For those who do not know, I hope to be in Mumbai (Bombay) towards the end of July. This will be my very first trip during the monsoons, many years after I left the country to do what most others do when they leave their country of birth. Prior to this, I have returned only during November-December when the weather has been bearable for most NRIs (non-resident Indians).

Getting to the Indian monsoons. As I do on most mornings, I made a concerted effort to get away from my computer and race outdoors before I get side-tracked with communicating. However, this morning the sky looked pregnant, more so than yesterday. But still I went out, “got to get at least 30 minutes of exercise, or else I’ll become a computer potato,” I thought.

Just as I was heading back home, rain drops as big as frogs jumped out of the sky without any warning, though not unexpected. Still it felt as if a switch had been suddenly turned on. But with the same suddenness, the frogs changed to tadpoles, and then to a faint drizzle, and then no rain at all. Yes of course I was soaked, since I cannot run. But it was fun! Fun because it was as if the heavens were playing with me, warning me, warming me, reminding me of what it used to be like before I became more of who I have become.

“Preparing for the Indian monsoons,” I mused. It had been many months, even years, since I had walked back home in the rain.

Heading back to computer, guess what I came across? A Sepia Mutiny blog entry titled, “Mumbai sensitive about its manholes.” The entry warns American citizens of the open drains in Mumbai, warns them that they could one minute be on ground and next underground since there are no markers or warning signs of the open human and animal engulfing holes. Only the occasional tree branches cover the holes, as if everyone is supposed to know what that means and can see them during the low visibility periods.

Here I had been going back in my mind to the good old days when I occasionally walked back home in Pune (Poona) during the monsoons, looking forward to perhaps doing the same in Mumbai. “Perhaps that will wash off some of the cynicism accumulated over the years through experience, of course,” I day-dreamed.

Just yesterday one of my new friends wrote to me, requesting that I should be careful walking over drains in India.

“Of course, I’ll be careful,” I thought. “It’s not as if I was going to the moon. Its only India,” I thought. Though nothing “only,” about the country whose economy is growing leaps and bounds, at least 8 to 9 percent per year, if not more.

“Needlessly worrying, how sweet though,” I happily thought. “How kind of someone I met this past weekend to be concerned about my safety in our mutual country of birth” I pondered.
Others have told, “take an umbrella, its your shoes and pants that get ruined,” Minor details I thought.

But reading the blog article has made me think this whole thing over. In the US, it is I who typically warns my friends, “Be careful, don’t walk on drains, as if the inevitable is waiting to become the evitable. One never knows.”

“Don’t be so paranoid,” is the look I mostly receive. But my friends know that I am the cautious sort, for the most part.

Turns out such things do happen, perhaps more so back in Mumbai. So if I do not blog towards the end of July, or ever again, please do not assume that I have been swallowed by one of those holes in the ground in India. But then again, you are most certainly free to think as you wish.

Just because I was born in the east, does not mean I do not appreciate the west.

Just because I live in the west, does not mean I will ignore the east.

Is it any wonder then that my blog site is called East-West?

Reading Indra Sinha’s open letter to the Prime Minister and government of India reminded me of the passionate 10-minute presentation I had given as part of my undergraduate biology class final grade.

The subject of my talk had been the Bhopal disaster that occurred during the late night of December 2nd and early hours of the 3rd, 1984 and killed more than 20,000 people due to leakage of methyl isocynate (MIC) gas. It seems as a result of that catastrophe and the resulting incomplete assistance and basic negligence more than 100,000 have permanent injuries/chronic illnesses. It turns out many promises where made not too long ago, but few kept. It is for this reason there was a padyatra (a march) most recently from Bhopal to Delhi.

In1999, Dow Chemical agreed to buy Union Carbide for $11.6 billion. The deal went ahead in 2001 making Dow Chemical one of the largest chemical companies in the world. Union Carbide is now a wholly owned subsidiary of Dow Chemical. However, Dow Chemical does not feel responsible to make any payments for all the suffering because as the corporation says it did not own Union Carbide in 1984.

I happened to visit Indra’s website as I was researching on a completely different topic.

Mind you, before I had started preparing for my talk, many years ago, I had been blissfully ignorant about the Bhopal tragedy. Definitely not a good thing; this was in part with my being tied-up with my education  the type that allowed me to shut out everything and become a bookworm, until one day I lay eyes on the cover of a magazine that showed images of suffering in Bhopal.

Without wasting time, I had reached out for the issue and read the story from start to the end. Fortunately, I had not got called in to see the physician as I had been waiting for until I was done. I was relieved to have found something to talk about. Still I wasn’t 100% sure.

Why would my American classmates care about what happened miles away? What did it have to do with them? Especially since the culprit was an Indian company called Union Carbide had plagued me. So I kept going through more newspapers and magazines, but nothing moved me.

There were only a couple of days left, and I was still not certain as to what I was going to present. Meanwhile my classmates seemed to have their talk under control. Some were even boasting about it. We were to present something along the lines of the impact of science on humans.

Thus far, I had faired well in the written tests, but a talk was different. I was certain that Martin, my German-American classmate would make us all seem unprepared. He always knew everything, spoke clearly and loudly; whereas I was soft-spoken and timid. Furthermore the others too seemed so confident. Was it any wonder that I was intimidated?

By the time Martin had finished his talk and everyone applauded, I was again unsure. When it was my turn, I stood up, looked at the quarter page notes I had prepared. But quickly put the piece of paper in my pocket, because it was getting difficult for me to get everyone’s attention while reading. Martin had managed to read out his talk, I couldn’t; because, my hands were shaking. Besides I did not want to. I was afraid the paper would fall down and I would embarrass myself further. But would I remember anything, the numbers and the other facts?

One of the disturbing questions was why would such a factory be situated in the heart of the city? Did people and livestock in Bhopal not matter? None of us goes to bed at night, expecting to brutally wake up with hell breaking loose, that too due to negligence of others. Some say the Bhopal tragedy occurred due to cost-cutting, others say it was sabotage. Regardless, people in Bhopal are still suffering and still need help.

By the time I got back to my seat, I could barely make eye contact with everyone. But I knew everyone was staring at me. I thought I had ruined my chances of a decent grade. I felt I had not done well. I had been somewhat informal in my style of presentation. I did not have the few pages of my talk prepared as Martin had. I only had a slip of paper that I had quickly hidden and instead spoke from my heart about my country of birth that I had left for what I then believed was love and higher education. I had never in my life expected to speak about India in front of an audience in the west, or feel so moved by the suffering of people.

According to my professor, my passion had come through loud and clear and that had made the difference. It turned out that in spite of my shaking hands and voice, I received an A, and after class quite a few students came over to talk to me about Bhopal and India in general.

Since then, I have tried for most part to do what I feel passionate about, and not just because it needs to be done.

It is the responsibility of parents to do whatever it takes to ensure that their children are protected and in safe hands at all times. If something is bound to happen then it will happen and we cannot be prepared for the inevitable however we can at least take some safety measures ourselves to prevent something serious from happening. After all, our children are the future. Not only do they need us to guide them but we also need them to give us the drive and direction in life to live and let live. To also help carry us through those difficult times. If there is one thing that will always exist then that would be the unconditional love of a mother or father for their beloved children. I am sure today if we nurture them, groom them and discipline them well enough, then hopefully they shall grow up and take care of us in our old age or at least give us some of their precious time and attention. Sometimes I wonder how careless some parents can actually be when it comes to their children and their children’s’ well being.

Right now I can just recall a particular day about 2 years ago, that I remember very clearly in my mind about such careless parents. Now I am sure this would only be one example, whereas you can only imagine how many others there are out there.

It was only 10 minutes after finishing off from a hair appointment in a little strip plaza nearby my house, I picked up the payphone to make an important call home. It had only been a few minutes into the conversation when all of a sudden I noticed a toddler perhaps not even 2 years old running and screaming through the food court while tears were bursting from her eyes. I could not help but notice how helpless she looked. I started taking note of who it was, that was behind her or there to run and grab her as she looked ever so desperate to perhaps find her mother who was not nowhere in sight. She continued running past all the onlookers who didn’t seem to take this situation too seriously. I was just appalled as I saw this entire scene taking place right before my eyes and even more astonished as to why no one had gotten up to do anything about it by now.

I felt at that very moment that I had to do something to help out this little girl before she got hurt or was taken away by some unknown stranger. When I noticed that she was headed towards the exit doors, I abruptly hung up the phone while in the midst of a conversation and just started running after this screaming, frightened child. During this ordeal I started sweating myself as I ran faster just to catch up to her so that I could grab her before she stepped foot onto the middle of the road. Yes, it did make me feel like ‘SuperWoman’ for a moment but I knew there was just no other choice. Luckily I made it just in time and held on to her arm and apparently her father came running up behind me while she continued to cry. He was in complete shock at the time however he did have a relieved look on his face. I could tell his heart was probably pumping faster than ever after seeing how scared his toddler was because she had somehow managed to walk away from her parents while they were strolling in the plaza.

Although the ending of this little story was a happily ever after one, not all endings with such circumstances that involves children are as happy. We have to pay much more attention to our children and we must learn to take care of their every need while we are away from home with them. That is where good parenting comes in and I must say that parenting is NOT an easy task. With the story told above, the little girl could have been struck by an oncoming vehicle or if no one had been paying attention long enough, she could have been kidnapped or stolen. Even if they are not your own children, they do still belong to someone and are just as precious. So it is all up to us to do what we have to do to take care of them and give them our undivided attention as much as possible. That should certainly help to avoid those close calls.

All I really desired was to test the untested; I had just asked you to comeback to me forever. All I did was let you go, hoping and desiring that for once you would come back to me and say that you loved me equally as much and could not live without me, just like I found it impossible to move on.

It was always a secret wish to be loved by someone for whom your presence affected so much that life would feel incomplete without. But what shocked me the most was the fact that it was so simple for you to just break the trust that was covering my existence like a mother’s womb, and leave. Just Leave…Walk Away…Move On.

The sound of your voice still haunts me, when you said “Are you sure, you never want to call me again. Ever?”

Laughing in the middle (like mockery at my sudden discovery of courage to breathe without you) you said “so you are not even going to SMS me?”

I stayed calm (don’t know how a sudden peace had filled my restless soul) and I said “Yes! I won’t call you, you will call me on my birthday (2 months from then), you know where I live; I will wait for your arrival on that date.)

You said “Are you sure?? (I could sense that your male ego had kicked in).

I said “Yes!!! (With my mind swirling in front of my eyes).

And then the phone went “Click”. I disconnected! With not a single sound around me or inside me; I walked towards my home. Not knowing what this simple test of love would bring me in the coming days….I needed to sleep. I had just taken the heaviest step of my life.

Enter Jim and Star – a Canadian couple who believed they could turn this town into something great. Their dream was very ambitious – to build a resort for retired Canadians, which would include a golf course, a five-star hotel and a virtual-medicine hospital (the first in Central America). For these purposes, they bought a lot of land on a cliff overlooking Pedregosa, a virgin beach where monkeys, oblivious to the very little human presence, still come down from the trees to play on the white sands. Pedregosa is the nearest beach to Matapalo, but is virtually inaccessible unless by 4×4.

As the project started to get developed, Jim and Star decided to invest in Matapalo and its people. They built a community center, donated musical instruments to the elementary school and opened the first free public-access computer lab in the country. This is where I came in, back in 1999.

I was brought in as Project Manager for the Matapalo computer lab. There was much to be done. First, we were able to find the perfect place – an abandoned annex in the local police station, right next to the town’s school. Then, we got a Canadian engineering company to send us their old computer equipment. We got a lot of useless junk, but in the end we were able to put together 10 working computers. All of these computers were different – some were 486′s and some 386′s, some had color monitors, some didn’t… the more advanced models had 32 MB of RAM and a hard drive of 100 MB… and there were only a couple of those. Due to space and memory constrains, we only managed to run Windows 3.1, and very early pre-office versions of Word, Excel and PowerPoint. We also had PrintShop Deluxe, a wonderful little program called Banner and some games, like the very first version of Prince of Persia.

After the lab was set-up, we trained a few local people on how to use the computers and these programs. Most of them had never even touched a computer before, so we needed several sessions to get them to a decent level because these guys were going to run the lab. Luckily, Luke and Louise, another Canadian couple who were friends of Jim and Star, relocated to Matapalo and they took over the lab.

After a few months, we were invited back to Matapalo for the first big computer lab graduation… what an amazing sight that was… under Luke and Louise, the whole town had become computer literate one way or another… and that day they were all receiving certificates for different things… Imagine a 65 year old woman receiving an “Advanced Achievement on Prince of Persia” certificate… simply amazing. I set up a satellite conference so that several people in Canada, who had different degrees of involvement, could also attend the ceremony through the internet – the first Webcast ever in Guanacaste! Our guest of honor was the Costa Rican Minister for Science and Technology and one of the major Costa Rican TV channels even reported the whole thing on one of their prime news shows. What an amazing day that was!

Today, I go back to Matapalo for the first time in 8 years to attend Jim’s funeral. The town remains pretty much the same, except that now they have a couple of supermarkets and a few other things. The Pedregosa project has been in a stand still for a couple of years due to legal and financial trouble. Luke and Louise are still there running the computer lab in the same old place. Now, they have better workstations and internet access, and there is a plaque with my name on it acknowledging me as one of the founders of the lab. Still, Matapalo strives on… and today the whole town is in this little chapel to honor the life of someone who has really made a difference here… there will be a parade later on, the band will play, the kids will march… according to Jim’s wishes, there is going to be a big party with traditional dances, food and fun for everyone… then, we will all help plant a tree next to the community center and spread Jim’s ashes on the soccer ground… this is a loving tribute to a great man from a thankful town.

Not many people knew who Jim Sparrow was, and many people may not still have ever heard of the little town of Matapalo in Guanacaste, Costa Rica… but to those of us who were lucky enough to ever know him, this guy really made a difference in our lives… because of him, we are all better people today… I know I am.

Six people living in one room and a veranda was getting too much; and by February 1986 the plans were made to move to a new house in the New Civil Lines near Punjab House in Rawalpindi. Since I had passed my primary (fifth standard) exams, therefore I had to get admission in a new school as well. I was neither really sad about leaving my current school nor was I excited about joining the new one; because the whole concept of school was a cumbersome feeling for me. I never liked or even approved the idea of schools.

The closest school to the place where we shifted was Federal Government High School, Marir Hassan; or Marir University as it was called in the streets, given its long history of accepting enrollment of street vagabonds, and even producing its own share of the lot. The school was close and it was cheap; everything fitted in. I would just have to walk for about 10 minutes; and I never mind walking. I joined the school a few weeks after the session had begun.

I don’t exactly remember my first day in school but I do remember the feeling. Kamran, a.k.a Kami was the brightest student in 6th C, the monitor of the class and of course sat in the prime seat at the right corner of the middle row. His uniform was the cleanest and his school bag the neatest and even worst than that, he spoke another language called English. I knew I wasn’t going to give a flying damn about him.

Zafar and Ijaz were both first cousins; they must be good students as well because they sat in the second row on the far left. Now that I think back about what I was thinking then, I must be a good face reader. Zafar seemed to be a nice bloke, straight forward, who would mind his own business and focus more on studies. Ijaz was on the reverse side; his eyes would tell he was intelligent of the wicked kind. Zafar was there to study for Ijaz as well, so Ijaz focused more on extra-class activities. There was space available on their bench and they were generous enough to offer me the place; I accepted the offer.

F.G. High School Marir Hassan stands at the shoulder of Mayo Road that starts off from Kachehri Chowk and merges into Murree Road at Marir Chowk. The school is situated just before the Marir Hassan bus stop. In 1986, it was a pale old building with grim looking windows that gave it a haunting look. A few years back, the building was reconstructed and today it has a fresher haunting look to it.

The students of the school came from different social classes; the poor, the less poor, the lower middle class and some even from the middle and upper middle class. There were a few exceptions though; I remember one guy who was a class senior to me, always thronged by some very loyal mates. His uniform just didn’t look like a uniform, though it was the same color, it was brighter and better than ours; he had long hair and would never be reprimanded by the PT Master for that. What made him even more aloof was that he never bought anything from the school canteen, I never saw him eating a 5 paisa toffee or 25 paisa chewing gum; he just wouldn’t eat anything at recess, a car would come pick him up and he would go home for 45 minutes of midday break. Even though I never wanted to be friends with him, we did actually end up being pals. His uncle is a very well known politician and a former member of the Punjab National Assembly.

6th C was considered to be a below standard class, with the exception of a few front-rowers who were considered to be the brains. At the times of admission, they put me in this class and I kept wondering for the first couple of weeks as to what gave the teachers the idea that I belonged there. Whatever the idea was, they were certainly right. I wasn’t much interested in studying anyways.

Nabi Ahmad; that guy was completely the opposite of his sweet name. He sat in the last row and was the worst possible distraction for any student or teacher. I knew he was the kind of guy I would get along well with. I wasn’t a bad guy, I was a mere rebel. The thought of doing something out of the way just to please a teacher or to impress fellow students disgusted me.
I am not claiming that it was my original idea, but I can’t recall either as to where did I get this idea from; but my theme has always been to pay attention to what the teacher is saying and that’s it; you will pass your exams. And if you add a bit of your own brain to what you listen, you will pass with good grades. Just before the summer break; the internal exams took place and I came second in my class, just after Kami. The teachers noted my existence and so did the front-rowers; but I was too busy playing cricket with the so-called trash of the class.

To be continued. …

I allowed one hour for travel, one hour to check in and a 15 minute safety margin. At 5am in the morning the roads were clear and the journey took 45 minutes. I parked, crossed the road, exchanged my pre booked parking ticket for a pass out of the car park (to use when I return), checked in and passed through security all within 10 – 15 minutes.

The experience is so easy when compared to the pain of flying from one of the big London airports like Heathrow or Gatwick that I sit in the departure lounge holding a cup of coffee wondering what I’ve missed. I have a moments panic as I look for my suitcase before I remember I’ve already checked it in.

The shopping opportunities at Bournemouth are minimal as the whole airport facility seems to consist of three portable cabins bolted together. They haven’t even levelled the ground so there is a ramp between each of the prefabricated units.

I’m determined to be calm about the flight so as we charge down the runway I focus on my book and ignore my clammy palms. The flight leaves on time and two and a half hours later I arrive in Alicante, Spain. It’s overcast and not very warm. I get the keys to my hire car but although I find bay 23 there’s no car there. Just as I’m thinking about whether I know enough Spanish to complain I realise that there are two sets of numbers, one where all the hire cars are and one where I am.

Eventually I find my car and head north towards Calpe. I’ve written the directions down carefully because this is the first time I’ve travelled to our property on my own. I’ve written out a sticky label with “DRIVE ON THE RIGHT” in bold letters to remind me which side of the road I’m supposed to be on. I stick the label onto the steering wheel and set off. I find the most dangerous time for driving on the wrong side of the road, is when I’ve been in the country a few days and I have a break for say lunch. When I get back in the car I’m relaxed everything seems normal and if there’s no other traffic I might set off on the wrong side.

For the first few miles I drive slowly to the annoyance of local motorists as I adjust to the new conditions. I don’t feel confident about the exact width of the car and I’m concerned that I might hit the wing mirrors of the kerb side vehicles.

The thing that I always notice when I come to Spain is how it seems to be so dry yet fertile. The earth along the coast is just like yellow ochre straight out of a tube of paint. The ground is sparsely covered with tough skinned plants which look like they are built to survive drought, but if you travel just a few kilometres in from the coast the hills are covered with orange groves. Along the coast route there is little of the old Spain remaining the buildings are mostly modern, constructed of concrete painted in bright yellows and white often topped off with red tiles. The coast is built up for miles here except where there are cliffs.

The most noticeable item along the way are the skyscrapers of Benidorm a little fishing village in the 1970s it is now a sprawling metropolis with many tall buildings (I guess about 100) mostly apartment blocks.

An hour and quarter later I arrive at out property. Unlock the gate, walk to the front door, it looks OK from outside but last time I came water had got through the roof and part of the ceiling fell on me. But … that is another story.

A thick silky fog swept through the street that had only one lamp-post to leave a blemish of a light on its hard trodden surface. Beside the lamp-post, rested a lazy bench, having lost one of its legs to mischief of some young souls and replaced by a distorted pile of red bricks. The morning was too young, unpolluted by the sun’s rays.

The watchman, after a long night’s journey, was ready to fall into the land of dreamless hibernation. The newspaper man, on the contrary, rode his bicycle through the street with his drowsy eyes, ringing the bell vehemently as he passed through the wavering silhouette of the watchman. The doors of the grocery shop were slit open by the shopkeeper whose hands were agonizingly shivering with cold that penetrated through his body when he touched the freezing handle. Asim, the 12 year old seventh grader, sleepwalked along the footpath, drowsy, avoiding the bench and almost hitting the lamp post; today was his day to set up the desks before everybody showed up in the classroom.

I had woken up early and even before I could open my eyes, I frisked around my bed table for my cell phone. There was no message, there was no missed call. She said she would be the first one to wish me; I thought there was still time. I slipped into a cardigan and walked out the door.

I picked up the paper and sat down on the bench. Asim reappeared from the grainy smog, rushing towards the bench, “Amir Sir, happy birthday” he said while breathing heavily, “See you later in the day” and he disappeared again.

She wasn’t going to be the first one now; still it was a good start.

“Oh, it’s your birthday” the watchman overheard the news, “well, congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” I don’t think he had ever wished anybody that before.

”Oey Hanif, get Amir babu a warm cup of special coffee with extra cream, its his big day today.” Iqbal, the grocery guy yelled from his shop to the coffee stand a few yards away and then turned his face towards me, “And Amir babu, happy birthday; foggy, cloudy and cold, it sure is your day.” I looked back at him, chuckled and then hid myself in the paper.

The day went by and she didn’t call, no message, no words. Each minute, every moment slipped away in utter silence; not even the sound of my own footsteps polluted it. It didn’t make me sad, it didn’t make me angry, it didn’t surprise me, it didn’t hurt me; it just happened to me.

In the night, when the clock was about to strike 12, I switched off the light and went to bed. Just then, before the clock would escort the night into another day, a faint knock at the door was followed by a whispering shout, “Hey Amir Sir, happy birthday” I heard Asim as he ran away laughing. I smiled and tucked my face in the blanket.

It was a good beginning to end the day.

I was sitting with my grandmother having a chit chat, when I found a “Paayal” somewhere around the couch. I started wondering to whom it belonged as no one that I knew wore it. My grandmother took it from me and looked at it. It was like a magic payal or something as it brought that smile of content and memories on her face. Without my asking, and without even her noticing I believe, she started telling me about the first payal she ever had, long time back; more than sixty years back that is.
She kept telling me about all the jewelry she ever had; before marriage and after; the necklaces, bracelets, rings, bangles and Paayals and all other types that I had never even heard of. All that time as she told me about her ornaments, she had that beautiful expression on her face, one with a lot of passionate memories. She remembered all pieces of jewelry she ever owned and that’s what hit me.

It’s not just some gold molded into different shapes, its something that portrays you, your image as a person, it makes you feel strong in some mysterious meanings of the word; it means more than just jewelry. There are memories of people and occasions attached to them and that’s what makes them priceless.

I don’t think I will ever question gold’s importance for a woman again.

It was just a regular Thursday afternoon last month and I was sitting in the library reading an article from “Today’s Parent” waiting for my youngest son’s summer program to end for the day. I couldn’t help but notice a lady standing nearby looking for a seat with some reading material in her hand. As I happened to look up, she gave me a friendly smile and sat down. I didn’t really think much of it and really didn’t respond. I was never really one to initiate a conversation anyway and so I continued reading.

After only a few minutes she said to me, “Are you an Indian or a Pakistani?” and I replied “Pakistani” with a smile and wondering to myself how gutsy she was to start up a conversation just like that. Then she started talking about how often she came to the library and what she liked to do in her spare time. She happened to be reading a magazine of interest to me, called “FilmFare”. She shared her views and told me how much she hated the Bollywood scene and how Bollywood actors/actresses were so artificial and mesmerized by the west in order to be just like them.

I agreed to that definitely and we went on chatting just like that. She introduced herself as Reena. She was a rather sweet and simple lady. So genuine and a very warm person. She had class and poise. Her command of the English language was quite impressive. She mentioned she belonged to a well-educated aristocratic family. Anyways, I guess she enjoyed my company so much that day that she wanted to meet again. I had no hang-ups about that since my son’s program was going to run for three more Thursdays in a row during the month.

She must have felt comfortable talking to me for the reason that she decided to go on telling her life story in the second week of our meeting. This time around we met and decided to sit outside the library on a park bench. The weather was so pleasant and breezy that afternoon and a nice day for another lengthy chat. Today there was much more to hear from her.

After she asked me about my parents, I had mentioned to her that my father had passed away in August 2001 due to a sudden heart attack. She offered her condolences and right after that she mentioned that her father had committed suicide. We were silent as I just looked right at her. She became emotional and had tears rolling down her cheeks. She said only 3 days before her birthday he did this. I asked her about her mother at that point. She had mentioned that her mother and father had divorced since her mother had run off to Germany and had married third time around. She was only 8 years old at the time when her mother left her and her father behind for a new life. She said her father regretted marrying her mother in the first place as it was her mother’s second marriage to her father. I couldn’t believe it.

At that point she mentioned that her mother was a multi-millionaire and had died leaving not a single penny behind for her daughter. In fact, when she left her husband and her daughter, she never looked back. What mother could do such a thing? Reena said that it was obvious that she was born with no maternal instinct. It was rather interesting and very surprising. Now the father was left alone to take care of her and he was also a very busy man as he held a position in the army at the time as well. He could not look after his daughter the way he would have wanted to. So he sent her off to boarding school. She then one day ran away from boarding school and at that time he decided that he would have to bring her up himself for the time he could spend with her. He was a mother and a father to her but was very lonely within. Reena was never allowed to talk to boys while growing up or even be seen near boys. She never was allowed to wear makeup either. Her father raised her in a very humble and simple way. That is why she carried herself so well even at the age of 46.

Then her father sent her to Canada and after a year or so she went back to visit him. He was very ill and had prepared her for the worse. She could sense that he would not live long especially after he knew that now that he was bed-ridden, there was no one that could take care of him as he aged. He feared for Reena to be living a single woman’s life in India and so he suggested that Canada would be a better place for her to live. After a year of her arrival back to Canada, her father’s good friend phoned Reena one day and told her that her father was no more. Just a few days before her 35th birthday. I was so emotional. She had no brothers and sisters and was an only child. She was not married and had no kids. She was just living with someone and spending each day of her life facing many hardships and obstacles.

We then met again on the third Thursday of July and chatted again. She said to me during our conversation that I reminded her of a few Bollywood actresses. I just began to giggle because that was never the first time I was told that. It seemed like wherever I went I resembled someone or another without fail. She went on to match me up with Naghma who was acting in Bollywoood during the early 90′s and then Sridevi and last but not least Nitu Singh. While in conversation she also happened to mistakenly call me Naghma a few times to which I just laughed again. She said to me, “You know if you were single, you could have gotten anyone”. I smiled again and just enjoyed the compliments and her company. It was nice to see a smile on her face that displayed contentment and ease. That day she happened to ask me if I knew how to cook and of course I said yes I do. She requested for me to make her biryani. Of course how could I say ‘no’ to that anyway and agreed on making some biryani for her and bringing it for her in the fourth week of our meeting.

Now the last week was different. I was stuck without a car and the night before I was too exhausted from the whole day to be able to make a pot of biryani. On the other hand, I promised her that I would bring it for her and it would have been our last meeting since she was planning to find a new place and move out of the area. What a strange story it all was and almost like a dream. I decided to take a taxi and keep my promise. I picked up some biryani on my way to the library and arrived there finally to see her hoping that she would show up. I had a feeling she would anyway.

After telling her I brought it for her, her face just lighted up with joy. She was so delighted and thankful. She thanked me over and over again and said ” you know Naghma, oh sorry Rafia that no one had ever done anything like this for me “. I said it was perfectly fine and that I wanted to do it. I knew how I felt and it was a great feeling within. A feeling so unexplainable. That day she also confessed on telling me about how the size of her stomach was growing. I asked her about it and she explained that it was a tumor. I was again in shock but tried to remain calm at least for her sake. I asked her why she didn’t get an operation and why she let it go for the last 3 years in order for it to grow in size. She replied, “Oh it will go away and besides who will take care of me post surgery. I was very emotional at this point and speechless. I had no words to explain how I felt after hearing that from her. She said “I don’t have anybody to miss me whle I am gone. So what if I die who cares”. She told me to pray for her and that may God NOT be ready to grant her a long life. She said she was just too lonely now but learned how to pass her time over the years. She said a single life for an Indian woman living anywhere was just too hard. She explained that anyone would take advantage at the very first chance they would get. Again I had no words for her.

She managed to finish half the biryani that day and said she would leave the rest for her dinner that night. After the day ended, it was time to say goodbye, but not forever. I had made up my mind to keep in contact with her as much as I could just to make sure she was doing ok especially in regards to her health which did concern me when she mentioned it so nonchalantly that afternoon. I just could not forget how we just ended up meeting and talking. I always knew that there was a reason for everything and it just so happened to be.

She then ended up calling me that same night and left a message on my voicemail. She went on thanking me over and over and said “God Bless You” and may you always be happy. She asked me again to pray for her and her health. She again said how no one had ever done anything like that for her ever and that I was the first one who cared and listened. Upon hearing that, I feel I was rewarded.

The last thought I did have that day was that, it is true that if a person does something that is out of the kindness of their heart, he/she should not go on boasting about it and to that I always agreed. However, today I feel that if we share our life experiences with others and our good and bad deeds than perhaps we are leading by example, right?