Open up your mind and your potential reaches infinity…


Many stories in our lives, no matter how little, but  leave us changed.

I begin with my own family’s story, which  broke my barriers of India-Pakistan, and changed my life for all times to come:

Living in a rented house in New Delhi, India  for some time, we were faced with a senior couple as out Landlords, who were old workers of a radical extremist organisation. They put restrictions on my parents for the list of food items we would not be allowed to cook in the kitchen.
Auntie, as my parents called her, would come and check the kitchen often. But since my parents were complying to their demands, respecting their sentiments, they did not object. In fact, they let her reassure herself.

Once my Papa’s Khala in Lahore, Pakistan went sick, and he wanted to see her before she passed away. Luckily we got the visa too, easily. My parents informed  Uncle-Aunty that we are going for a visit to Pakistan. Honestly we expected a negative reaction.

On the contrary, a day later, the senior couple came upstairs to us and made a ‘moving’ appeal. They said they lived in some house in Lahore before migrating in 1947, as newlyweds, and if we could get the picture of that house. The house address, they had memorised by heart, even after almost 29 years, in 1978

The address was (some number), Ram Gali, Lahore.

We went to visit their house, took pictures of it. The current residents were very hospitable and showed us all the different curious things about the house they had left preserved “as it is’ in the house.
One such thing was the OM installed at the head of the entrance of the house.

When we returned back, first thing my Papa did was to develop the photos, and present it as an album to them.

The couple cried in tears seeing the pictures and hearing the details we had told to them from the residents. They were particularly moved at the OM still in place, and the name of the street still being Ram Gali.

Almost the same time, my Nani had passed away, and Ammi would feel depressed. Auntie said, “You are my daughter, as it is I have none “.  She had two sons, who were living away.

Auntie never came up for checking the kitchen, but to give guavas from her tree in the back yard to us kids, or jasmine (chameli ) flowers from the garden, which my mother loved so much.

Our house was under construction. Uncle offered, “Take me there, since I have experience in house building I can give you some suggestions”.

After 6 months we moved to our own house. But the relationship of love continued. They did not visit much as they were very old, but whenever we visited their house as family we were received  by  hugs  with “We are your Nani Nana.”

Another…

Attending  an AGM of an NGO for seniors, Mr Roy, from DELHI, INDIA narrated a story with emotions & tears:

“My 89 year old mother was admitted in a hospital emergency in Toronto, in a semiconscious state. The attending doctor, considering her age & condition, to my horror said

“You must prepare yourself for an end-of-life measures for her”. 

Mr Roy replied: “She is my mother, so I do not accept your offer and demanded for a change of doctor.” 
They complied. And another Dr Kirmani, with origin from KARACHI, PAKISTAN was assigned. He told me “Just pray for her, I will try my best.”

“After 3 weeks in hospital, my mother came back home, with mild recent memory loss, but is active and reads newspapers but she forgets easily. My mother is alive and prays for Dr Kirmani’s well being each day”

I would beg  anyone who has any story of LOVE, please share here in the comments  and on event page:

Celebrate India, Pakistan Independence Days for PEACE on 14, 15 August

https://www.facebook.com/events/185174041611282/

Comments on: "Great little stories of Love" (2)

  1. Wonderful post, dear Ilmana. One that tugs at the heart and brings to mind the fact that there are countless stories which remain untold.
    Here is one which I had the privilege to be a part of…..
    A couple of years ago, my friend AJ was hosting a musical soiree at his home in Islamabad. He’s a great music-lover and has a small group of friends which gets together once in a while to jam in his basement. This soiree was special because our dear friend HL had flown in from Karachi to attend it. Everyone was most excited. Messages flying back and forth on facebook, songs and notes being discussed.
    And someone comes up with a great idea. Let’s get Geetali to be a part of it! Via Skype!
    So the night begins.
    The lads all start singing and playing. I’m a prt of it via Skype, making requests, laughing, applauding. In between, the boys decide to take a break. A face appears on the screen: “Hi I’m Kabir! I don’t think we’ve met”. Me: ”Hi Kabir, I’m Geetali, I live in Shimla”. KM: “What? Shimla. My Dad is from Shimla!”
    So – we’re still on Skype – K gets on the phone with his Dad. ”Baba, I’m talking to a lady who lives in Shimla. Yes, right now”. His father says something and K turns to me ”Geetali, my Baba wants to know if the little mosque in Kasumpti still exists”. Me: ”Not sure, but I can check and let you know”….
    It turns out that Kabir’s father left Shimla at the age of 14 in 1948, never to return. He often dreamt of his little cottage by the mosque, wondering how it looked, about the boys with whom he used to play and the lanes through which he passed daily.
    I turned to my friends Billy and Raja, who are both experts on Shimla’s history. Of course there was a mosque and of course it still stood in its old place! Billy, now in his 80s, had lived in this neighbourhood all his life and knew all about it. So off we went. We found the mosque. There was a sweet little cottage, all covered with yellow roses. I took its picture because I couldn’t bear not to!! The owners told us that they had been allotted the house after the original owners left it in ’48.
    Annyhow, I get back in touch with Kabir,sending him the pictures I took.
    In return, I got a beautiful letter from the elder Mr Malik tearfully thanking me for letting him see his old home (the rose-covered cottage was where he used to live! The mosque! The lanes! All his old familiars… The best part was that Mr. Malik’s father had worked in the same building where my office was now located….
    I will always cherish this electronic reunion of a man with him home. Mr/ Malik is now too frail to travel to Shimla, but he says that having known his old environs are still the same, he will die a peaceful man…..

  2. beenasarwar said:

    Beautiful post, Ilmana. There are countless such stories. I shared some at the Aman ki Asha some time back (direct link: http://bit.ly/fymYXF) – excerpt:
    “I am from Pakistan,” Dr K.L. Marwah, honorary corresponding secretary of The Royal Overseas League introduced himself. What he meant was that he had been born and brought up in what is now Pakistan. A grandson of the reputed physician Dr TaraChand of Bazar Sharafan in Gujarat, Punjab, was schooled at Sialkot where his father Dr Amarnath was a police and civil surgeon.
    Although not a newspaper person, he attended the INMA conference coordinated by his daughter Priya Marwah, making a special effort to seek out delegates from Pakistan.
    Explaining his excellent Urdu he says, “Hum ne tau Urdu aur Farsi padhi, Hindi tau hameiN aati hi nahiN”. As a surgeon who works at the Ganga Ram Hospital in New Delhi, he retains his sense of kinship with the Ganga Ram Hospital in Lahore. “If ever a patient from Pakistan needs anything at Ganga Ram Hospital in New Delhi,” he said. “You just let me know. I will do everything in my power to help.”
    “It is people of our parents’ generation who are the true stakeholders in Aman ki Asha,” said Rani Reddy, a television marketing executive based in Hyderabad, Deccan. Her mother was born in Darazan, Sindh her father in Gujranwala, Punjab. They are followers of Sakhi Qubul Mohammad, a disciple of the great Sufi poet Sachal Sarmast. “You must involve them in the process somehow.”
    “If my late mother’s health had allowed, I would have moved heaven and earth to bring her back to her birthplace,” she said. “She used to say, I want to die there.”
    At breakfast the following day, she phoned her father Rajender Kumar Bakshi at her brother’s place in Hyderabad, Deccan. “Da Da, I am with someone from Pakistan,” she said, and handed me the phone.
    It was one of the briefest, most moving telephone calls I have ever had. It made Mr Bakshi happy just to hear a voice from Pakistan, and be able convey his regards and best wishes. I told him that I have been to Gujranwala, and that our friend Sarwat Ali runs schools for boys and girls there.
    “Please do come and visit,” I told him.
    “Inshallah,” he replied.

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