Acceptance and solace!

Many a times, the paper was blank. Similarly, there was scribbling on the paper, the words that were cut. The paragraphs that were fully neglected after they were written with such charisma and grandeur. Was there a lot to gain or to lose, while writing? He wrote still, after his work was referred as holy shit. He drove still, even when he was told, he could hardly speak the language that he pretended to be perfect at, in the public eye. They all, said so. They all, poked fun at him as he tried speaking English with the intoning of his naive tongue. He didn't seek perfection so sooner; he was a seeker of love. Did anyone imagine that also, for a change?

He never thought of becoming a writer, until his destiny called onto him. He never wanted to be famous, but to impress people and get a place in their hearts. Farrukh wanted that and nothing more. His charisma and passion wasn't to come in anyone's way, neither did he want to sit on anyone else's laurels and be applauded for the same. Farrukh wanted to tell the world, his presence. He wanted to impress them and this became a fire, when he wanted to do it at a proliferating curiosity(rate). Herein, he lost his pace and direction again. In the name of risk, he lost on precious time; while being in his own world. The world laughed at him, at his style of being alone and struggling through tasks and even easy things. Farrukh was led by his ideals and principles. He moved along the road that inspired him, with innocence that strengthened his basis to live life.

He wasn't from a well to do household. His father was a car mechanic and his mother, being a house wife. Farrukh's father often gave more and more emphasis to his son's studies and to influence him to write, he would often bring home newspapers in Urdu and English. His father, Salman never encouraged his one and only son, to get into his business. But on understanding, his wife's mind and on her insistence; Salman would often take Farrukh along with him to the garage, where many other car mechanics united to earn their daily bread and butter.The boy went with his dad to his workplace as often as thrice in a month. Salman's wife, Salma; used to paste her television soap influenced dialogues upon her husband, in order to convince him to teach his son, how to repair a car. The dialogue being, “No work that fills your tummy, is ever small.” She often pointed out the very fact, “When it comes to the survival of a middle class household; there should be good craftsmanship (kala) in the son's and daughter's to set sail in the harsh phases of one's life.” She said so, to build upon enough strength in her son to make him understand his growing responsibilities. Salma said to Farrukh one fine summer day, “Baby, it is you on whom lies the audacity of this household. You are to take care of your father and me. We have given you all our love and blessings and shall keep them pouring upon you. You have to learn to stand on your feet. Who knows,if we are tomorrow with you or not? We have to prepare you for life's many journeys, wherein you shall go through the ups and downs. Baby, I can't see you, lonely in a world when no one looks at you. I don't want to imagine such a day. Farrukh, are you getting what I mean?” She grinned at the same time and from there came the tears. It was when the twinkle on her face was outlined with an incessant sob. She cried wholeheartedly. Farrukh felt if she was hiding something, that was very important for him to know. Salma trembled and her tears got bolder, far reaching her whole face. “Mother, what's happening to you????” Farrukh shivered in dismay. Salma fell on the floor from her couch. He was all alone by himself. His father gone to work. His mother left him that day.

Salma was suffering from a disease about which her son or her husband had no idea. She hardly told them, her pain; to not become a barrier in between her son's studies. She never wanted to put him to work and leave studies in order to pay for her health care. Days passed in disharmony. Farrukh couldn't believe that he had lost his mother in the tender years, when he needed her more than she needed him. Or was it either ways? Yes, it was true that way too. Love was mutual, wasn't it? Of course, the mother-child love was the reflection of the most beautiful relationship in the eternity. As the young boy, sat aside his mother's lonesome bed, he saw her photo's framed with him and her father on the opposite walls. In his ears, nothing else but voice of his mother echoed and brought powerful feelings of togetherness and hence solace. She whispered in that voice that emerged from the walls and the doors, from the bed whereon he rested his head like a teddy bear, “Baby, do what you want to do. I don't say, to not play cricket. Play your game, but not with your life. Become a very good cricketer, if that's what you want to. But, stand on your feet one day; that's all what I, your mother seeks from you, my child.” His eyes were gloomy with wet embrace of tears, depicting his heart; the unbearable emotions that came out more with the reminiscence of the times with his mother, the gone by days.

The young boy, left from home to play cricket. He didn't like the company of the other boys of his locality in Shamsherpur Village. They didn't play with belief and conviction but merely to fight and not accept one's lose in the game of cricket. He was left to live his dream by himself. Hence, hitting the ball after flying it into the air, as if he had got a bowler with him, who was to bowl for him. It was his right hand that let the bowl in the air and in less than a second, hit the ball with both his hands on the bat. Cricket coaching for himself by himself. He was growing older. Already 13, he was playing just by himself and in his eyes, he were to play for Pakistan one day. His father's love and affection enrolled him into a very famous cricket academy. Where he got to know, where actually he had stood in his cricket playing skills. Given less chances to bat and ball, unlike the other rich boys and girls; he was left to be doing fielding practise and as he didn't deliver when he got to bat for the sake of it, he was ridiculed and made a butt of jokes. He felt miserable and deprived. Within his lonesome self, Farrukh had known, life wasn't meant to always be bloom and flowery. It was a magical terrain, where from you had to search your wisdom seeds and grow them simultaneously while searching for peace and happiness. After two years of easygoing training, and getting no incentives out of his play. Farrukh was taken off the coaching from his father after Farrukh started scoring lesser grades in his class tests.

“Cricket is a favourite game of every boy the next door. You can't think of heights, without attaining the talent. You know, if you really have bright mind, you will definitely come up and show it. Water finds it's way, it can't be stopped. Rest is in the hands of Allah, the Almighty God.” Salman advised Farrukh to leave his sport but not wholly, also to keep it's love alive. Dream was dream, it was not running away. It had been a part of him, so Farrukh could still dream. All dreams, weren't meant to come true. Those feelings were the part and parcel of life. Accepting and moving ahead, yes, with responsibilities. His life wasn't merely his, but his dad's goodness occurred to him all the more in his every breath.

The obedient son, hadn't done much to overhear his father's words. He understood what he meant and within his heart he accepted that truth. He knew how hard his father had been working to get Farrukh going in the school and the training centre. Farrukh left the Cricket playing academy that was one of the best in the town. He touched the soil with his hands, rubbed it on his face, his eyes, his nose. As if he wanted to get rung into the feeling of joy for a moment, to make-believe that he had done his hard work, regardless of what the results had come out. This fifteen year old lad had something special with him. He didn't have many friends but, he had dreams. What would happen, if the dreams were to disappear only to be left was a plain cricket pitch afterwards, that too to only glance and feel hurt within. “I know, you my friends playing here would take our Nation's flag high in the arena of sports. You will become fine cricketers. I adore you." He walked back to the main gate of the training academy and after reaching the end of the ground, slightly he looked back and teardrops muffled around his either eye in unison, yet again. Not the crocodile tears but the tears that fell with his mother's broken heart weeping along her son's. It was all over for him, his dreams wiped away by the winnowing winds; that blow chaff from the grain. Alike, was his stature, bent and scrutinized, a strain in his heart, he couldn't make his dreams appear true.

From the next day onwards, he started learning the mechanics of car and how to deal with it once again. Initially, he was little interested. His mind still bowed it's welcome greetings to the sport that was his life. But, he worked on the wires and the tyre tubes like an intern.So, he was to the company where his father worked. In between that period of twelve hours at the workshop, he met many people; who talked from all subjects, from cricket to politics and then to the talks of actors. He had a bat and a ball hidden in the store room, where he changed his clothes before getting back to the car repairs. He sensed relief and cheerfulness, enough to keep him going in his newly found job. Farrukh kept his mother's photograph in his wallet, handy. Whenever he missed her, he looked at the photograph, deeply into his mother's eyes. The black and white snap had all the dreams that the mother-son duo saw and greatly acknowledged. To no avail, those dreams remained dreams. Far up the skies, he sensed glory as soon as he called it a day and hence heading back home. The summer holiday's were over and Salman wanted his son to be back to school, to let him study and concentrate. Salman thought for a moment, “It was I who didn't want my son to ever do the work I do. But, it's me who teaches him this work.” Then, instantaneously, his wife's thoughts came to his mind that no work was ever small, even if it paid less incentives. Work was God, to him; he respected it for holding such a crucial place in his life. For it was his work that kept him active as a thinking individual. His family had sustained because of it, it was a God's gift that he had known the Science behind the motor engine. That day, he was proud of himself, his work and how it had never been a tiring thought, to ponder over his job. He loved it, but insecurities threatened him at times. As, it wasn't a well paid job in his country.

In fewer days, Farrukh had become more interested in writing his stories. He portrayed the landscapes like never before. He had actually talked about those with his mother in childhood, when she was alive. It was for the first time that he had tried doing that, on paper; that too in words. He read extensively, from newspapers, to school texts, to books on landscapes and photography. He wrote not as good as the boys and girls of his class but he tried his best to, amidst the grammar errors and missing punctuation marks, he managed to pass his exams all the times. He didn't care about the world at one stage. To him, his daddy was the most important. Farrukh loved his dad as much his dad loved him. In the evenings, they walked through the corridors of the grass-fields, when father shared new techniques of motor repairing, whether spark plug was to be checked before looking for the actual defect in the engine of the car or whether the clutch could signify any error in maintenance if it wasn't running clean. Farrukh, shared his school lessons with his daddy. From Charles Dickens', Christmas Carol to Akbar-Birbal's stories. The dream could be sensed anew and the day was bidding bye with the stars enchanting the skies, in seamless glory and boundless love. Mother seemed to be walking along as they both, father and son stretched their walk through the grass-fields.

Gagandeep Singh Vaid
30/12/2013
11:50P.M.

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