separated on the death of my first grandmother a few years ago.
Still, my father seemed to want to leave Pakistan at the earliest opportunity. He came to America in the 70s, to pursue what he and many others had imagined as the American Dream. It was an alien and foreign country to him. He had not been encouraged to leave Pakistan. His mothers and siblings all remained there. His love interest, my mother, was also still there.
But he persisted. He sold encyclopedias and vaccums. He worked the day shift, the graveyard shift and overtime - all while completing his physics PhD.
And despite his lifetime longing to leave Pakistan, he was often homesick for the country. The simplicity, the home-cooked meals of rhoti and daal, the sugar cane he and his brother would pick and chew on the way to school...
I remember one story: In his first few weeks in Oregon, while feeling especially nostalgic for home, he stopped into a deli for a sandwich. He hadn't become accustomed to American food but thought he'd give it a try. But he didn't know what to order. When asked what he wanted on his sandwich, he simply replied, "Just put everything on it," - so, on went the relish and mustard and pickles and raw onions - ingredients unheard of for a Pakistani, but he bought it nonetheless. He took the sandwich and sat on a bench to taste the bizarre creation. He bit into it, and let the sour, crunchy, saucy tastes linger for a moment - and then, spit it out. And right there, on the bench, outside, on a sunny day on campus, in his bell-bottom slacks and crisply-ironed shirt - my father began to cry.
It's one of the few images I have, of my father displaying such outward emotion. He has always been the strong and silent type. But beneath the hardened exterior, lies this immensely coloured man - with so much passion and valour and diligence.
I have always been, and will continue to be in awe.
Happy Birthday Abbu.
posted by Nadia at
1:30 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home