This blog is a collection of my emotions (in forms of poetry and prose), some tips (mostly about technology) and random thoughts.
Who am I?
This is umpteenth time I am writing about myself, not here but at many other places. One can always Google someone’s name but still, it is more authentic to hear from the one who represents himself.
Why this introduction?
Its quite frustrating whenever I see either anonymous pieces of writing, or a totally missing About (introduction) page. As per a golden rule (treat others as you want to be treated in return), I decided to write it despite my own preference of keeping things as short as possible according to another KISS rule i.e. keep it simple and short.
Rules sound boring and prohibitive. And yes, I am innately a rebel. Not only have I liberated myself from many rules, traditions, customs, etc., but have helped many others to break free as well.
Having said that, some rules are important whenever it comes to interacting with others. You may ignore them but will regret later. As long as it is only me and my life, I’m perfectly alright with breaking some (or even all) rules. That doesn’t mean I don’t consider myself precious enough like I treat others. Its actually more complicated and this space is dedicated only to my introduction, not to the introduction of my philosophies.
Born to a Caucasian dad (a cop) and a Pakistani mom (a teacher) on a beautiful Sunday morning at 10 a.m. May 17, 1970 (12 Rabiulawal 1390 AH ref) in a thousands of years old city, Lahore (Pakistan). Since I was their first-born (three years after their marriage), hence I was spoiled a lot for arriving this late. Another sibling (a brother) followed one and half year later, while the last one (another brother) arrived four and half years after I was born. No sisters (sorry).
Back in those days, ultrasound technology (to tell the sex of baby before birth) had not arrived in the Bilal Gunj (a suburb of Lahore, Pakistan) where my mom gave me a natural birth at my (maternal) grandmom’s house. While she was pregnant with me, a Sufi Saint (Data Ali Hajveri Ganj Baksh r.a) came in her dream and informed her about my arrival as a son and that my name will be Amir Ali which pretty much means Rich Prince and the Lion.
After I was born, my mom forgot the dream and named me Muhammad Tayyab (meaning Very sweet and clean) as it was her own favorite. When I was a couple of months old, I got sick due to diarrhea to a point where none of the medications and doctors were helping. She got scared to her core and while holding me in her hands (and crying), suddenly she remembered the dream and asked my dad to change my name officially to Amir Ali Tayyab.
Miraculously, I was healed and within couple of months at the age of 6 months, I looked like a year or so old (a very healthy baby).
In another interesting twist, while I was sick at that young age of a few months old, my dad was asked by a spiritual healer to go in the middle of a graveyard at midnight and say a couple of words while making a circle around him on the ground, taking off all the clothes. When done reciting those spiritual words, he was then supposed to leave silently without looking back. But what actually happened, was quite hilarious. He literally heard some voices while he was taking off his clothes and ran like crazy out of the graveyard.
Whenever I am mad, I break stuff, never people. I used to wonder where it comes from until my mom told me a story about my childhood. When I was maybe one year old, while playing with a teacup, I broke it by throwing it on the floor. Upon seeing this, my mom scolded me and I started crying. My dad came rushing and handed me more teacups to break by saying “After years, I can hear at least some noise in my home. Let him make all the sound he likes. ”
Hence this little spoiled brat has never stopped breaking stuff until this young age of 48 🙂
My first school
When I was four and half years old, My mom got me admitted in a co-ed Kamal Junior Model School while she herself taught at another girls-only school about one mile away through a very busy highway and many streets. A tanga driver (a light carriage pulled by one horse) used to bring me from school to home. But one day, at that young age of four and half years old, at the end of school I did not find the tanga outside of my school and started walking through heavy traffic and tiny streets to reach my mom’s school. Upon seeing me stand there all by myself, my mom was startled and thanked God for me being safe through all that heavy traffic on roads.
My first grade teacher was a personal friend of my mom Ms.Qamar and she lived quite close to our home. 40 years later, when I saw her with my mom a few years ago, she was happily surprised beyond words.
In grade 3, my teacher Miss Kubra asked me to stand up and answer a question which I answered with a confident smile. She said my answer is correct but why am I smiling? Upon seeing my confused face, she asked me to sit down and proceeded to ask other students.
It is only until recently that I realized I love smiling and its actually very much natural part of me. No matter how embarrassing it makes others feel or how appropriate or inappropriate is the time to smile, I just smile. In these 48 years, my smile must have pissed many people off, but nobody ever dared to point to that except that Ms.Kubra whom I am looking for quite desperately to make things even between us.
In grade 5, I used to like our class-mate Ms.Afshan and felt a little jealous towards a classmate (I forgot that poor boy’s name) with whom she hung out mostly. To make that up, I used to join other boys and press our bodies against the bodies of those poor girls during recess next to the water tank. I had no clue why these boys are doing that and I thought it was fun.
At the end of our school, all of us boys and girls will be playing “catch me if you can” while waiting for our Tanga to arrive. Naheed was the healthiest (a nice name now-a-days, back in those days it was moto or fat) amongst us all and while I was on a platform, successfully running away from her, she pushed me from behind and I fell on my left arm from 6 feets above. The bone between my left wrist and elbow was broken. I was crying with excruciating pain and the next thing I knew was that school headmistress took me in a rickshaw to my mom who then took me to the Mayo Hospital for treatment.
I still remember the operation theater where I was taken to immediately after my arrival. There were doctors and nurses and while one doctor asked me to look at him in a loving way, another straightened up my bone without giving me any anesthesia. That pain of my left arm’s bone coming back to its place, I have not still forgotten.
While recovering in a general ward where boys and girls were admitted together, I was attracted to this girl who was recovering next to my hospital bed. I used to actually scream “Yahoo!” while singing an Indian song “Chahay mujhay koi jangli kahay” (I dont care if someone calls me a jungle boy).
In the Eastern culture, where I was raised, (when the time came) I asked my mom to find me a woman who is at least 15 to 20 years elder than me and has been either divorced or widowed. She, alongwith many other ladies in our family were shocked to hear 22 years old “Amir” say that. I was only following the whole marriage thingy because of religious reasons, without anything selfish about myself. I did not need anyone, but since in this world, everyone had some sort of relationship (marriage or not), hence I also decided to have one. Pretty much following the pack.
To be continued…
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