Of Sweat and Dust

I remember lying in my bed, damp with sweat, hovering somewhere inbetween being awake and hoping to fall asleep. 'Load-shedding' they called it, and i'm not sure to this day whether this was a witty innuendo being made on how this country was straining under the weight of its population. Inside the concrete walls, submerged in the darkness I could see perfectly. If I concentrated really hard, I thought I could here the entire nation breathing, the majority sleeping in peace since the majority were as Mohsin Hameed put it 'un-cooled'. I allowed myself to become amused then, amused at all the aunties tossing and turning in their beds because they could not sleep under their winter blankets in the dead of summer. At times, i'd even laugh a maddening little laugh for them.

The first time I walked home from school it was because my driver had neglected to inform my mother that it was time to pick me up. My mother was doing chores, clothes i'm sure you understand are the mark of a woman in Pakistan; right up there with jewellery and how much money their husband gives them as 'pocket-money'. 'Tis was not a short walk I assure you, but for some reason the idea seemed as natural to me as bhangra does to the music of a shaadi dhol. The sun rose to its greatest height to get a good vantage point on my journey. The whoosh of passing cars mocked my progress and the ricksha drivers questioning looks almost made me regret my lack of finances on this venture. It was hot and humid, basically, another perfect day in paradise. It had rained yesterday, a false pre-cursor of a monsoon that would never truly arrive that year. Puddles of warm, dank water sporadically lined the roadside and had I been a pedestrian wiser to these streets, I would have put two and two together.

The first two, a speeding Toyotta Corolla came veering down Sher Pao bridge driven no doubt by a 14-year maniac who thought that depressing a pedal took great skill. The second two, reflected back the sun's rays as if sharing a smile with the sun at having guessed the punchline to this slapstick event. Drenched as I was, I remember laughing rather than feeling angry. I guess it takes a lot more drenchings before you fail to see the humour in these situations.

I don't think I tired in those days, getting tired is a concept young boys are immune to, I believe. As I finally neared L.C.C.H.S it started to rain, I've always liked rain and I took pleasure in its company as I walked the last leg of my journey. I received an offer for help from a motor-cycle driver but it was politely turned down, after all I was so close now. When I finally arrived at the gates to my mansion, our hired help was confused to see that there was no car in sight. I still treasure the look of disbelief on my mother's face, but what I cherish more was her amusement rather than distress at my feat. She was my mother and mother's have a way of knowing their children, but I think I was still somewhat of an anomaly to my mother. Where one of her children insisted that she felt disgraced by having to ride home in a Potahar (our government assigned bright blue jeep), the other child would soon find it perfectly normal to cruise about Lahore in Rickshas.

On my first visit to 'our' village, I felt like I was being taken to a strange land of which I was apparently king. During our tour of the fields in bloom, I remember my younger sister becoming distressed as to why the local school did not bear her name instead, I didn't know exactly what to make of the revelation that it was named after me. My elder sister went running about the fields, hauntingly similar to idyllic visions of children running with glee in green fields, exclaiming in disbelief: "This is all ours? Woooooow!" I think we all wanted to share in the happiness that this place brought to our father. He was from here, these were the roots of the greatest dad on earth. He wanted us to like it so much, that we did...through sheer force of will, at first but that changed all too soon.

I remember sleeping under the open sky for the first time, the buzzing of the insects, the hooting of the crickets and the shuffling of critters somewhere nearby. But what I remember the most, is how clear the sky looked then. Lying there, on a charpai staring up at the stars my mind was slowly taking it all in. You never really feel it until you leave it behind but a city is alive, even at night. Ceaseless in it's drone and buzz where as the village slept at night. And in the middle of nowhere, hours away from civilization as I knew it, I felt at peace.

I looked at the silhouette of my father, and it was the first time I understood that I will never truly know this man. I still do not know what to make of the love shown by the elder women and men who worked for Sheikh Ihsan Tariq, the old croons would kiss my forhead as if kissing their own child. I keep thinking that they had to, after all would my father not take offense to a lack of affection for his sole heir? It seemed genuine though, and I felt unworthy. I also felt more than hesitant because these people were as strange to me as surely I must seem now to the people that I study with. And the irony in that is not lost one me either.

Old man Bashir, Baba as everyone called him, came to work for us one day. He's worked for so many of our relatives that whenever guests came to our house somehow...someway, they'd always ask him: "Baba, kaisay ho?" Everyone knew Baba and Baba knew everyone and their children. I like to think, he did genuinely like me as a son though i'll be honest, it seemed wrong that someone old enough to be my grandfather was working for us. He was a brilliant cook though, and Mum needed all the help she could get because as the Pakistan Housewife's RuleBook states: "You can never have enough hired help." I will say that perhaps he was treated with the respect due to him, and maybe that is what inspired his sense of loyalty. I think he still tells stories of how 'Ali beta would never let him carry anything'. 'Ali beta' was a young man, and should have cut his wrist if he couldn't carry his own bag a few more steps to his room.

My younger sister, missed me terribly whenever I was gone from her life. But never till her later years ever showed any affection when I was around. Like a prized collector who only misses his plastic-wrapped trophies when something goes amiss. I was, I realize now, naive to think that. She would, at times, come knock at my door late at night and come smiling in as if completely oblivious how rudely she had snubbed me infront of her friends (I was universally adored amongst my sisters posse, much of which had to do with the fact that I can crack amusing/embarassing jokes about their friend which they were not privy to). In our late night talks, i'd mostly listen but there was one thing that I never said to her which i'll remedy the first chance I get. My sister at that time, with all her trivial superficialities, was the coolest person I knew. A poet, a writer and a friends' friend. I think she moulded who I wanted to be in more ways then even she knows, and I care to admit.

When I met you, I changed so dramatically that most of my peers are to-date still in shock. I learnt about love from my family. Not the many extended relatives which insist that they used to carry you in your arms when you were little, those I disowned long ago. But from the way my mother cared for her children, the way my elder sister let me sleep in her lap when I was young. The way my dad would, even when I was young, treat me as an equal. When you finally arrived, life became something that it was always meant to be. It became the difference between knowing and knowing. I remember everything from our quarrels to our silliness. From the restaurant hopping to the abrupt goodbyes which you'd almost perfected as an art-form. I remember the tissue papers and all the waiters which would take pride in escorting you to our table (I also remember you always being late, and i'll admit that I never did mind waiting for you). Foremost, I remember the heat of the city around us, ever impeaching on our trysts as if only showing its presence to tell us that our secret was safe within its suffocating confines.

I remember Friday prayers, where the world it seemed would collect upon one canvas to give homage to their God. My grandfather would always try and convince my father that he should say his full prayers, not just his Farz. But the heat was unbearable and we could always complete our prayers at home. I didn't always listen. It amazed me that at my first Eid prayers, complete strangers hugged each other without qualms and hesitation. The west would have branded us all as having restrained homo-sexual tendencies, and I still wonder about it when I recall the times spent with the 'Boys'.

We were not quite men, and certainly not children any longer. The lazy cricketing afternoons, the insistence that we play video-games just a lil longer (I was horrible at the former and brilliant at the latter). The soul-searching conversations and ofcourse the lewd comments which became an education unto themselves. Boys will be boys after all. I remember my education at friendship, an on-going affair taught by a teacher whose patience to put up with an obsessive, spoilt brat has left a 'lasting impression', to quote Tasslehoff Burrfoot.

The bonds, forged in the unbearable heat were cast so strong in those days that they have become etched too deeply in memory. The lessons learnt while choking in the dust have so harshly burnt the skin that their presence has left marks of identity. I am born of sweat and dust, and I shall forever carry its scent.