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VIEW: A happy new year —Navid Shahzad

Few children have had a childhood as magical as ours. As cowboys and Injuns hollering over the soft undulations of the green knolls surrounding our cottage in Murree, eating fat French fries at Sam’s, sobbing though Raj Kapoor matinees at Ciros cinema and taking mile-long walks to Kashmir Point and back — it was an idyllic time

The year has come to a horrendous end. Voicing a cheery “Happy New Year’ greeting, one was firmly, though delicately, put in one’s place at the sobering thought that Asia had been devastated by a tragedy of enormous proportions. The tsunamis that have raged in this part of the world, venting their fury on the wretched of the earth represent the might and unpredictability of natural forces. Gales at hundreds of miles per hour, waters rising like huge fort ramparts, tore at structures, trees, vehicles, sweeping away all in the ensuing floods.

Thousands dead and millions homeless, Asia faces a massive task involving rehabilitation and survival. Tragedy is no stranger to those who live in this part of the world. Crippling and cruel wars, annual flooding, hurricanes, refugee influxes, poverty, disease, hunger — all are old acquaintances, and yet the spirit survives as it has since memory serves. There will be a time when the children will be fed and the boatman will sing his song again. The thatched roofs will sway in the breezes and the waters will give up their fury and feed the hungry instead.

Humanitarian aid has come quickly giving rise to fears of misuse and misappropriation of funds but the hope lives on that the world will find itself challenged by a Christmas spirit of generosity rather than conquest and glory. For those of us who choose to see natural catastrophes in more biblical terms, the world is a temporary state sandwiched between long sleeps. It is for us to make the best of our waking hours.

Curiously, I had sat to write a totally different column altogether. Sober, thoughtful, tinged with the anguish of all who have lost their loved ones along with an assessment of personal failures and successes. But I found subterranean thoughts of a different flavour seeping into the text and try as I might, the thoughts would not let go their tenacious hold. As a hurt child cradled by a caring mother, the darkness of the tsunami tragedy appeared to be edged out by nostalgic memories of a quieter, saner time. When the thin thread separating light from dark started to become visible, the faint sound of the call to prayer echoed in the still Lahore mornings. The slap of slippers across polished floors quickly followed the creaking of beds as occupants arose. Taps ran water softly into basins as the faithful performed their ablutions before prayer. It was only moments before the birds began to chirp their morning ragas and the steam started to rise from the kitchen. Wood fires romanced the children as they sat huddled in their winter wear crouching on low peeries. The smell of parathas wafted in the air as the hot bread was divided into exact quarters to be shared by the ravenous school going horde. Sesame seed kulchas crumbled into bowls of tea and the sound of steady slurps filled the smoky air.

Breakfast at grandmother’s Pindi house was a hymn to both Kashmiri and Punjabi roots with the huge brass hamam adding the Lucknow finesse as it splashed the warm water over ghee-lathered fingers. Baiji, as she was known, had been christened Nawab Begum by a doting father. With her aristocratic bearing, the parchment fineness of her skin and the snowy length of her hair; she could not have been more aptly named. All my memories of her are that of a tall woman clad in satin shirts with full sleeves, a white dupatta on her head, her skin smelling faintly of Tibet Snow and hair of chambeli oil.

Few children have had a childhood as magical as ours. As cowboys and Injuns hollering over the soft undulations of the green knolls surrounding our cottage in Murree, eating fat French fries at Sam’s, sobbing though Raj Kapoor matinees at Ciros cinema and taking mile-long walks to Kashmir Point and back — it was an idyllic time. Of course, there were some elements contrary to the perfection of the times — the rickshaws pulled by barefoot paharis and the unkempt nags that passed for horses frightened the daylights out of me. At two and a half feet tall, I was convinced that the occupants of the strange-looking vehicle would end up at the bottom of an abyss or that the enormously high animal would kick me to pieces. The donkeys however, with their soulful long lashed eyes were a different matter. The little circular support that one sat in atop the four-legged creature appeared infinitely safer than the open saddle on a horse while the proximity to terra firma lent it a special comfort.

I cannot imagine why I should recall such memories at a time like this. Perhaps the answer lies in harking back to a safer, comforting past minus its adult responsibilities. Perhaps one finds oneself awed by events beyond the reach of the most powerful or wearied by the strain of a world constantly battling for survival. Whatever the reasons, one finds comfort in the recall of happier times and prays that in the natural cycle, the wheel should turn with the promise of better things to come.

The writer is Dean of the School of Liberal Arts at the Beaconhouse National University, Lahore. Her email address is navidshahzad@hotmail.com

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