“When I am gone, you can publish them,” Daddy said to me.
It was a hot summer afternoon in July 2010. Daddy and I were sitting in his sunroom overlooking the valley, when on impulse, I suggested to him that he publish his memoirs. We both knew that he was nearing the end of his life on earth, and I had flown in from New York to be with him. He loved to write and over the last many decades, even before email became the modus operandi, he would write about his experiences, and moments in life that moved him, and share them, first by making copies, and later via email. It was a treasure trough.
“When I am gone….”
“I want to publish them in your lifetime. I want you to see the fruits of your writings. You should enjoy the moment. There is no benefit to you if they are published afterwards.” I choked on the word ‘afterwards.’
So began the work of organizing Daddy’s memoirs and getting them ready for publication. Together we spent hours sorting through his writings and selecting the photographs. At this time, he was functioning as well as anybody both in body, mind and spirit. But we knew that his condition called MDS (myelodysplastic syndrome) was not curable. It had evolved into leukemia. The platelet cell counts were decreasing, and it was a matter of time when the disease would take over. But for now, he felt well as he pondered over the photos, giving one final look to the reams of printed emails.
Daddy had started writing episodes and stories of his life as early as 1993. He had not written them in chronological order, rather, these were his reflections on various moments, incidents, and episodes in his life, some current, some past. He wanted these published in the order in which he wrote them, not in the chronological order of his beautiful life. It was not to be an autobiography—a story of his life—rather, a story about him.
“I want you to write the introduction,” he said.
That was a tall order. I love writing. But to write the prologue for Daddy’s memoirs at a moment in our lives when I knew that he did not have much time left, was too heavy a burden. I could not put pen to paper, and I let it slide.
Daddy passed away on August 10, 2010, leaving us with timeless memories. I did not get to publish his book in his lifetime.
In the weeks that followed, I scrambled to find a publisher. Saadiah, my cousin Khurram’s wife connected me with one; we agreed on the terms: they would print 75 copies for a fee (self-publishing); and I flew back to New York with Daddy’s writings on my flash drive.
Family members pitched in, deploying their talent to make this the best book ever. Daddy’s nephew, Hasnain, guided me as I pondered over the title of the book, helping me put final touches to some of the pieces. Yassir, my cousin Hina’s artist husband, designed the book cover, using a dozen photos from our family collection to create a digital portrait of Daddy’s (see photo). My sister Neena picked the title: Reflections; Mahvish, my niece, selected Daddy’s author photo; Khalid coached and guided me; and Mummy, despite her pain and grief, kept encouraging me to make the publication of this book a priority.
Back in New York, I spent a month editing Daddy’s work—he had turned over all the e-files to me—before submitting the final version to the publisher.
In reading his memoirs, I felt as if I was getting to know him all over again. I saw him in a new light, beyond the role of a father. I saw a young man, with innocent desires, aspirations, love, and a remarkable appreciation of beauty; a man who cherished friendship; a young man reckless at times (chivalry, as he called it); a son who looked up to his mother with awe and reverence; a husband whose enduring love for his childhood sweetheart was legendary; and a soldier who cried out in anguish over the lost glory.
In my next visit to Pakistan, a few months later, Mummy organized a book launch. His colleagues from the early 1950s, friends, and family, all gathered. We gifted his book to the attendees. We played his songs, told his stories, and celebrated his life.
‘Reflections’ sits on my bookshelf. It speaks to me in Daddy’s voice.
But this is not his only keepsake.
He was blessed with a beautiful voice, and when I have the heart, I listen to his recorded songs.
When I look in the mirror, I see his face.
When my comb gets stuck in my curly hair, I think of Daddy. I carry his genetic footprint on my head.
When I hum a tune, I recall that the first time I heard it, was in Daddy’s voice.
When someone offers me a compliment on my writing style, I think of him.
His gifts endure.
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