Doha
15th October, 1995.
My dearest daughter,
Until recently sleeping and snoring used to be my favourite hobby. You may be familiar with the music and melody of my snoring though I am yet to quantify the damage it might have done to the eardrum of your beloved mom. Now a days I am attempting to get rid of the lethargy in me and trying to be a little bit active though I don’t know how far I will succeed. My mind tells me that easiest physical exercise consists in a morning walk whereby I can enjoy the fresh air and inhale the refreshing morning breeze as well . But before starting my stroll I have to encounter my lethargy which dissuades me from doing so and put forth several reasons why I should postpone it as if it is tantamount to climbing mount Everest . When I ultimately triumph over my sluggishness, I go for jogging wearing my red track suite which is not less than eight years old. I do not want to discard it since I believe that old is gold. While walking though the pavements of the road beside my residence , some cars on the road can be seen rushing like jumbo jets that seems to break sound barrier. I know that most of them are employees of the military or police department who have to report for duty not later than 6 A.M or else they will have to face the court martial trial . Some drivers who may know me sound their horns to let me know that they have caught me red-handed though very often I fail to recognize who they are . They believe that I am sportsman; poor fellows ! God forgive them.
After returning to my room I play audio cassettes and relish in listening to some sweet Hindi songs which refresh my mind and prepare me to welcome a new born day . Some times I feel like dancing to the tune of the music; I am lucky that I have no room mate to watch such stupidities .In my office my colleagues belong to different Nationalities like Indians, Egyptians, Sudanese and Palestinians who are so loving and friendly. They especially are fond of cracking jokes. Even when I am busy with my office work, they will start asking “ why you are silent today, come on, say something, we can no longer tolerate such a dead silence, hell with your work ”. Arabs usually do not call those who are close to them by their names. If one’s eldest son’s name is X , they prefer to call him as Aboo X ( father of X) to show their affinity to you. My colleagues therefore call me Aboo Abdul Wadood , the underlined words being the name of my eldest son who shares this blog. To sustain the memory of their fathers, Arabs are also in the habit of naming their first born male child after their fathers. Some of them call me Aboo Saeed though they know that I have not named my eldest son after my father despite that my dad had done so and that is why I got my paternal grandpa’s name . Out of extreme respect for his father, seldom did my dad call me by my name; he called me instead using some Malayalam words meaning my dear son . I like to be concealed under the name of my dad who had left no stone unturned to bring me up as a good human being and that is why I do not correct those who call me by my father’s name. I like to sustain his name at least in such a way since I am not sure whether I have been fully faithful to him.
Once in a week my colleagues and myself go to fish market to buy the fish required for one week . I describe the trip as “ high level trade delegation visiting fish market for trade negotiations ”. Two Kilos of fish are enough for me for one week. My colleague Ganeshan buys one Kilo though there are four persons in his room. It will not be enough for them even for a day’s consumption . Though I know that they do not eat fish as I do ,when others ask him why he does not buy more, I intervene just to tease him and say “ every day, they open their fridge and smell the fish and on the seventh day , they finish it off”. Ganeshan replies laughing “ Sir you are killing me, I will stop buying fish for good and all”.
The other day my Arab colleagues had a tough argument and verbal encounter over some issues concerning them . The History of Middle East reveals the story of a governor of Iraq named Hajjaj bin Yusuf who lived thousand years ago . He is notorious for his cruelty and bloody campaigns . The history records how he quelled an uprising in one of the cities of the then Iraq by a fiery speech he delivered from the pulpit of the town mosque and thereby silenced the rebels and forced them to bury the hatchet. Seeing my colleagues arguing for nothing, I quoted from the speech of the afore-cited governor and said “ Gentlemen, I see in front of me heads that are like ripe fruits ready to be plucked . It is time to pluck them, I am the one to do it”. My Arab colleagues who already knows the story laughed aloud and forgot what they were arguing about.
I remember having read a write up captioned “ Convert sand particles into pearls”. It may sound strange. You know that pearls are found inside the shells of oysters . Sometimes sand particles enter into the shells of these oysters. It pricks the flesh found inside their shells and inflicts pain on them. Still they do not reject or spit the sand particles out. They keep them enduring the slight pain caused by sand particles. Ultimately due to the constant friction , the sand particles gradually turn soft and ultimately pearls are born. What the author pinpoints is that if we the human beings are ready to endure such slight difficulties or hardships just as oysters do , we may be ultimately rewarded with pleasant results and that our patience may produce miracles.
That is all for the time being.
With love and prayers,
Your loving dad
