Fathers and daughters
When I was a little girl, my father take me to the sea. This was not just an ordinary visit, we had to make sure it was the fourteenth night of the moon, so I had everything I could on my little fingers that the moon would come faster, but the moon only came when it will. Years later, he gave me a ring that could be stolen from one of the moon's fingers.
I used to run after the moon, but the car that my father drove, the moon was always running after him. I could see coming as close with us, the wind sending it our way. The used car for speeding on Mai Kolachi, new roads they build just that he and I could more quickly to the sea, and also that there a reference point now, "Let's Mai Kolachi that one that runs to the sea."
At the time, words and phrases squeeze, just like the color on your hair does, and we began to say "oh just to Mai Kolachi" every time someone asked us what it was that we were going. My mother and sister never came up, though my father wanted us three to go together.
I have sometimes thought to only visit, and passing cars on the street to hear. These were the days when my father and I pretended the two of us not exist for each other. The wind would then embrace my rest, and while he was driving the car, I said several things in her ears. I once told the wind, "I'm about to to sink into solitude. "
When Abu took to speak of the moon, sitting by the sea, he was quite the man. He would tell me things about it complicated life, and how to live as a running clock with no hands. Feel are essential are present. The waves would crash on their shores. Every word of the sea, brought peace in the spirit of water. Everything came back to her own roots and banks.
At about fourteen, when I said my dad that maybe God does not exist after all. He called his own period of atheism burned in his life, and said. "If we go back to your roots" I despise his answer. It was the fact that I have freedom, but only at the cost with certainty I could not really care. I was just embarking towards my life and the subtlety of his interrogation face burned me even deeper. In any case, he said "yes you can." And I did.
A few years later I told him: "You are not born into a relationship, you have to do it every day, like making sun out of yellow paint - the paint is not everything. "This had startled him, and he has not clearly to this day, how I could say that understanding. When my father speaks English I sometimes think of the Spanish or Native Americans, who speak from their hearts.
He works on theories that he calls "theories of the wave." All the time he is talking about currency markets and foreign currency, yet the constant in his language came to be, which was constant for me: the Mon He had a theory that the moon hit the waves, and thus a similar pattern could emerge in the currency markets also moved, like waves. Whether this was what I understood about his sketches. He is with his pencil and paper all day, sketching graphs rise and fall, and the rhythm of the waves to keep: every thing is, he once said to me, and history class teacher said: "nations as human beings, their childhood, adolescence and old age. "
At a young age I learned that the Fibonacci series of numbers had a special significance because it was also the number of your fingers, and your hands, your arms, and Michelangelo believed in it too. Father always had crazy eyes as if he had seen something, someone known years earlier, and this was certainly very important - more important than death, abandonment, or laugh, or laugh. Abu had a terrible friend who left him, the way no man can ever leave one another. He never told me this. I found only Bali two months ago that still existed.
My Bali was a musical man, he could sing or compose a tune within one second of his fingers running on water. He played the drums, the harmonica and guitar. He was the friend of my father's life. They used to play squash together, walking together and try to office meetings. They used laugh too. Bali was someone you can trust to come up with a solution for every sorrow, but the reason they do not talk to you, or why there was not enough money coming in. He had a solution. He laughed. He had music. Bali Chacha died when I was three years old. Abu is never the same. And my mom, time, contacts, forgot all this death call for me. So I pretended like it did not exist.
It must hurt a man. His daughter does not think his pain. Like, leave Bali and missing and sing and talk and talk no more, was not enough. My father is one of the best men I have ever known. Except for an answer, he was able to give me all the rest, except of a person, he told me about everything else.
I wonder sometimes what happens to the father-daughter relationship in Pakistan these days, or always, I do not know. There was a time when the moon is not shining so brightly on my street, at that time I used to know difference between right and wrong. Now the differences are all not entirely clear. Maybe Our fathers are brothers, as we age, rather than just good friends like the distance in our married life living, working or living, alive or party, or whatever lives.
I sometimes feel that the coming of age, the relationship dynamic between a father and daughter should change. If he never realized that the girl has become a mature young woman, she has a heart that is not healed or a spirit that is angry, he will miss the beauty of the moonlight. This would be a terrible thing happen to a father, who loved his little girl - when she was a little girl - oh so very good. So very good.
He's the right gifts, set to the correct birthday, took her as a princess Sun-deceased this day. I know that my dad bought me a white horse I could not take my eyes off of those who had a magical coach behind it, so it would trail behind the horse as the magic dust shine behind Cinderella pumpkin carriage.
He got it for me, not caring it was expensive, or inappropriate. [I mean, it was a horse with a golden mane, a bright blue and red light on his brow, it struck me, it was an ordinary horse, that would be a unicorn at will, on an illuminated touch.] It was important for me, his little girl, and he made sure I had it. Like him, sure I had silver earrings, matching shoes and a beautiful bracelet.
When you get older, should these things slip our minds, like old shoes. It is so important for one hour a father. He will miss the rest of his life.
I think that between fathers and daughters is a sacred trust - but I also think that if this trust can not reach his own ways of beauty, and change shape over the years, it's life lived, will be lost to the life that could have lived. In my case, it was my poetry that it did. When I had finished my book of poems, I called my dad after several months of absence agitated and said. "Abu now I am like you, I'm an entrepreneur too, I wrote my book, it's a risk I took life, just like you."
Little girls want to be like their fathers, it's not just the guys who harbor this desire. I was a poet to the moon, he was a designer of graphics that made sense to anyone but themselves. We had a meeting point, it's just that it took us several years to realize this. A woman in love, is entirely a mystery a father, he approaches it when someone comes close to mysterious white birds on the Karachi sea that will disappear when he says: "Can I sit here with you?" The sea is lost, it is uncertain, it is always present. This is what I, father, it is not. It is what you are to me as well. It is what you get to the white bird, the sky on the Karachi retreat to Bali's haunting voice that will sing all of my life and yours. He is with us.
Abu did not know I was going to Bali for him, when I grew up to be. He saw it coming, but friends like the Greek nymphs metamorphosis can take place anywhere. We are friends, I just know.