Chapter 35 | Dear God | Zahra and the co-signed letter

11/06/2004

Dear God

There are instances in our lives that make us question whether what we are doing is right. Maybe that happens more often than not.

One of the hard hitting lessons of today was that by doing what WE feel is right isn’t necessarily what the rest of the world would deem ‘right’.  I used to think I could portray a ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude without displaying any weakness but now I’m not certain.

I’ve let my closest friend down. Recently we landed in a pile of trouble when one of our Appa’s found a letter to a boy that we had co-signed. When you’re in an Islamic institute the word ‘boy’ is sufficient enough to warrant a call to your parents. And thus began one of the most terrifying days of our lives. Leave aside the fact that Papa would practically hit the roof had he found out.

Zahra had written the letter and I had signed my signature (in agreement) at the bottom of it. Luckily, for me, my mum was the only one called in as my dad was at work. None of us called blame but neither did we side together. We sat apart afraid, more than anything, of the repercussions of our actions. You have to understand that neither of us came from homes where being called in to the principal’s office would be considered socially acceptable, and that too the principal of an Islamic institute.\

I admit, I am grateful for my mother. She is one of the most logical persons I know (when she isn’t emotionally clouded) and therefore on our way home I wasn’t subjected to a spew of curses. Instead, my mother jokingly said that she still doesn’t understand why she was called in and that whatever it was we had done, should not be repeated.

I realize now, that it was because of my mother’s calm demeanour, that I didn’t turn out to be rebellious. Like her, I did things only after substantial amount of thought was put in and therefore rash decisions were never in my resume. I was spontaneous yes, but never rash.

On a different note I’ll be turning 16 in a month. I’m excited but also apprehensive.

Growing up means that we have to shoulder more responsibilities and I wonder if I’m ready for that, whether I’ll ever be ready for that. How I wish I could be 13 forever. The older you are the more you’re subjected to the question of ‘what will people say?’ This wasn’t a question I asked myself, it was a question the adults in my life would continuously repeat.

At times I question whether there isn’t any more to our lives than the opinion of others. Whether our merit isn’t a determination of how far we’ve reached or the good that resides within but merely a sum of the verification we received from others. The older we get the more we become aware of this but then too, the more we act in accordance to the validation we receive from others.

Chapter 34 | Dear God | Duke Nukem, Mario Bro's and a game called Ung _Gush

2/ 06/ 2002

Dear God

I was strictly forbidden from spending time with my boy cousins in particular, which was tough considering that they spent every holiday by us. They stayed by Daddi but spent most of their waking hours by us.

Getting caught was a terrifying experience as we (Miya and I) either got shouting or a hiding for our ‘misdeeds’. Both were equally bad so I could never say I preferred the one over the other. The funny part now when I think back to the times we spent together was that we did nothing ‘inappropriate’ with them as is common with young kids of today. 

We had fun. Nothing more.

We played TV Games together. Each taking turns until the one lost all their lives. Duke Nukem, Mario Bro’s and Sonic proved an integral part of our childhood.

If we weren’t playing TV games we were at our neighbourhood park. Back then, there was an enormous wooden jungle gym and the slides and swings were in usable conditions.You would find families seated on the benches watching their kids enjoying a Sunday afternoon. Since we lived in close proximity we always felt as if though the park was our territory. We weren't bullies so it wasn't that we threw our weight around but between us we shared this common belief.

We’d spend hours on the swings screaming out the weirdest of things whilst aiming to swing higher than the child next to us.

At night we would spend our time playing a game called ‘Ung-goosh.’ When I think about it now I realize how much the word ‘Ung-goosh’ sounds like Anguish. This is funny because we brought our entire neighbourhood down with the amount of noise we’d make during. None of our class friends had heard of this game before and so we began sharing with them the rules of our special game.

It’s pretty simple. Like the game red rover, you need people standing on either side of the field (we played it in our old backyard which could barely be constituted as a field).

1.       There must be an equal number of players. For eg: If there’s 3 players on the one side there needs to be 3 players on the other end as well.

2.       You need a soccer ball, preferably one that is not pap (soft) but that worked for us too.

3.       One team has to throw the ball and the other has to kick the ball. It’s a lot like cricket the difference being your feet is the bat. Your name is called (by the throwing team) the ball is tossed in your direction and you have to kick. If the opposite team catches the ball before it touches the ground the entire team is out. If the ball is thrown at you whilst you’re making a run (yes, you can make runs) you’re out.

4.       A stick is placed a little closer (to the team kicking) than halfway. If the ball is not kicked further than this line the person who kicked the ball is out.

5.       And where does ‘ung-gush’ come in you may ask? Every time you kick the ball or make a run (which you can only do after you have kicked the ball) you are required to say ‘ung-gush’ if you somehow forget to say it and are blasted by the throwing team you are out.

Fun stuff.

Authors Note: I had initially penned my diary entries as 'Dear Diary', eventually I realized that my verbal conversations with God need not be limited to spoken words and so, I started writing to someone I knew 'gave a damn'. For the sake of this blog (and in wishing I had done this sooner) I started my journal entries with the right way this time round. God was listening all along anyway.

    

Chapter 33 |The one with the Diary (and a FABULOUS give-away)

 The inception of every story starts at that precise moment in our lives when we desire that we be heard. That the story we wish to share be heard by a million others. Sometimes our reasons are selfish. We desire fame, recognition and the fortune that can be amassed thereof. Sometimes we simply wish to share our experiences. We desire nothing more than to touch the lives of others, to enhance their experiences by means of ours and to share the journey we’ve faced.

From a young age I kept a journal. Back then I didn't understand the significance behind this. I simply took it as a means of collecting my thoughts so that one day I could read back to the story that was to become ‘my life.’

I had no idea what ‘life’ had in store for me neither did I understand what all of this meant. I reminisced empty lined pages with a bunch of childish garbage.

Dear Diary.

‘I think I’m in love. I’m not sure what that even means. Every time I see him I like him more.'

I was 10. I had no idea what ‘love’ meant. The boy in question simply took it as a crush. Back then, I thought it was something more meaningful, a couple of years later I realized different. There was no holding hands, sneaking around sort of thing going on, but still, I thought it important enough to diarize.

When my dad found my diary one day, I was gutted. Besides being disappointed with me he also found it hard to trust me. I don’t understand how anybody can take a 10 year old seriously but Papa wasn’t the type to take anything lightly. This was the first of many ‘straws.’ I was barely 10, what did I know?

I shred that diary into a million pieces, even burnt a couple of pages for safety measures, after which, I promised myself, no more.

And I stuck to that promise.

For four years, I didn’t detail a single aspect of my life. It was as if I had no evidence of my existence for that duration. Then, for my 14^th birthday, Miya gave me a Diary. It was actually a notebook, a lily smothered in lilac marked the cover page and I thought it a nudge, to recapture my experiences in a way only words can enable me to express.

What you are about to read henceforth are actual extracts from this diary. Proceed with caution.

AUTHORS NOTE: In order to add an exciting element to Dodging Dad, we’re giving away prizes. To enter you need to subscribe to our blog via email and follow us on twitter. Get family (your great-great grandmother can subscribe from her Qabr, I think) and friends (this is an opportune moment to test those ‘benefits’) to subscribe and follow us, in order to up your chances. Every subscriber or follower (not stalker) that mentions YOUR name (yes, the one your Mama gave you) provides you with an additional entry. The person who garners us the most followers or subscribers (or even both, we’re not really fussy) wins. It’s as simple and easy as that. We’re not even joking.

1st Prize: Aura by Swarovski perfume (Full size)

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