This morning, my dad's phone call woke me up. Our conversation went something along these lines:
- Beta, kese ho? I haven't talked to you in ages, where have you been? How are your classes going? Your Amma told me your finals are coming up...
- Abu, I was sleeping. My semester fees are due, can you make sure you get that out of the way before the weekend? Acha, I was up all night studying, I'm gonna go now okay bye.
I wasn't really studying. I could have potentially been Skyping. Or googling suicide notes. Again. Or both. But that is not the point.
The point is. I am one ungrateful little bitch.
And, we all are.
In a world where taking things for granted is almost as vital to the sustenance of life as is breathing, there is nothing we take more for granted than the source of genes that made us who we are. Literally.
During the course of the past two years, my sole, desperate aspiration was to move out of home. I happen to be as morally opposed to my biological parents as a child can possibly be... which could be attributed to my dire lack of morals to begin with but any-way.
Naturally, I was ecstatic to move into my university campus, knowing there is no moving back home. That is, up until one morning, I woke up in my dorm and I walked out into the hallway and I stood there, for it was dark. Literally and metaphorically. And I realized there is no home. There is no sound of no Ammi cooking no parathay and frying no anday. The thought terrified me. It was momentary, of course. But. It still was.
One day, I was whining about how hard it is for hostelites to manage money to a Lahori friend of mine and I said, "You don't know how it feels to have to pay for everything out of your own pocket, I mean, I don't know where the money goes! Bla bla bla the world revolves around me etc etc" and she said, "I do. I lost my parents a year ago." And here was someone who was studying on a loan, who had no one to fall back on in times of crisis. Suddenly my problems seemed so tiny and meaningless and stupid.
And then there is the friend who lost his father when he was young. Too young. And I wonder. What would it be like if I had never met my own father? I wonder.
It's like the world has been aligned to remind me again and again and again of all there is to be grateful for. Earlier this week, I woke up to a text saying there was a Quran khwani for a student's father, who had passed away a few days ago. For someone paranoid like me, it is enough to make me mildly nervous every time the phone rings and screen says HOME.
I called my dad back later today. I tried to tell him that I love him and I'm sorry for being an ungrateful slut. But I did not grow up in a household where the terms "love" and "sorry" are fairly common. So isn't "slut" for that matter but that's not the point. The point is, if you had enough time to read my sentimental bullcrap, you need to go up to your Amma and annoy her in the kitchen. And you need to go up to your Abba and hug tackle him. And if you're away from home, a couple of texts will suffice. Now go.
